The Art of Suppression

Diane... clad in a long red dress, rouge-faced, with a pair of white sophisticated gloves covering her fragile smooth hands, those beautiful hands Andy adores so much. He holds those hands every morning as soon as he sees them beside his face. He’ll pull those hands into his groin and feel how their softness touch his bare, rough skin. How he adores her. He’ll go into parties with a picture of her if she cannot make it; if she does, she’ll always wind up being star of the night that every face he sees—man or woman—always bears a mark of jealousy, a pang in his heart and a lump in his throat. He has never been proud of anything until Diane came into his life.

Diane... clad in a long red dress, rouge-faced, highlighting her nose pointed downwards, with tiny holes in sync with her white, rubious skin and the narrow opening of her lips—the lips Danny used to love to kiss with the sweet taste of her saliva like an infant’s, with the smell of her breath gently sinking into his senses, and with the push of her tongue that always loved to play with his, like two children in a playground toying in the rain.

Diane... clad in a long red dress that amplifies the length of her legs. Those legs Andy massages in the evening after she comes from the bathroom. Sometimes, while in the bathtub, she will let him in and let him scrub those legs, gently, passionately, as if he were in love with the legs and not with the woman who possesses them. Those legs Danny used to pat when they had an argument, a pat of appeal for harmony rather than conflict. Andy loves her for her erudition and sense of maturity. Danny loved her for her blithe spirit and the childish look in her face whenever she was sad or whenever she was eating ice cream.

Diane… Andy loves the name. Danny loved each letter. Diane… Andy loves her. Danny loved her. And after eight long years, he thinks that he doesn’t love her anymore.

And yet…

DIANE: Danny? Is that you, Dan?

DANNY
Heart: She’s the only woman who calls me that.
Brain: How about your classmates in grade school? Everyone used to call you Dan.
Danny: Hi! Uh, I’m sorry but I’m having trouble recognizing faces tonight. Let me see…

DIANE: Diane.

DANNY
Heart: I think I’m gonna explode.
Brain: Say hi and just leave.
Danny: Oh, I’m sorry.

DIANE: It’s okay. How are you? It’s been a long time.

DANNY
Heart: You have no idea.
Brain: Don’t tell her what happened.
Danny: Yes. A long time.

DIANE: Hey, you’re blushing.

DANNY
Heart: I sent blood to the face, to make you see how fast I beat.
Brain: Suppression machine, initialize!
Danny: Goes silent. Flashes a weak smile.

DIANE: So, how are you? Gone speechless? Do you still write?

DANNY
Heart: Yes, I still do. As a matter of fact, I write every memory of being with you in all of my stories.
Brain: Tell her what you really do.
Danny: I’m in law school.

DIANE: Really? That’s wonderful.

DANNY
Heart: Yes. That means I’m gonna be a lawyer soon. You can marry me now; I’m finally going to be rich.
Brain: She doesn’t want that now. Leave this place at once. Study. You have an exam tomorrow.
Danny: I guess so.

DIANE: Well, that’s really wonderful. I mean, that’s really good. I’m happy for you.

Silence.

DIANE: Are you married?

DANNY
Heart: I never want to get married. I’ve always waited for you.
Brain: Tell her yes. She’s not really interested. Can’t you see how she loves to fool around?

Danny: No.

DIANE: I thought you are. I can see a ring around your ring finger.

DANNY
Heart: It’s the same ring.
Brain: Hide the ring and tell her it’s a college ring.
Danny (almost whispering): It’s the same ring.

DIANE: What?

DANNY
Heart: It’s the same ring I gave you on our first anniversary.
Brain: Stupid. Don’t dare say anything.
Danny: A college ring.

Smiles. Silence. Someone speaking a speech somewhere. Diane and Danny somehow are both speechless. Someone speaking a speech somewhere. Silence. Smiles.

DANNY
Heart: I missed you. Oh, God! I missed you, Dianne, my baby.
Brain: Yes I missed you… as a friend.
Danny: How about you? Are you married?

DIANE: Yes. You remember Andy?

DANNY
Heart: I don’t care about Andy. I beg you. Come with me. Leave Andy, whoever the hell he is.
Brain: Oh, yes. Andy? The stupid jerk?
Danny: Andy Reyes? Sheila’s brother?

DIANE: I thought I would be calling you Mr. Alzheimer before this night ends. We got married a couple of years ago.

Laughter. Long pause. Lovely lass. Lonely lad. Lemony lights. Long pause. Laughter.

DIANE: He’s a good man, you know. A really god man.

DANNY
Heart: I will love you more than any good man will. I will make you happy everyday. I will bring you to your summer dreams. The dreams you told me when we were little kids. Remember that summer when we first kissed? Do you remember? Say that you remember. And that night we first made love to each other? You cried that night and I told you I would never leave you. Oh, Diane, my sweet, sweet baby. I never left. I never stopped loving you.
Brain: Shut up.

Danny: Congratulations! Well, I can see that you know how to wear make up now.

DIANE: Things change, Dan.

DANNY
Heart: I never did.
Brain: Can’t you see? She has changed. She used to hate make ups. She used to tear her mother’s AVON brochures. She has become a bitch.
Danny: Yes. Things change.

Changes. Cheers of Chivas and champagne. Carelessness. Champagne glasses collide, clash, crash. Color crimson chaser crosses his chest. Caresses. Champagne glasses collide, clash, crash. Carelessness. Cheers of Chivas and champagne. Changes.

DANNY: Are you crying?

DIANE
Heart: Dan, you were my Superman. I used to call you Superdan. You were my childhood hero, my childhood love.
Brain: No more caresses. Leave at once. Andy is waiting for you at home. You’ve got a lovely family with a beautiful baby girl. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Your life is perfect. You’re happy.
Diane: No, it’s my mascara.

DANNY: I see.

DIANE
Heart: Don’t you recognize the perfume I’m wearing now? It’s the same I used to wear. I knew I would see you tonight. Do you remember the fragrance of our summer days with my perfume? You used to love that smell even when I was sweating. You loved that. Dan, you loved me and you love me still, don’t you? Please say it. I want to know.
Brain: Be reasonable. Don’t bring up the past. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter to him. You don’t matter to him anymore.
Diane: I guess I have to leave.

Momentary muteness. Meaningful movements. Merry memories made. Moving away. Merry memories made. Meaningful movements muzzle. Momentary muteness.

DANNY
Heart: Please don’t leave.
Brain: Say goodbye.
Danny: I see. Take care.

DIANE
Heart: I missed you, Dan.
Brain: Say goodbye but don’t say goodnight.
Diane: Likewise.

DANNY
Heart: Please don’t leave, Diane. Can’t you see my knees are shaking? If you leave, they’ll break and my chest will explode, breaking the wholeness of me into a million pieces.
Brain: Shhh… There, there. I’m here.
Danny: Tell Andy I said hello.

DIANE
Heart: I won’t because I won’t be leaving this place without you. Make love to me again the way you did. I miss your lips in my mouth. I miss your caresses. You used to make me feel I was pretty. You loved me for what I am, didn’t you? I never changed. This make up? The hell I care about make ups and this shitty dress. Undress me. Feel the woman I used to be. Make me feel that I am still the girl you loved. Oh, Dan, I can’t leave now. Say you love me still.
Brain: Good bye.
Diane: Good bye.

DANNY
Heart: Silence.
Brain: Silence.
Danny: Good night.

Diane… Andy loves the name. Danny loved each letter. Diane… Andy loves her. Danny loved her. And after eight long years, what Danny and Diane have developed is the art of suppression.

xdelax-circa09 

labyrinth of self-persiflage

i could hearken

your sesquipedalian

allocution

and you

excogitated that i was

supercalifragilisticexpialidociously impressed?

your semanteme may have succeeded

reaching my

amygdalae

but not the ephemeral mnemonic epitheliums

in my cerebrum.

your lamprophony

didn’t even succor

that i had to ratiocinate. (all i had

perceived were preposterous                                galimatias).

and who bestowed you the apostolicity to             ultracrepidate

how i inaniloquently expatiated my                       repugnance

on your eupeptic limerance,

like you could

achieve            pogonotrophy

in two               days as when today

is the             nudiustertian?

your

floccinaucinihilipilification

made you a                                  nihilarian,

like an alimenting bee

that,

instead of glorified, uglified a florigelium

engraved in the lamenting                     

escutcheon

as if it were

some kind of a phallocentrism

but which

is not

and never

will be.

xdelax-circa08

observatory (02)

"Have some flakes," your mother said but instead of taking some time to consider the invitation, you started towards the street and after a forty-minute rendezvous with Pynchon's anarchists on the road, you found yourself having another episode of a formidable seduction—a seemingly destructive distraction, a nostalgic zeitgeist turned into the form of a solitary freckle tattooed on the abysmal, capacious cleave of her bosom, two fully-blossomed tulips with a wrinkled raisin shallowly ensconced on each of its peak. And you blushed—visible carmine hues came rippling all over your unshaven face. Imagine the pang that spans from the days of your youthful escapades to this moment of ephemeral euphoria. Imagine the longing. For the schlemiel that you are, you know you’d only be kissing her lips in a meridian dream that's not even close to her idea of a happily-ever-after kind of a fairytale. You should’ve taken the flakes. You should’ve stayed home for a while. Or better yet, should've never gone out for work at all.

xdelax-circa09

observatory (01)

Perhaps we both belong in a book drafted by an author named Marquis de Sade. You are the passive sadist because without doing anything, you become the object of my masochistic desire, my daily dose of affliction. The author’s pen speaks not of sexual carnage, physical gore and torture but of something beyond the peasant axons and dendrites residing in the cellular hamlets of my terraqueous body can endure as Marquis makes use of my visual acuity to measure the geometry of your anatomy, studying every curve, memorizing each line. And he signs every page of the book with his whore’s come. “Ah, this is lust at first sight,” the leaves mumble as you turn the sulfuric shower on and bathe with me on the sunshine of the eternal mindless spot. “This is my idea of an orgasmic memory of rain,” your larynx generated the words that ostensibly stimulated my lips, my mouth, my throat athirst, dry as Sahara, to swallow my spittle which put the needle against the phonograph attached to a monitor playing the pornographic images of how your skin would meet my flesh and how your head would perfectly fit upon laying it on my shoulder. But then as the sputum reached my gut, I opened my eyes and saw you walking across the street, hailing a cab, and I tried to hail for a little gab, but you were already too far. I couldn’t move my feet as though they were cemented to the ground. Instead, I shot a beam coming from my retina to follow your direction until your image was just a figure, a part of a painting’s membrane laid against the sweet color of the dying day accompanied by a melody of my malady as I moved listlessly towards the building and into the lobby. I began to float even before I stepped on the elevator’s floor. With all the men’s leather shoes and women’s stilettos, I wonder how did I ever wind up working in this place, surrounded by different indifferent kind of unkind people but you... even though you’re just a figment of De Sade’s imagination.

xdelax-circa09

stream (01)

Romance is not my cup of macchiato (pardon me for recklessly abstaining from using your familyname, Mr. Lipton. I just don’t want to walk down the cliché-stricken idiomatic street). But the letters of a song and its melody won’t let me be, like when I quaff litters of lager thinking it would be able to flush the images of the moon’s reflection flashing in the mirror-like surface of water of the river flowing through my medulla oblongata as it begins to speak in a voice, in that tiny, lachrymose voice … ‘I will never forget the night I took the risk of setting your lips ablaze. Did I tell you yet that I venerate you?’ And the moon replies: ‘Yes. I know.’ ‘But have I told you how much? You’ve been looking at yourself through my surface; I know that ivory-like crust of yours is a dysphoria waiting to be explored, for you to let us see the dazzle, the bewitching light of your glow.’ The moon does not say anything more. So the river, as much as he wants to go astray, doesn’t have a choice but to stay. But he resorts to different forms of mechanisms—deviation, sublimation, distraction, reaction formation, displacement, even sometimes letting its own water boil with the sun. Tic. Until he said ‘I miss the moon and its glow. I wonder if she’s happy now. Will I really be able to know? Can I really see through her?’ Tic. On the radio: There’s a moon asking to stay, long enough for the clouds to fly me away… thus the song goes and it took the river away. How about a joke? How about a high five? ‘How about descending a little? or better yet, take a plunge and swim deep down inside of me?’ Is it the river who’s speaking now? Tic. You know that I’ll always be here to listen. Tic. It’s me. Now I know it’s me. It’s not me when the river spills those maudlin spiels. Look at your own image through me again and see how the shapes of our crescent faces are like two pieces of a heart broken in its meridian part. ‘Stop the flow of the river,’ another said. The river: ‘All right then, I’ll let you be. Just let me say to her that I miss her.’ The river’s gaze turns towards the sky: ‘I…’ Subsequent MRIs also revealed there was no change in the size. The lesion actually measured 0.9cmX1.1cm in diameter so despite she was treated with Bonacriptine, we also got baseline perimetry. So it actually revealed an absolute scotoma involving three quadrants on the left hemisphere. He was starting in Bonacriptine when it hurled his prolactine levels to 65mg per desoliter which was actually in the normal range; upper limit is at about 86. He was advised to a surgery and now the vision is stable at 20-25 minus 2 and the left eye was counting fingers. This was in her insulin maintenance basically maintained on 90 units of insulin in the morning and 55 units of insulin in the afternoon. Who is it? ‘That is not even me.’ Prednisone. Valium. Prozac. Give him a tricyclic. Beep. Bleep. Tic.

xdelax-circa09

pagmimiron

pagmimiron--wala lang maisip na titulo pero dahil may magwala ka, magmeron ka, pwede na siguro itong titulo. pero dito, ang kamalayan mo ang uusisain mo tulad ng pag-usisa ko sa hindi man pisikal ay nagkikiskisang mga bagay sa mga semilyang nagawang maglanguyan sa aking utak: dinig ko ang kabaga-bagabag na sigaw ng sirena--wang wang--nakakabuwang. naalaala ko na naman ang takot ni pedring sa sunog, sa apoy, lalo na sa tuwing maaalala ang pagputok ng saksakan noon nang ipinasak niya ito sa outlet. at habang iniisip ko ang pagsimula ng thread na ito nang ako'y nasa kama na, naisip ko si pedring ay hindi si pedring kundi ang imaheng magiging representasyon ng aking kamulatan. si pedring na kahit anong pagbuga ng usok mula sa yosi ko ay hindi magpapakita kahit hulma ng kanyang bungo. si pedring, tulad ni val na isang malay, si pedring din ay walang malay, hindi naman patay, inilibing, nanaog sa kinaroroonan ng mga yumao, nang ikatlong araw nabuhay na mag-uli; hindi rin naman tunay na buhay--si pedring, representasyon ng aking imahinasyong nagsasabi ng aking kamulatan... at dito isisiwalat ang lahat, pwedeng magwala, pwedeng magsaya, pwedeng magkwento basta totoo at bunga ng direkta at mabilisang pagtama ng mga daliri sa mga letra sa keyboard na kung aplikante ka man bilang encoder ay papasa ka na with flying colors sa ulo mo na parang sarimanok. naalala ko tuloy si ernie baron na sa dos ay pinalitan na ni kim atienza na hanggang kanina'y tinatawanan ko sa aking isipan na ang tunay na pangalan ay kimberly, nasa hitsura naman siguro ni joselito atienza na pangalanan ang anak na lalaking kimberly. hotel kimberly, nakngtutsa, daming alaala sa gawing iyon ng ermita. chat, palitan ng number sa tsikas sa cebu na matagal nang kakilala pero ngayon pa lang makikita, para may matulyan sa cebu? cebu pacific nga ba yung parang may putong ng korona ng manok ang nasa logo? ano nga bang tawag dun sa mapulang bahagi ng ulong iyon ng manok? palong? tae! timpalok, timpalok, tae talaga ng manok. naalala ni pedring nang makita niya kanina ang kapatid na tagilid, naglalaro ng apoy, kalaro ang pinsang humahawak sa kandila. ang sarimanok, matanglawin, kiko matsing. sari-saring bagay ang biglang pumapasok sa isip ni pedring na gawa-gawa lang din ng aking kaisipan, tumatabi siya sa akin, bumubulong habang nagsisindi ako ng bagong istik ng marlboro at pinanonood ang paglakad ng ipis sa kisame. hindi ang ipis ang aking kausap kundi si pedring--"lasing ka kagabi." "hindi, antok lang." "tikman mo ang iyong mga labi." "lasang toothpaste." o yosi? may umepal, isang matagal ko nang kakilala pero ngayon lang uli nagpakita... hindi si pedring na representasyon ng aking kamulatan. kabaligtaran. pamilyar pero hindi ko mawari. "lasang malambot na puso ng siyudad sakay ng bus patungong kalungkutan... naglalasa pa rin." "sino ka?" bawal ba rito ang repressed, suppressed na bahagi ng unconscious na ngayo'y nagpaparamdam din? isang anino ng nakaraan? ang aking konsyensya? mag-safeguard ka? tangina, ang daming basurang tvcs ngayon. taina, bad trip yung nakaisip nung commercial ni mar roxas at manny villar. malamang ngang iboto sila dahil sa buwakanang popular election pero tae, gusto kong lunukin lahat ng gamot na pinag-aaralan sa opisina ni pedring na gamot para sa hypertension para pabagalin ang tibok ng puso at pagdaloy ng aking dugo, kung pwede nga lang tumigil para lang hindi ko na muling marinig, kundi man maisip o maalala ang linya ni mar roxas na: "l-l-lal-l-laban tayo!" "mula sa aking bulsa, tinulungan ko sila!" manny, manny, pahinging money! villar, villar, halina't magbilyar! pacquiao, pacquiao, ang hirap i-type ng apelyido mo! pakyu! gumanti ka ng pakyu sa akin habang suot mo ang boxing gloves. huwag mo lang idadampi sa mukha ko baka isampal ko sa'yo ang pakpak ng sarimanok sa mukha mo. ganito kasaya rito, pwede lahat! magsulat ka ala-jack kerouac na tuluy-tuloy sa isang tissue tapos ay i-post mo rito, gusto mo pa, isang libro ang isulat nang iisa ang talata. o kaya'y magsulat ka ala-henry james na ang isang talata ay umaabot ng ilang pahina. pulitikal? sosyolohikal? ayos lang basta mababasang sikolohikal. bawal ang tumigil, l-l-lal-l-laban tayo! huwag kang aayaw! pakinggan mo lang ang mahinang boses na bumubulong sa'yo, mayroon kang isang pedring na nakatira sa utak mo, sumisigaw ng mga bulong: "wang wang!" "wang wang!" buwang, huwag mong isigaw sa bibig mo, mapagkamalan ka pang buwang ng nanay mong ilang buwan na ring nanonood ng tayong dalawa nang siya lang mag-isa na kung minsa'y kasama ang kapatid mong tagilid, na kanina lamang ay naglalaro ng apoy sa kanto. tuluy-tuloy lang, parang agos ng ilog patungo sa dagat, tinatangay ka nang walang kapararakan, at nagpapatangay ka naman, at sa bawat anod ay ang paggalaw ng iyong mga kamay, mula sa iyong kaisipan patungo sa pahinang kanina lamang ay walang kalaman-laman at kung paano nagkalaman ang tabula rasa ay ganoon ding magkakalaman ang puting papel na parang tiyang matagal nang kumakalam, nagugutom at nauuhaw sa mga titik na naghihintay mula kay pedring at sa ibang mga taong hindi mo nakikita subalit may ibinubulong... sila ang magsasagwan sa bangkang sakay mo sa malakas na agos ng ilog (na walang sirena--wang wang!) ng iyong kamalayan. 

xdelax-circa09

The Experiment

Let me warn you now that what you are about to read is just an experiment. If you have checked your blood pressure today, make sure that it’s running slower than the usual gush of water in your faucet. I just don’t want you to bother reading this if you don’t have the guts and not waste your time with my own notes of shenanigans or trigger a heart attack with your extreme devotion to your reading habits. Don’t worry, this essay has no intention to awaken the darkest side of the deepest core of your soul and enlighten you at the same time.

If you’re going to read this insipid piece of crap, make sure that you’ve got a hell of a patience stuffed in that dreary organ of yours – brain or heart, you choose, stupid ass – because this is an experiment to make you lose your intestinal fortitude. Yes, to vex you. It may sound a bit contradicting but this piece won’t make you feel angry but I assure you, somewhere in the middle, you’re gonna lose your patience.

Listen. If you believe that Oprah and Arnold Schwarzenegger do not bear the same sound when they snore but their vocal cords do, you’re gonna continue reading this not because I’ll be telling you more weird, cheap gossips about pathetic who-the-hell-ever. You’re going to continue reading this because you know that I don’t have anything to say, for this is just only an experiment and that you are my stupid subject. Now if you do not agree to the statement I entered in the second sentence of this paragraph, you better start thinking that a million sluts are better than a sloth sitting there, giving up the task of rolling those eyeballs, because the earwax in your ears (oh, the ears! nice guess, moron) is thick enough to make a candle out of it. And I bet that your sluggishness in doing stuff concerning hygiene is the same attitude you have towards reading and consequently, you won’t be able to finish this and find out what this is all about.

This is an experiment, for fuck’s sake! Didn’t I tell you yet? I am not a mad scientist but I can play that role. If you have succeeded reaching this paragraph, let me say it’s an honor to annoy you. Nothing personal. If you think you are exasperated more with this seemingly freshly defecated essay rather than the things it has to say (there’s a big difference, idiot!), continue reading and finish what you started. If you believe otherwise, then STOP READING! Before you begin thinking how nonsensical it all is and blurt out something unpleasant to your mother’s ears, let me do say it first: “Fuck you, motherfucker!”

If you’re still reading, I commend you. Your BP is lower than normal. Why don’t you try eating toasted pigskins and drink cooking oil for a change? But if you were not able to make it to this sentence, don’t be an asshole saying this is all baloney. I told you that this is an experiment, you imbecile!

This is for the kind of people who will vote for Jollibee should he run for president. Hurrah! Jollibee for President! From which branch among hundreds should he come from? Just imagine who would be in his executive cabinet. And I bet, a "person" named Ronald would be thinking of joining the opposition. This is for those who will give thesaurus for an answer when asked about their favorite dinosaur. This is also for those who feel important whenever they catch flashes of smiles from a celebrity or a politician during a showbiz event or a campaign. Let me tell you, you’re not just important – you are special. Have you ever thought of enrolling at Little Lambs Montessori? It’s a school for special children, you’d probably finish grade one with flying colors. Still reading? Good.

If you’re comprehending this as an item in a newspaper, begin marveling what happened to the world. If you’re reading this from a site in the internet through your computer, I pity you… Don’t you have a change to spare buying a newspaper? I don’t mean to brag but this thing has been published in three broadsheets read by “important” people. You don’t believe so? Ask your dog.

If you finished reading this, congratulations and thank you. You think you are important now? No. You are just a stupid jerk who thought that this is an experiment because the truth is: this is all gibberish. Now fuck off.

xdelax-circa09

pagsasanay sa sanaysay at agos ng kamalayan

at tayo'y nagsayaw sa saliw ng tugtugin ng kamunduhan... mercedes. hyundai. toyota. avida. cake mula sa mandarin oriental. kasabay sa elevator paakyat sa palapag ng opisina, ikaw rin ang kasabay ko nang ako'y muling manaog para punuin ang pagkauhaw sa usok na maglalakbay sa palibot ng baga, sa nikotinang makikihalo sa hemoglobin, sa tar na maglalason sa sistema ng katawan at magdudulot ng rebolusyon upang magkaroon ng kaisipang dalhin ka sa sikodelyong kalayaan--mag-iisip ka, mag-iimbento ka ng magandang salitang makabago tulad ng sushell-susyal na suso na may kyutiks ang shell, matingkad na palamuti para takpan ang imperpektong bahagi, isakay mo sa magarang sasakyan kung saan ko nakita ang babaeng laman ng aking makamundong pagnanasa... "punuin mo ang kakulangan sa aking kalamanan at dalhin mo ako sa sukdulan ng aking pangarap, palabasin mo ang semilya na puno ng kalungkutan at ibigay sa akin ang natural high ng kaibugan. patigilin mo ang pananakit ng aking tagiliran, palabasin mo ang hangin at likidong nagsanib para patigasin ang aking tadyang. lipulin mo, o, babae sa bmw, ang lahat ng pampatigas, palambutin mo ang laman sa pagitan ng aking mga hita, piraso ng lamang tumigas at tumayo patagilid, nakaturo sa kung saan humarurot ang iyong sasakyan, nakaturo sa iyong likuran at tila nagsasabing, 'sundan mo ang babae' 'patungo saan?'" o, kabanal-banalang, kataas-taasang, kagalang-galangang kaharian ng kamunduhan, ilapit mo ako sa pook na malayo sa kasalanan! dumating si bossing... panandaliang katahimikan. panaka-nakang talamitam. "pabango, nagbebenta ako. free taste." gusto mong tumigil sa pagsusulat at hindi lang basta sa pagsulat kundi sa gawaing ninanais ng buong pagkadiyos mong gawin. gamitin mong panulat ang iyong ari at tinta ang iyong ihi, kung gusto mong burahin ay maglabas ka ng semilya at patuyuin sa lamesa hanggang bumaho at maging kupal tulad ng amo mong nagbebenta ng pabango at ang kanyang presensya mismo ay nangangamoy, sumisirit sa kanyang mga glandula ng pawis ang baho ng kanyang pagkatao, amoy klorox kanina, amoy kesong humpy dumpy ngayon. kaninang nakasakay siya sa fx, napaigpaw pa ang tsuper nang maamoy ang kanyang pabango pero pagpasok niya sa opisina, sa opisinang kaninang wala pa siya ay masaya, para bang usok mula sa istik ng tar at nikotinang naglason sa kasiyahan, amoy na amoy namin ang pagpapanggap na nananalantay sa iyong mga ugat. marumi, mapagpanggap. hindi tulad ng babaeng sakay ng bmw kanina, siya ang babae ng aking panaginip, siya rin ang babaeng laman ng aking bangungot na kailanma'y hinding-hindi na magiging laman ng katotohanan pagka't wala na ang kanyang sasakyan, wala na rin ako sa daan, nakaupo na rito sa opisina, nakaupo, nagpapanggap habang pinakikinggan ang usapan ng mga amo at pinakikiramdaman kung minamasdan ng kanyang mga matang mapanghusga at mapagpanggap kung ano ang aking ginagawa o kung ako lang ba ay nagpapanggap na may ginagawa. tsek tsek. avp. ambesyl. amlodipine. hydrochlorothiazide. carnicor. enalapril. patigilin ang pagdaloy ng puso, patigilin ang aking pag-iisip, dalhin mo ako sa walang kamalayan kung saan naroon pa rin ang babae sa bmw kanina. may problema ang kompyuter ng kaopisina, sa laptop mo, wala kang ginagawa. pareho kayo ng amo mo, mas mataas lang ang kalidad ng kanyang laptop pero hindi ng kanyang kaisipan. paano ang kaisipan ko? kung maaari lang ipagpalit ang kaisipan para sa sandaling katahimikan, walang iniisip, wala ring nararamdaman kundi ang kawalan na parang paglutang sa kalawakan.

xdelax-circa09

the wraith of the "them"

here they come again, haunting me, making me uneasy, troubling me, preventing me to sleep. they are incessantly talking, despite my already closed eyes, they appear like ambiguous images of different beasts, some even managed to appear angelic. i can hear their tiny voices aloud, i can see their vague images unimpeded. and they won't just stop...

i am definitely sure that this is not an apparent prelude to delusions which could lead to a  mental pathology for i am still undoubtedly aware of the absolute and relative distinctions between what is real and what is not. yet, the voices are there - their images look like mine when i look in the mirror but as i squint, i subsequently see that the reflections never bear my own. they are haunting me like mummified Egyptian rulers, like kings of ancient thrones, like deities of neverwheres and like creatures of the middle-earth.

does this phenomenon underpin from the guilt of this tale i am about to write? or just, as induced by my fantasy, a mere manifestation of bearing the curse that goes with the gift of having a wild, wide, overly dynamic imagination? or could it be just my brain entertaining the overwhelming, mind-fucking thought of making the Vatican grounds shake when the faithfuls come to read this manuscript i am writing which also makes me pen this post with the hope that sharing this pathetic episode will eventually help me succumb to slumber? anyway, the Vatican thing is pretty far-fetched so i am going to stick to my second conclusion.

the fiend won't even yield. he has the loudest voice among them all. he gives me the shivers and at the same time, a lump in my throat. what thrills me the most is that he is someone you may find literally vicious and beastly, but in my tale, he has a soft-spot in the ragged corners of his heart for he is someone like me: a victim of something beyond reason can ever explain, beyond faith can endure and beyond fantasy can ever fathom.

in this another sleepless night, this dominating fiend is my friend. he talks to me and i listen to him. his narration becomes my tale thus this tale i write... and i start in ten, nine, eight... i don't want to wait. i will write until he finally allows me to fall asleep and there we will continue with our brainstorming.

i might consider some psychiatric aid but not until i'm done because this is the best time to type his words - raw, fresh and while he is sitting beside me in the flesh.

don't worry about me, when this is all over, i will sneak out and find my way back to sanity.

xdelax-5/08

poker poetry: the day my life turned into a game of poker

I have been sitting here as soon as I woke up, playing poker online (a past-time that seemingly developed into a habit and a habit drawn from boredom) on different tables, in different rooms, with different hosts, different jerks, different posers, and indifferent dealers. Now I’m still awake, alive but not so enthusiastic. I’m tired but I can’t shut my brain’s power-switch off. And I decide to play my last hand of the night.

I forgot, it's already dawning.

Is this insomnia leading me to amnesia? Definitely to anemia but hopefully not to schizophrenia – such paranoia I can’t endure.

Apparently, there is another episode of sleeplessness I have to deal with. Should the angry sound of the sharp globules of rain thwacking the roof like a madman be the one to blame? Or mainly owing to caffeine making love to my cell membranes after taking my sixty-seventh sip of black coffee since the precise moment Tuesday kissed Wednesday goodnight up to this scorching time of the sun’s tyranny? Or probably an addiction? To poker? Or to sleeplessness? Or is it another rendezvous with my imaginary friends I only meet on the back of my mind?

With cheap Chippy chips for breakfast paired with another cup of coffee… I even managed to make fun of the pun in the snack I devour and the chips I use for betting.

Slowly, indubitably, my life turns into a pathetic, lame game of poker. With the jack and the king of diamonds on my hand, I wait for my turn, dealing with archfiends disguised as ordinary human beings, hoping that the flop can eventually save me, wishing that the dealer possesses clairvoyance to read my card and bestow some clemency on my vanishing heap of chips.

Everybody calls deliberately except for the guy sitting next to me. He bets a grand. Can it possibly be that this idiot foe of mine is bluffing me? Should I call or raise the bet? How much? Should I fold? What if the flop shows a winning streak? Should I go all in? To turn my accusations of bluff a mock towards me?

Then there goes the flop… the deuce of hearts, the ace and the ten of diamonds.

I want to sleep neither because I need to nor I’m weary. I just want to go to bed and have a last-play syndrome in my imagination where I will be able to control the flop, the turn and the river. Where I will be able to manage my mind to alter my cards into a perfect hand of luck – a full house, with an ace high or a royal flush. But before I do, I want to make it big or lose it all. I think of the ‘now’ versus the ‘never.’ So I’m betting all in.

Then the turn: the stupid seven of spades draws in.

What lurks behind this mystery? A messy mill of misery? Another twist of fate that will test my faith? Like rhythms that never rhyme, I set my brain free plunging into a space between sanity and lunacy, wondering, wandering, searching for the river that will save me.

Stricken with anxiety over anticipation bearing the feeling that resembles dejection, I bet, I curse…

And I conquer.

The river saves me - a queen.

Or so I assume...

Playing poker online... I am a good pretender, a competent bluffer but such skill is manifested physically. How could I ever show it online without the other players seeing me and without me looking at them in the eyes? Because just now, I am busted despite having a decent straight to ace. The jerk bettor beside me has a flush. The queen of the river belongs to the kingdom of hearts and it pinches the organ in my body that resonates its last name.

There's a light of little luck but there's also a black hole of mercy. In the world of poker, sometimes, it's not all about strategy. Nevertheless, I don't think I've got any of those. Never in my life that I will play this game for real. Maybe for fun but I don't think that gambling is in my blood. Even my luck can attest to that. When that time comes, I'm gonna use Chippy chips as chips and make this past-time a tasty game in reality.

xdelax-5/08