Fiction 100.5 and a conglomerate of near-truths




One day, I will also bring flowers for you, like it’s a normalcy, like I just passed through a floral shop earlier after I went to the grocery and I remember you in their scent. This came, amidst digressions from Andre DubusHouse of Sand and Fog, like what the Persian, ex-officer did to his wife, after he bought a new bungalow for the family.

Then we will have a bungalow too, the neatest, the brightest as it faces the sunrise at 05:55, and the placid sea all time of the day. There will be countless chances to walk through the warm sand, and evening bonfires with curtailed smoke and redefined daydreaming, and wondering about mice and hippopotamus and the coconut trees’ alignment. And I will write your name in the sand, the way I won’t write them here, because you know, we are all cowards, utilizing poetry and metaphors and tv screens and jokes and alibis to shroud the things we will not tell right here.

There will be a cafeteria nearby and I will bring you there every Sunday morning, every fragrant, pleasant 7:04 Sunday mornings. We will have a car, a Beatle, a light green Beatle with a good jazz music playing inside it every time, and we will listen to it, for twenty minutes or so, before we reach the cafeteria, before we meet good, old and mild-natured Granny again. That is what we call the old lady selling coffee, making coffee, heartily smiling at every customer perhaps because that is the only thing she can do well with her age. We will sit on the corner, the one nearest to a Rivermaya poster, oh the good, old days, the late 90s when we were still stuck at school pants and bulky backpacks. You will glance at the old four who perhaps sang to you when you got depressed in 2005 or something, and you will do that like for a minute, until I call you and say uy, kape mo.

You are good at coffee that is pure coffee, proving to Zizek, the old guy our friends used to love in college, that there are still people who are after the substance of the substance, the thing that makes the thing itself. You will stir your coffee, very, very lazily, while still looking at Japs Sergio; like in the old days when you will lazily stay in bed because Mondays are commonly lazy, and you will prod me to hit the bathroom first. And mine, mine would be the perfect combination of liberal sugar and a morsel of creamer, coffee ought to be sweet for me, unless I am planning to read Shakespeare or Dante in the night. And I will look around the cafeteria, and will see no one familiar; in universes that we have been through, it seldom happens that we were strangers to them, only two people who happen to like to stroll and smell polluted air and share breaths with tens of others, sightsee 7/11’s new products, or vintage shirts sold in the street.

In the end of fiction, what is next? Murakami killed Toru in page 607, or did he, really? Perhaps he went on waiting for Kumiko, perhaps he went on drinking beer at 8pms, perhaps he went on playing idly with Mackerel before lunch. Fictions live in us, my teacher once said that she would read fictions several times at different points in time, the first during 1999 and the next on February 2003, the next on July 2003, and every reading will give her something new. Is fiction hermetic as empty jelly containers that kill flies trapped in them? I look back at the cafeteria and the Beatle and the bungalow and without having to cross my fingers, I know we will still live, and outside fictions, and I, sometimes will want to come to you to make real things happen.

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god, opium, and my old need for “high”ness


Sad poetries, in dead times like these, it seems opportune for them. While the gods are keeping themselves away from bacchanalian feasts, I am subconsciously, sorrowfully putting myself under the arrest of mindless gluttony. Coffee crumble melting inside Gardenia breads, dry spaghetti pasta, Jollibee Shanghai rolls, lanky stick-o champolas, macaroni soup and adobong manok and mounds of good, white rice. The psychology of food only reveals to me how morose I am about my presently glaring Freudian lack. And food, delightful materials that are being taken into the bodily system, they induce to me a temporary paranoia, a going berserk because of an illusionary fullness. We see how fascinating differences operate: the lack and the fullness, albeit one is lasting, hence more threatening, while the other is only fleeting.

And when I am supposed to be spurning at language and kneading it to become unforgettable forms of verses, I am idling away and making myself a forgettable piece of Holy Week waste. So thank you jesus for making a huge piece of bum out of me in your dramatic death, one of the highlights of the play that was your sacrificial demise for the weal of humanity. This week has been as penitentiary as you wanted for all people, and I do not believe that I am becoming sacrilegious. I am simply undermining your virility as a text.

Misplaced angst, perhaps. Given the ridiculous tragedy I am forced to face now, in the heyday of machine-like faith and religion, where should this angst go but in scattered notes dedicated to someone who is at par only with Rizal or Don Quixote. What am I saying? Is god being mocked for being compared with the two, or the two being too glorified by being compared with god. Ahm, I go for the first one. I am more a fan of mockeries and parodies and subtle undermining.

 

Sunday morning blasphemy and dabbling on Marxism


On rainy Sunday mornings, I ask, don’t we deserve a break; don’t we deserve some warm coffee or cup noodles and a warm blanket and Maroon 5? Don’t we deserve to do the laundry or read Joyce Carol Oates and write poetry that could shock the Victorian purists?

I try to measure the breadth of seven days in a week and I realized how, sometimes, they are not enough to cater to everything that needs to be done. God rested on the seventh day and even though some Christians still observe the Sabbath, it is inevitable to feel the lack sometimes. Today is rest day, the scriptures will tell, but I have something on my calendar. No it does not say, “Watch Bicycle Thieves” today or, “Have a re-marathon of the Friends series.” What it says is that people are starving and they want brave people to say for them what they cannot say, what they fear to say; people are being killed and they want some people to fight for them even though they are faceless names to them, or nameless faces.

Does Sunday exempt us from the crime, from the virality of sin, or from the dispiriting, seeming inherence of evil? If one looks from outside his or her window on a lazy, poetic Sunday morning, one will say no. I stoop down to the level of the unbending and the unseeing and I opt to stretch myself in my almighty bed, my ironic god after I denounce the idea of living the testaments of the Sabbath on the Bible.

Holy mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Pray for us, for sometimes, like this time, we are tucked sweetly in this soft yellow bed, ravishing the trees seen from the windows, and the accompanying sound of light drizzle. Pray for us, too, because if we ever go out of the bed, we do so for the laundry, or to make coffee, or to light a cigarette and burn sticks, our lungs, our silent yearning for activity. Pray for us, too, pretty please, because we go as far as sounding as if desecrating thy holy name and thy kingdom come. Blessed am I for I am yet to burn right now, and blessed are you for all of your pliability that an entire book, usually touted as the most influential ever made, has been made to document your holiness.

What seeming randomness that was; what seeming pathetic lack of direction. Starting with Sunday morning laziness and sort of ending in pa-cute blasphemy. Blasphemy is sinful only to those who subscribe to the doctrine, the same way as liberalism is so foul to those who call themselves Marxist-Leninist and Maoist. We follow different gods, and what my god says, you may find it laughable or stupid. We are quilted to different masters, master-signifiers, master stories. Now it is a matter of telling that master story, of spreading the word, of propagating the message. And let us see from there who gets the biggest cult following.

Yes, Sunday mornings. Lazy and sound and inspiring with the way you can spark some words about how we subconsciously act while following our inner demons, the monsters created for us by the grand narratives we quietly subscribe to. Coffee and smoke and cup noodles are almost done, you see. Perhaps in an hour, and after all the drama, I will find myself quelling the yawns in another fun meeting, no sarcasm there. That is more important in the end, I should say, what I do and not what I know.

 

Exchange gift before December


At this time of the day

I would be glancing at the moon

Like it only existed then.

There would be no awe or surprise,

Or shock. I would look at the moon

Like I would look at an uninteresting stranger.

We say coincidences bring us close

To people, and strangers cease to be

When fate is playful and complicit.

Is the moon a matter of chance?

Coincidence and fate,

Or is it conjured by my will,

My longing for beauty,

My search for poetry?

I know you and know your

Fiddling with sand,

Your penchance for cherries and grapes,

Your fear of strangers.

Like the way I know the moon

And its arrival during this time

And my willing engagement with it

While I exhale smoke, and it exudes light.

I look at the moon, like the way you look at me

–with stillness,

No fear at all.

No shock or surprise.

But poems are gifts.

And for the moon,

Here, a poem.

Why “if” and “would” are weak words


If I were you, I would love to smell the morning mists

In Baguio, in foggy Novembers.

The rain prevents me from waking to the

light of the day just as the fog

prevents me from seeing you

sniffing scentless vapors.

If I were you, I would stop practicing futility

For instance, sniffing scentless things.

Or feeling no feeling at all.

Or conjuring images in your mind

That are at the end,

Only images,

and only born in your mind.

Not living in our foggy Novembers,

nor forming as the morning mists.