They Take What They Want and Just Leave

Oh, look at those clothes,
Now look at that face,
It's so old.
- Morrissey

Last Thursday, walking down Emerald Avenue in a half-stupor, my belly full of french fries and soda, I happened upon Margie as she was about to cross the street. Of course, I didn't know it was Margie when I first saw her, given my bad eyes and the fact that the early afternoon sun had whitewashed all of the world.

Despite the whitewashed world, there was no way I could have missed Margie, who was probably the only person in my immediate vicinity wearing an orange hooded jacket. In the blistering heat. I knew at that moment that it couldn't have been anyone else but her, so I pretty much pounced on her the first chance I got. This sort of thing isn't entirely new for the both of us -- we always seem to bump into each other at extremely random times, when neither of us is expecting the other to be in the same area.

So there we were, saying our hellos and chewing the fat. I was telling her that I was headed off to Tomas Morato to meet up briefly with a fellow AMCI member, and she was on her way to St. Francis Square to get some pirated DVDs.

Margie: Well, what time are you supposed to meet?
Me: In around thirty minutes. I'm desperate for a rubber band, though. Got a spare one?
Margie: Yeah, I got one. Here you go.
Me: My hair's a disaster. Thanks, man.
Margie: Sure. What's this meeting for, anyway?
Me: An interview. For a part-time job, see.
Margie: An interview!
Me: Yeah, yeah, I know, this outfit's too casual, and I'm wearing slippers--
Margie: Well, you might want to know that there's something...there's this yellow bit sticking right above your upper lip.
Me: Good god (feeling for foreign object above upper lip, plucking it off, then studying it). Well --
Margie: What is it?
Me: It's cheese.
Margie: Cheese?
Me: From the cheeseburger I ate, most likely.
Margie: Just now?
Me: Two hours ago.

Notice that Margie points out that I had cheese over my lip only after I tell her that I'm going to an interview. In other words, if I had just been ambling aimlessly in Emerald Avenue, she probably wouldn't have called any attention to it. She would have let me go on with cheese on my face, with nary a care about her friend's place in the social fabric or about how cheese on your face jeopardizes your position as "decent college graduate and employee".

It begs mentioning that this is the same woman who composed a song about me over a year ago, a little tune she tastefully entitled Peachy the Prosti. Not only did she post the lyrics on her blog, she also made a video of herself singing the song, then later posted that clip on YouTube.

Isn't friendship a glorious thing? Margie, if you're reading this, I hope to god you end up with cheese on your face one of these days. Unlike you, I will call your attention to it as soon as possible, and will graciously peel the gunk off your face with my own gentle hands. Because, you know, I'm a good person that way. Absolutely.

-----

Their Divorce
Stephen Dunn

Not them. Not even with the best
binoculars on the bluest day
could I have seen it coming.
Not with scrutiny's microscope,
or with the help of history or gossip.
Of all people, not them.
They hadn't fallen in love with others.
Not even a night of drink
or proximity's slow burn drove them
to lapse, say, with a coworker.
It means no one can know what goes on
in the pale trappings of bedrooms,
in anyone's secret, harrowed heart.
It makes time itself an executioner––
a fact I always knew
applied to couples
whose bodies contradicted
their Darling this, Honey that,
and even some who exhibited
true decency and respect.
But this is a mockery, a defeat.
My friends were perfect, perfect.
"Every married couple appearing together
in public is comic," Adorno said,
and I wrote "Stupid!" in the margin.
Now they're broken up, finished.
Oh Adorno, you son of a bitch,
you perspicacious bastard,
sometimes what a cold eye sees
lasts longer than any of us.

To be Standing by the Flag, Not Feeling Shameful

You look so tired, unhappy.
Bring down the government.
They don't speak for us.
- Radiohead

I've been meaning to talk about so many things in the last month or so, but my time has been sequestered by all sorts of shit, with work being the most unpalatable of them all. Yeah yeah yeah, I know it isn’t smart to talk about work in as public a place as your own blog, but I pretty much don't give a damn at this point. Everyone knows that work eventually falls into a droning hum, where your hours spent in a cubicle are punctuated by a lot of yawning, spitting, and square dancing, all to the chagrin of your officemates who understandably hate square dancing.

The only person who probably has an exciting job in these parts is the President herself, Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, who must find it satisfying to generate so much hatred and vitriol from the Filipino people. Hey, GMA, if you're reading this -- and I know you aren't because you're too goddamn important and that mole obstructs your vision anyway -- I want you to know that you're a useless pile of shit for a President. And that's nothing to be proud about, considering that regular shit can at least be used as fertilizer to give rise to thriving vegetation, but you are irrefutably useless. Your administration has spawned nothing but controversy, legions of corrupt, shady government officials, and plain plumb outrage from Filipinos everywhere. I hate you and your ilk, and I'm pretty certain that your bellybutton is an outie.

Yeah, I steal your money. Feels soooo good.

Anyway, we were talking about work, weren't we? Ah, yes. Work. Sweet, lovely work. So fulfilling, so goddamn rewarding, it makes me want to dance the hula. Seriously, though, it's gotten so that all the jobs I've had just blur together and coalesce into something that begs for meaning or substance. And who am I kidding, I'm not even really writing, I'm just vomiting these articles onto our websites just so your average American hick can get whatever information they need. Sure, I get paid for what I do. But I also have to take care of the bills, and it gets so that I think I'm being extravagant when I buy a tub of Philadelphia Cream Cheese. By the next pay day, I would have saved nothing, I would have broken even and ended up with just a few twenties in my wallet.

Honestly, what the hell are we doing? We had a couple of interns in my former company, and one of them, a British guy named Charlie, soon became a pretty good friend of mine. I recall how much he marveled at us, at what we could grasp and create, all the things that beset us as a people and how we plodded on anyway, even if better alternatives eluded us with brutal swiftness. We were slugging back a couple of Pale Pilsens after work once, and he said, "It's amyzing. Ah daeno of any group of people so tahlented or so good-natured or so beautiful." This was, of course, the same guy who went bug-eyed while we were by the building entrance for a cigarette break, wasting time and watching the passersby stride past. Charlie looked like he was going to have a heart attack. "SHIT!" He said, turning to me incredulously. "SO MANY HOHT WIMMEN!"

When I looked, I saw girls whom Filipino men would never have noticed or done a double-take for. But Charlie looked completely overwhelmed, and I thought then how refreshing it was to see someone define beauty this way. I loved the subversion of it all. In this country, white skin has become the crux of beauty, white skin and Caucasian noses, or girls who looked like Japanese dolls or Korean hussies, UGH. Why can't we love what we have here? Why are skin whitening products all the rage, the damn things flying off the shelves and girls shying away from sunlight for fear of getting darker? I happen to like my color, fucking shit. I love the fact that I am brown, that I look toasted, that my skin is the color of burnished wood, and I do not want to be white.

The lotion must've leached into your brain and ruined your capacity for grammar and good sense.

And why should such a promising people founder in the margins while our own damn politicians squirrel away what we worked so hard for? Only so they can keep their mistresses happy, so they can buy two more Ford F-150s, so they can send their kids halfway around the world to go skiing? SKIING, GOOD FUCKING GOD. Have you no shame? I hope you damn well impale yourselves with those ski poles, you bastards.

Humpty Dumpty
Aimee Mann

Say you were split, you were split in fragments,
And none of the pieces will talk to you.
Wouldn't you want to be who you had been?
Well, baby, I want that, too.

So better take the keys and drive forever,
Staying won't put these futures back together.
All the perfect trust and superheroes
Wouldn't be enough to bring me up to zero.

Baby you're great, you've been more than patient,
Saying, It's not a catastrophe.
But I'm not the girl you once put your faith in,
Just someone who looks like me.

So get out while you can, get out while you can,
Baby, I'm pouring quicksand,
And sinking is all I have planned,
So baby, just go.

Better take the keys and drive forever,
Staying won't put these futures back together.
All the perfect trust and superheroes
Wouldn't be enough to bring me up to zero.

Less a Deluge Than a Drought

One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do.
Two can be as bad as one, it's the loneliest number
Since the number one.
- Aimee Mann

A massive HURRAH to my friends, Kael and Marie, both of whom are some of this year's winners for the Palanca awards. Kael was last year's first place winner for English Poetry, and he bags the first prize again this year, albeit for Filipino Poetry this time around. Talk about overachieving!

Marie, on the other hand, will be skipping away with the third prize for English Poetry, even as she juggles writing with the hours she has to devote to Philo readings. I don't know of anybody who deserves the recognition more than my friends do, and it's awesome to see all their efforts rewarded in this fashion. Congratulations, you two. INUMAN NA!

-----

This office feels like an icebox. I feel like I should be stuck into a polyethylene bag and vacuum-packed, I feel like I should be leaned against stacks of sausages and bacon and the occasional bag of tube ice. In an effort to cut down on costs, I decided to bring lunch along with me today. My meal consists of a cup of rice and a single German frank fried to singed perfection. That I have spoken of almost nothing else but pre-packaged food in this paragraph shows how much I value the principles of organic unity when it comes to the written word.

-----

After a protracted absence, I showed up at Happy Mondays at Que Rico last night to celebrate Kael's and Marie's recent triumph in the Palancas. It was wonderful to have all my friends around me, it was nice to feel that old current of bonhomie and good cheer coursing around and between us. Waps was being such a dick by threatening to spill all my college shit onto the table for everyone to lap up, and Margie, Javie, Kael, and Marie were having a blast getting into our individual disgusting histories.

You should've seen us, Naya! Huhu.

-----

Our band is supposed to have a gig this Friday, and I believe that we are ill-prepared for it. My throat hurt from last night's practice, and my growls weren't coming out right. I don't even know where the gig will be. It's in some obscure spot in the metro, and I don't think anyone's coming to watch us but for the contingent, lackluster crowd. No, wait, not crowd. Just a table of anonymous beer guzzlers whose Friday night we'll be ruining beyond redemption with our music.

Just thinking of the gig makes me feel cold all over, and it doesn't help that I'm drinking cold water. I should drink hot water right now, hot water's a lot of fun, all the hopes of the ramen industry pivot on the very fact of hot water. What will this world be without ramen?

-----

I was typing down that last sentence when a high school batchmate messaged me with the news of our former teacher's death. Sometimes I think we're all being zapped out one by one, little ineffectual bugs buzzing out our protest. Yesterday, an officemate told me about how somebody from Ateneo got shot in the head because she wouldn't let go of her laptop during a stick-up. I want to be indignant, but I feel more resigned than anything. That sun that edges up over the horizon every morning? It's a yellow, molten lie.

One Year

Knowledge

Hiking that day, we descended from the peak
to our third campsite, all fog and chill
and hardy fern. There was no room for us,
but we made room anyway, tamping down
the shrubbery standing in our path.
What else was here but endless foliage
and blinding height, or all the things
we couldn't see -- the icy wind knifing
through our skin, the leaves' tireless sough,
a heart's hammering for the flicker of movement
out of the corner of one's eye.

~

I was drinking soup when my friend came over
for some conversation. How are you,
he asked. Are you seeing him when you get back?
I said I would, and he shrugged. The land
spread out below us from a height of 2,800 meters,
a steep drop that began just five feet from
where we stood. It was easy to imagine
the plummeting, the irreversible velocity of it,
the sound of a body hitting the earth
again and again
and again.

~

In the morning, the hissing stoves
and the promise of warmth drew us out
to the open. Everything almost sparkled
in their own cloaks of dew. Tents bellied
in the wind, but no matter -- the sun was out,
the sun was here.

~

You came to me a week later, although
I hadn't seen you coming. I was busy reading
a book I wasn't reading, I was busy listening
to the rich noise of my own blood in my head.
You came to me fleet-footed despite the surgery.
I remember turning around to meet the sound you made,
but met you instead. I was feeling very silly
in my dress. When you smiled at me,
I knew then that for all the things the senses
can or cannot guess at, here was something , finally --
your hand in mine -- that I need never
be afraid of.


for Jose