tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-339920772024-02-28T10:24:20.129-08:00learning tricks with a knifesleights of hand and other dangerous devicesVICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-4976481699623001632014-01-13T03:46:00.004-08:002014-01-13T03:58:26.180-08:00terminal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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All it takes is a calculated step, just a few seconds before a whistle and the screech of steel on steel. The element of surprise, the brief moment of disbelief, will not be mine. I try to think of the blood, the ribbons of flesh and shards of bone, but all I could think of was liquid air as think as ink. I could feel concrete beneath my shoes, throbbing with the threat of pavement, roads that lead to home.<br />
<br />
One day, I thought, I promised, I will be brave. </div>
VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-47853911712979003262012-03-26T05:09:00.004-07:002013-08-30T00:58:25.263-07:00skirts and school girls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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He runs a finger across the spines of the books on the shelf without reading the titles, watching her out of the corner of an eye—the thick-rimmed glasses that flash momentarily as it caught the light, the sheer white blouse hugging her round breasts, the swish of a knee-length skirt that revealed glimpses of smooth skin.</div>
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<a name='more'></a>He picks up a book and flips through the pages absentmindedly. Later, when he gets home and runs through the things he bought, he would find this same book inside one of the shopping bags but would hardly be surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time he idly bought something in a bookstore because he was distracted by a schoolgirl.</div>
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He remembers the first time he went to this bookstore and discovered that students from a nearby all-girls high school went here to buy school supplies. He got such a big hard-on just being in close proximity to these young girls, their virginal youth, their pure innocence which he felt he needed to violate, as if it were both a coy invitation and a helpless plea: Teach me, but please be gentle.<br />
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Once, he went home with one of these girls. In that breathless moment after he was done with her, panting beside her fetal figure on the bed, the girl suddenly wanted to know what he did for a living. He told her the truth: that he was a clerk in a boring department of a boring insurance company. He had wanted to say something cool: “What do I do? Girls like you.”
Because there really is something with the way a school uniform changes a girl, he tells himself now, perhaps for the thousandth time — the way it offers the exciting prospect of anonymous intimacy, the worthlessness of names and faces, the possibility of pleasure without familiarity.
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He now imagines this girl standing almost right next to him. She’s lying in his bed, fully clothed, as his hand opens the buttons of her blouse one by one. His other hand slinks beneath her skirt. He thinks about the way he would slide her panties down her legs to her shoes, the way he would lift her skirt to her waist as he moves on top of her, pinning her down, relishing the touch of fine fabric against his own skin.
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He would leave the lights on but would not once feel a need to look at her face. In the last seconds before he comes inside her, he would feel her hands on his waist, trying to push him away, in vain. He would grip her small shoulders and close his eyes. He would then—
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The girl lines up at the counter with an armful of magazines. He abandons his daydreams to relish the last few minutes before she leaves the store. He would have to talk to her the next time she sees her again. For now he memorizes the cut of her blouse, the pleats and patterns of her plaid skirt, the length of her socks, the sensible black leather shoes. She waits patiently in her place at the queue, typing perhaps a text message on her mobile phone, oblivious of his stare.
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Tonight, when he gets home, he would lie in his bed and for the last few minutes before he dozes off to sleep, he would be dreaming about her.
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<i>(first published in print in issue 25 of the </i><a href="http://philippinecollegian.org/" target="_blank">Philippine Collegian</a><i> on 08 February 2012)</i></div>
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VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-65774952592225853602011-12-29T01:29:00.001-08:002013-08-29T22:37:52.973-07:002012<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ganito kabagal ang ilang segundo bago magunaw ang daigdig. </span></h4>
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Aalon ang alak sa basong hawak, at mauunawaan ko sa wakas na walang gaspang na nalalabi sa mga kamay na hindi sanay sa bubog. Dama ko ang pawis ng yelo sa malalalim na guhit ng palad na minsang pinamuhatan ng kapalaran.</div>
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<a name='more'></a>Aandap ang ilaw ng bumbilya, hanggang sa maging monopolyo ng buwan ang liwanag. Aahon ang kulog sa pagkahimbing, hindi nagmamadali gaya ng susunod na bagyo at iba pang delubyo.</div>
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Aabot sa mga daliri ang upos ng sigarilyo, bubulusok sa dilim. Ito ang pahintulot na maghanap ng ibang bisyong mas nakamamatay. Lalagumin ng nalalabi ang mga nakaligtaan.</div>
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Maaalala ko ang mga librong binalot ng alikabok sa ilalim ng kama. Sa pagitan ng mga pahina, mga papel na nilamukos at itinuwid muli. Kung sana--</div>
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Ganito kadagli ang katapusan.</h4>
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VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-6286881265253710592011-02-10T23:05:00.000-08:002013-08-30T00:03:19.422-07:00pebrero<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
may gabing humihigpit<br />
ang kapit kay lapit<br />
ng buwan lulan<br />
ang langit<br />
<br />
alinsangan<br />
sa lansangan<br />
masugid sa lubid<br />
tumatawid umaawit<br />
<br />
may along nabibilang sa dagat nalilikha nasusukat<br />
ng buntong-hininga kampay ng kamay sa apoy lumalangoy<br />
<br />
hapo<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
pagkatapos<br />
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<br /></div>
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VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-68368509085052211642011-01-19T00:43:00.000-08:002013-08-29T23:17:24.970-07:00Loved Me for the Books I Read<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You lay them neatly on the table, as if you were dealing a stack of cards, the titles face down, the blurbs like a code I was supposed to fathom. Fathom is a curious word, I thought, buying time, recalling depth and perhaps the calculated reach of an arm.<br />
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I didn't know you still have these books and you wanted to return them to me. Wilde and Hardy and Mann and something else I could not recall I owned once.
You reach for this volume and turn it over--revealing--Ishiguro.<br />
<br />
'Never Let Me Go,' you say, and in the second between your whisper and the turning of the book, I fooled myself that you meant it. But the words hang in the air like motes of dust, and I start gathering the books, shuffling them back, into a stack.</div>
VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-10541716482829930992010-12-08T11:25:00.000-08:002013-08-30T00:23:46.272-07:00The Quasi-Plagiarist: On Urban(e) Poems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><br /></b>
<b>The City is Alive</b><br />
by Miguel Paolo Celestial<br />
<i>translated from the <a href="http://buraburador.blogspot.com/2008/10/rurok-ng-lungsod.html">original Filipino</a></i><br />
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The power cords caught the kite by its tail,<br />
strangling its flight across the purple sky.<br />
A sparrow negotiates the trick of wires,<br />
From the door of my window, it tells a song.<br />
The sun battles against the rust on the roofs.<br />
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In the streets, flowers yellowed beneath busy feet,<br />
stained by the drip of gasoline. Rain began without notice,<br />
nor apology, as I stepped out the door, in the middle of April.<br />
I left my bedsheets creased with reveries,<br />
the memory of you amidst blankets I kicked under the bed.<br />
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The light played against leaves of tamarind,<br />
which clasp together slowly into prayers. I have things to tell you still,<br />
but the afternoon has already folded the words into the sky.<br />
The sun sets herself at the very last in the fairest of hues,<br />
ripe with the certainty that you have left without return.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>When It Rains and I'm Alone With You</b><br />
by Miguel Paolo Celestial<br />
<i>translated from the <a href="http://buraburador.blogspot.com/2010/05/tuwing-umuulan-at-kapiling-ka.html">original Filipino</a></i> <br />
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The storm slams itself against our words, until it drowns our voices,<br />
and the thunder steals a handful of heartbeats. I search the dark<br />
for your pulse. But shadows fail in the dark, and their touch, barren.<br />
<br />
The streets are empty with the busy tableau of traffic.<br />
Flowing sheets of rain light up the windows.<br />
Horns blare and founder. Mirrors hide beneath dust and grime.<br />
<br />
As I return to the room, there was nothing<br />
in the brief slice of lightning. The floods have left a sea of mud,<br />
thicker than the dreams that return with each calamity.</div>
VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-89427953346825684552010-11-21T23:57:00.000-08:002010-11-23T03:12:11.527-08:00keeping timeIN LESS THAN A MINUTE, he sets the time two hours early in all his watches and clocks. He knows that if it takes him more than a full minute, the pieces would not tell the same time. He likes the idea that even cheating needs skill, that it is not easy to trick anyone.<br />
<br />
When he is done with the last piece, an old grandfather that has been with him for years, he sits on a stool in a corner of the room, silent as a drum. Outside, above the shadow of dark houses, the ribbon of night sky is stained with clouds, studded with stars.<br />
<br />
He could already close if he wants to, but he lights a cigarette instead and studies his own face in the glass windows. His eyeglasses reflect the yellow light from the lamp posts outside, making him look sad and surreal: an android from the past.<br />
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The clink of the door chimes at last, a familiar perfume in the new air, and a woman greets him. He crushes his cigarette on an ashtray, stands up, and smiles. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>The woman laughs to keep herself from looking at his eyes. You know I’m always late because I always manage to get myself lost anywhere. She gently tugs at a loose strand of beads about her throat.<br />
<br />
No, you’re actually early. I was surprised. He feels her eyes moving towards the clocks on the walls. Their faces tell the same time: eight o’clock in the evening.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
He was someone who had been obsessed with the study of geography only because he liked maps. When he was younger, before he became a watchmaker, he would often draw labyrinths of entire cities—Paris, Madrid, Manila, Middle Earth, Babel, Atlantis the Lost.<br />
<br />
He would always show them to her, and she would trace routes on the map for hours. She found it a marvel that it is easy to get lost and find the right way again using the same paths, streets, rivers, bridges.<br />
<br />
Once, she stumbled into one of the halls in his map of Minas Tirith, the last city of the Kings of Men in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. The room was where the Lord Denethor hid the palantir, one of the ancient elven spheres that allowed the keeper to gather news from places far from the city.<br />
<br />
She had asked him why she was able to find it. She wanted to know why there were no doors, no mazelike entrances and exits to keep it secret.<br />
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It never occurred to her that the hall was indeed in the middle of an intricate maze. She did not realise that she had come to know his maps so well that she could already anticipate the right turns and detours, the dead-ends and missing stairwells of his mind.<br />
<br />
Nor did it occur to her that he had wanted, secretly, for her to find it.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
She holds the watch in her open palm, admiring the thin strap of silver, the onyx-and-pearl dial. She sighs as she strokes it with a finger. But this is too expensive really for something I might lose out of carelessness. You know how forgetful I am with things.<br />
<br />
Then let me give it to you as a gift, so you would have to take care of it. He carries the watch from her hand into a waiting box and closes it. It is a trick he always used on shoppers. And it always works: people desire beautiful things that they only see for a moment.<br />
<br />
I feel like I should give you something in return. It’s unfair because I haven’t even visited you for years and now you’re giving me this. You’re always nice to me. She opens her bag to get her purse, but he drops the box inside her bag.<br />
<br />
Just remember to come back and then we’ll settle your bill. There’s a deal.<br />
<br />
She hesitates then finally offers a smile of friendly defeat. Her cup of coffee rattles against its saucer as she brings it to her lips. What about you? You have plans?<br />
<br />
He thinks about the vague question and how he could answer it in two ways. You mean for tomorrow? Nothing really. You’d catch that plane and I’d stay here in my shop, just in case you left something. What time again did you say your flight is?<br />
<br />
Nine o’clock. I guess we still have some few minutes to kill. It’s eight thirty.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
He was not in his shop the day she had called him on the phone out of the blue, after years of only letters and postcards. He had been working on the large clock of the church a few streets away. It was old and nobody else wanted to fix it because it was too heavy to be unhinged from the wall. It had to be fixed where it was.<br />
<br />
He missed her call and he finally knew she was leaving only when she decided to visit him instead. She had said she would like to properly say good bye. And that she needed a new watch. There was no need for her tell him that she left her watch (again) at a public restroom when she washed her hands.<br />
<br />
What she did tell him was that she had quit her old job at the radio station and landed a job in an ink factory in Korea. She said she does not have someone to make her think twice.<br />
<br />
But there should be a reason why you’re leaving, he had told her then. They were in the steps of his closed shop, sharing a cigarette because she claimed she was trying to quit.<br />
<br />
There isn’t a reason why I should stay either, she had answered, and in that moment between her words and the cigarette smoke from her mouth, when her breath was held for an exquisite second, he wanted to hold her and draw a map of his answer on her lips.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
She lights a cigarette while they walk towards the bus stop. She is smoking again and she offers him a puff every now and then. For the first time, he notices she is wearing a dainty blouse and a long skirt. He likes a long skirt in a girl, the swish of it when it moves, the silhouette of the hips, the glimpse of only an ankle.<br />
<br />
Then caught in her beauty, in the wildness of his heart, he arrives at a decision. Years later, he would look back to this moment and admire the wedded bliss and grief of his brave choice.<br />
<br />
He turns now to her and tells her of a different route to the bus stop. In a few minutes, they would pass by the church with the same clock he had fixed the day she tried to call him up. “Hope is the boy, a blind, headlong, pleasant fellow, good to chase swallows with the salt. Faith is the grave yet smiling man.”<br />
<br />
He would see her split her glances between her new wristwatch and the open face of the big church clock. “Stevenson,” she would murmur, as if the name was a dream from another time, another place.VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-91174319209813652992010-09-23T19:55:00.000-07:002010-09-23T19:55:23.863-07:00dorian,we be-<div>came,</div><div>ultimately, prisoners of pleasure,</div><div>our desires nourished by the tick of clocks,</div><div>our habits defined by repetition:</div><div>acts of selfish and selfless abandon</div><div><br />
</div><div>we delighted our-</div><div>selves with many things:</div><div>the blind dark,</div><div>the risk of a library corner at midnight,</div><div>a bowl of cereal in the morning,</div><div>slivers of cold mango at noon,</div><div>going home to each other's strange and familiar skins at dusk</div><div><br />
</div><div>we be-</div><div>came content with our beauty, our youth</div><div>the envy of the old and regretful</div><div>the jealousy of the young but plain</div><div><br />
</div><div>we be-</div><div>came aware that we are wise beyond our years,</div><div>but at the moment, we can be</div><div>both happy and lonely,</div><div>alone and together.</div><div><br />
</div><div>we fell</div><div>in love.</div>VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-7816475797685838932010-09-11T01:27:00.000-07:002010-09-12T19:26:25.532-07:00memory, persistenceIt is a hot day, the afternoon heat like a solid presence in the air that choked the senses, that pressed itself against the cold metal of the car. He is driving back to his office from a meeting somewhere else, his thoughts still fresh with new tasks and newer ideas. He is alone, save for a lonely voice singing on the radio.<br />
<br />
So he is surprised when he sees her suddenly among the people on the sidewalks waiting for the bus. He could not be mistaken. The strange black hair that rippled almost violet in the sun, the frail white hand shielding her almond eyes from the angry glare of the noontime sky. Later, he would try in vain to remember if she was real. Or if she were only a vision, how a small part of his past could insist so suddenly on a present ripe with the future.<br />
<br />
He stops the car and gets out to look for her among the crowd of pedestrians and hawkers and beggars. Is she wearing a yellow dress? He thinks he saw briefly a polished skin of a shoulder that her wayward hair tried to conceal in vain. He swims through the sea of people, in the direction of this glimpse of her, which disappears as soon as he takes a step forward. Shall he call out her name? Would she stop in her tracks and turn her head towards his voice. She would not.<br />
<br />
He feels foolish suddenly at his assumption that she would want to see him again, that she would recognize him after all these years. Yet he could not stop from searching among faces for that singular blank look that hid a systematic history of emotions. He is someone who can pursue something, or someone, merely for the sake of knowing, even if there is really nothing, only a mistake or an empty promise.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>He reaches the spot where he thinks he glimpsed her first. She is nowhere. In her place was a younger woman in a yellow dress, hugging a bundle of books. Her hair, loose on her naked shoulders, was a dyed brown. He hesitates for a while, then asks her, embarrassed at his own awkward shyness. Did you notice another woman wearing the same yellow dress standing around here earlier?<br />
<br />
I'm sorry? An amused smile, waiting for the catch.<br />
<br />
Another woman, older, about your height. Standing here, around this spot.<br />
<br />
She frees her right arm from the weight of her books and combs her hair with her fingers. No, I don't think so. What does she look like?<br />
<br />
And then he could not translate his memory of her into speech, his lack of words making this other girl laugh.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
<br />
When the police came the night he discovered her slippers neatly placed beside the pond, he realized he might never see her again. Everything was an intricate game that led to this night. A feint that ended in a checkmate.<br />
<br />
He answers the terse questions by the officer, the inquiry laced with condescension. Once, an anonymous voice on the emergency hotline had roused the same policemen about a corpse found in the attic of an abandoned house. The police rushed in to the scene to find nothing.<br />
<br />
Now he had summoned the same policemen about a possible suicide. When he explained the slippers to them, he found himself considering the absurdity of his evidence. The only way to prove his suspicions is perhaps to dredge the water out of the pond to discover the body. Or that someone dive into the water to rescue it. No one of course wanted to the possibility of being fooled.<br />
<br />
His parents would later apologize to them, hinting that they're responsible for everything, that they should not have allowed their young son to become too close to the woman who rented the house. Among his friends, he would be congratulated for his daring. The certainty of other people that everything was a joke confused him and would later make him wary of things until he had found proofs.<br />
<br />
He began to forget the chronology of events that night. He only remembers a few things. Letting himself in the house through a gap in the hedges that separated his parents' lawn from the woman's unruly garden. Finding the pair of slippers at the lip of the pond. As if she were merely to take a dip to cool herself against the warm summer night. The blue and red of the police lights that lashed at everything, the ghostly trees, the walls of the house, the faces of neighbors and strangers. <br />
<br />
Someone had called the owner of the house, who arrived promptly in a few minutes, irritated that he had to be awoken at an ungodly hour. He quickly dispelled the crowd and the police. She called me and left this morning with all her things, he said. Search the house. You will find nothing else she owns. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
<br />
They are in a small cafe beside the highway, watching tumblers of iced coffee on the table. It is her idea, which he agreed to as a way of ending his futile search. He is now detained in the presence of a less enigmatic and younger woman. It lacks the comfort he expects now that they are facing each other. But it is better than going back to his car alone.<br />
<br />
She piles her books on the table and tells him she is a graduate student at the state unversity. Biochemistry. She also works temporarily for a pharmaceuticals company. Antibiotics. What about you?<br />
<br />
I should be back at the office right now.<br />
<br />
I see, she says, her knowing smile returning to make shadows on her face. And then you thought you saw someone, but you were obviously wrong. You said you left your car somewhere? It might get towed.<br />
<br />
I can't stay long. I have to get back. But he makes no gesture of leaving, decides to punish himself for his unending foolishness. Women, he believes, prey on his confusion. He wanted to miss work for the rest of the day to teach himself a lesson. He watches the girl sip her espresso, leaving a red stain on the drinking straw.<br />
<br />
You haven't told me exactly what you do for a living. Although I have a few guesses. She waves a hand at his careful clothes. He had dressed impeccably for the meeting.<br />
<br />
I sell houses. Condominium units. Apartments. Nothing interesting.<br />
<br />
Why should people buy them then? She was obviously flirting with him, picking at his words to challenge him to talk more. She waits for his answer, lights up a cigarette without asking if he minds, places her green disposable lighter formally at the top of her books. A small lizard that breathes flames at her bidding.<br />
<br />
Because people need homes, spaces, places they can be busy in. I can close a deal with you right now if you have the money.<br />
<br />
I don't have the money. But I'm curious to find out if you're right.<br />
<br />
He does not wonder why the girl has stopped asking about the woman he had been looking for. The coincidence of the yellow dress made the idea impossible.<br />
<br />
When she finally leaves, saying her cat would be waiting for her at home, she asked for his card. Just in case I need a space to busy in.<br />
<br />
In the first moments of her absence, he let the waiter take away his drink. He stares blankly at the green lighter the girl had left. Purposefully. And then in the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of yellow. For a while he thinks the girl has returned to retrieve her lighter and mumble an excuse about her forgetfulness. But this time, he sees Leah instead of the young girl. As though the two could not exist in the same plane of time and space. Or as though, until now, Leah is still busy with her schemes.<br />
<br />
He feels his heart racing towards the possible words he could call out to her.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
<br />
Leah must have been twenty-five, twenty-six when they first met. She arrived quietly at the house she will be renting with only a single suitcase and a purse. From his bedroom window, he saw her get out of the nondescript cab and roll her suitcase towards the gate. She fumbled with the unfamiliar set of keys for a while and in the brief moment before she disappeared within the house, he had decided she was beautiful.<br />
<br />
Though there was nothing extraordinary with her. Perhaps only her hair that seemed to trap midnight between the tresses even in broad daylight. She possessed a sensuality that she began to look for in women. He was twenty one and in that tentative stage between the end of university and the start of a lifetime career.<br />
<br />
A couple of days later, he found out her name. 'Leah.' Biblical. The sound of a whisper within a well. Or was that supposed to be 'Rachel'? <br />
<br />
Leah wanted to hire a laborer to work on a small pond at the back of her house. He was familiar with it from memory—when the house was occupied by a Chinese couple who often threw parties. The pond was only a little longer than the span of outstretched arms. It has the look of a forgotten fancy. Or an abandoned hobby.<br />
<br />
Before someone else turned up, who was more skilled at the task at hand, he had signed up for the job. He was pleasantly surprised when she agreed and asked him to start on the same day.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you what I want, she said, and he immediately liked her voice, the drawl and the confidence that cancelled the lazy huskiness. She showed him a contraption she had rented from somewhere, a machine that would dredge up the water from the pond through blue hoses as thick as big snakes. She wanted the pond to be dug deeper and wider.<br />
<br />
You want a pool, he had guessed then. She merely repeated that she wants the pool to be dug deeper and wider. In the days that came after, she ordered no pool tiles or anything that might be needed to construct a pool. <br />
<br />
He worked under the sun, shirtless, aware of his youth. The cords of muscles in his arms as he entered the earth with his shovel. He felt her eyes on him all the time, while she stayed in the shade of the porch sewing on something like a dress. He invented reasons to approach her now and then so she could feel the nearness of his nakedness. <br />
<br />
Are you sure you want it to be this deep? It wouldn't hold much oxygen at the bottom for the fish.<br />
<br />
Then they can stay on the surface. Are you thirsty? Let me get you a glass of water.<br />
<br />
Their conversations would follow this pattern and they would always end with a glass of water she would get from her kitchen. It would take him time before he would one day boldly follow her to the kitchen. She would be filling a glass with cold water from a pitcher. He would kiss her nape, at the whorl of soft hair below her carefully pinned-up hair. She would face him, still holding the glass and pitcher, would reach his face to lick the sweat off the side of his face. <br />
<br />
In her bed, he would try to ask her questions, but she would guide him only towards her lips, her neck, her breasts, or between her legs. They would fall asleep together the whole afternoon.<br />
<br />
It would be dusk and she would still be asleep when he would wake up and leave. On his way out, he would notice the dress she had been mending everyday at the porch. He would pick it up from where it was lying on a chair. He would be surprised at the weight. He would discover pebbles sewed shut in the inside of the dress.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
<br />
She recognizes him at once but she walks towards him without hurrying. Like a ghost. He waits patiently for her. Can I share your table?<br />
<br />
Of course, I've been waiting. You forgot to give me my last envelope the day you committed suicide. He tries on a smile and then laughs instead.<br />
<br />
She seats herself across him and finishes his failed smile for him. I'm sorry. I had a lot of things in my mind at the time. It was my mistake, she says. She does not clarify which mistake.<br />
<br />
Quite a day, he replies, and does not clarify which day.<br />
<br />
You have to admit it would make a good story, she says as she brings out a fan and airs herself slowly, her hair gathering volume as her locks move behind her shoulders. He watches this woman silently, this woman he had met six years ago. There is still sensuousness in the lips that he remembers. She barely looks older. Why was he lost for words when he needed to describe her? Water slipping through his fingers. He wants to hold her, keep her cupped in his hands. He wants to reach her free hand resting on the table beside the green lighter.<br />
<br />
Are you thirsty? She asks him and she laughs, her eyes sparkling with tears in the afternoon light.<br />
<br />
Yes, just a glass of water please.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div>VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-63855263643936626062010-07-04T00:22:00.000-07:002010-07-05T18:14:53.795-07:00The Quasi-Plagiarist: On Words, the Creation<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Beauty is bound always with the act of hostility—the world in one sweep of His word, poetry in the utter defeat of language, the birth of a masterpiece in the triumph of color against canvas. From a window in his cloistered room, he could see the sky, scarred by all eyes who watch over its malady. The world is a sea—as blue as the city that never sleeps, as blue as the hills slumbering nearby. These scenes are weary to him—save the restless sky, spouse of the angry ocean, who travels<br /><br />on its head the depths of the night. You once sat beside me and it calmed the angry waves of my heart, conquered by your open offer of peace. Almost was I shattered by your brief gestures: the way you silently waited for your bus, the longing in your eyes for a chance to have somewhere to finally go home to. My mind was blank, except these thoughts—<br /><br /><i>I would like to go home with you. I would like nearness without the element of astonishment, because the doors to my happiness are shut and words fail me in your presence. I would like to sleep in the folds of your eyes, wake up as a speck of dust nestled in your shoulder, or in your barren hand—</i><br /><br />that I would struggle to tame. I wanted—to speak—the poetry of your silence—your unblemished quiet—your innocence, your own of colony of beauty that does not need, that does not want anything else.<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Man is created to tame all creation: the monsters of the ocean, the winged of the sky, and all beasts that walk the earth. He colonized everything with his words, his empire founded on the system of names: <i>you are fish, you are eagles.</i><br /><br />To forget Gauguin by tearing an ear is sheer madness. But then how do you draw a line between the mundane and the meaningful? How do you tear a part of you from the persistence of memory and history?<br /><br />I remembered you again on my way home. <i>You are the core of the earth, the blood that runs through the veins of everything: from the roots of the cities, the steel towers nearby, the rich fibers that are woven into the night, the lavishness of my own longing.</i><br /><br />Amidst chaos, like these lines, we both desire order, meaning. We are tasked to grant purpose to the young malevolence of the earth. We are tamed so we could in turn tame its wildness, and ultimately, its elusive beauty. There are some of us who attempt this through a poem, a painting. And how unforgiving the penalty, how melancholy the punishment, should we fail in this duty, this work of art, this need.<br /><br />There are moments—when I want to roam the sky—an eagle—alive—in the first cries of its morning.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(This is </span><span style="font-style: italic;">translated from <a href="http://thebashfulone.blogspot.com/2010/03/ilahas.html">the original Filipino by Manech</a>. This is also the first </span><span style="font-style: italic;">part of a series of blog post translations by this author. <a href="http://belowthedottedline.blogspot.com/2010/07/quasi-plagiarist-introduction.html">Read the introduction to this project here.</a>) </span>VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-66970549566652468572010-04-11T02:43:00.000-07:002010-04-11T02:43:17.864-07:00time to tarryfell is the swoop of my word against yours<br />
autumn, caught 'em<br />
how the rhyme finaled the end<br />
with a swathe of reds, oranges,<br />
tongues of cold wind on our napes,<br />
the music of dead leaves beneath our young feetVICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-49052857949814671162010-03-18T18:15:00.000-07:002010-03-18T18:16:12.125-07:00recessionalUnless someone else puts the guitar back<br />Into its case and then carries it home,<br />After the final song that celebrates<br />True love, and the crowd chases the young couple<br />Walking away, drawing behind a bridesmaid<br />Who catches the restless eye of the cleaner,<br />Who drops his cleaning and rushes outside<br />To get a glimpse of her as, with a wave<br />Of the hand, she descends into the car<br />As into the sea, and he who is carrying<br />The guitar picks up a limp, little rose<br />From the chaos abandoned by the cleaner,<br />Since it too might want to be somewhere else,<br />The last to go from the church is the cleaner.<br /><br />-- Simeon Dumdum JrVICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-64843398234967795922010-03-06T23:01:00.000-08:002010-03-18T03:28:28.090-07:00hitchhiking gamesDUST SWIRLS AT HER FEET like small hurricanes the colour of honey, the same hue as the sky above the trees on both sides of the road. Behind her looms the huge green of the mountain from which she flees. In a few minutes, the summer night would swallow everything whole. She has been walking since morning.<br /><br />The sound of a car comes behind her, tires crunching small stray rocks on the pavement. A few steps away, in a clump of creaking bamboo, the noises of crickets keep time.<br /><br />She stops on her shoulder of the road, waiting, her heart beating inside her chest. She could already smell the car’s air freshener. Pine. When the car finally stops to let her in, she does not look at the man behind the wheel. She slumps on the passenger seat, sullen and afraid.<br /><br />The driver studies her, the windswept hair, the white frilled blouse, the ragged jeans that hugged her hips. She smells of mingled perfume and sweat.<br /><br />“I'm lucky today. I've been driving for years, but I've never given a ride to such a pretty hitchhiker.” <a name='more'></a><br /><br />She remains silent for a while, and then finds the right words to say next. "You're very good at lying."<br /><br />"Do I look like a liar?"<br /><br />"You look like you enjoy lying to women."<br /><br />"Does it bother you?"<br /><br />"If I were your girlfriend, then it would bother me."<br /><br />"Things about her own man always bother a woman more than things about a stranger." He struggles to keep his eyes on the road, fights back the urge to look at her face. "So seeing that we are strangers, we could get along well together."<br /><br />"What does it matter, since we'll part company in a little while?"<br /><br />“Why?” he asks.<br /><br />“I’m only hitching as far as the next city.” She savours the words in her mouth, the way she moulds the right words to fit her purpose.<br /><br />“And what are you going to do there?”<br /><br />“I have a date there—my boyfriend.”<br /><br />“It’s a bit strange that you’re going to a date without a car. For a while there, I thought you were bent on walking all the way to wherever your cruel boyfriend will meet you.” He waits for her, curious to find out how she will take this. When she remains silent, he continues. “What will happen if you don’t turn up for that date?”<br /><br />He smoothly turns the car left into a gravel path that skids away from the main road. He stops in front of a rickety box of a house made of bamboo, plywood, a thatch roof. An eatery.<br /><br />“It would be your fault, and you would have to take care of me.”<br /><br />“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you,” he says, killing the engine without explaining. He gets out of the car and walks toward the house. Then she, too, gets out of the car to follow him, the nearby scent of homemade meals reminding her that she is hungry.<br /><br />The moon hung in the dark sky above, young and smooth, the stars missing.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><br /></div><br />In the days before she became a mild celebrity, she had been someone whose name you can hardly recall, and only as a murmur, an assembly of letters that you used to call a long-lost friend. As a child, visiting relatives always forgot her name and had to ask her parents.<br /><br />She knew secrets and stories because nobody noticed her, while she noticed and remembered everything. Once, when she was in high school, she was responsible for the sudden disappearance of two young teachers.<br /><br />She had come from the library one late afternoon and was walking along the hallway when she spied two figures in a quiet corner of the building. The gym instructor and the music teacher hurriedly broke away from each other, only when one of her books fell to the floor. The next morning, fearing to be found out and disgraced by possible rumours, they had left the town without a word.<br /><br />In her sleep, she often dreamed she was a ghost. She would look at mirrors and would wonder why she could see her reflection. She was never wooed by anyone nor felt anything for anyone yet. She had very few friends.<br /><br />She went to college to study literature, and her trouble began when, in a creative writing class, she had written a slim romance novel. She would never again talk to the professor who swayed her into having the book published. She had been desperate with her tuition fees at the time, and the old man told her the book’s royalties would help tide her over her remaining years in school.<br /><br />The money came, and so did crowds of strangers who knew her all of a sudden, who mentioned her name and her book in discussions of contemporary literature. She received letters. She went to see a play and someone would recognize her. There were job offers from universities. Men began to take an interest in her. Swiftly, she no longer lived inside a delicate conch shell. She was suddenly outside, the fierce sea winds howling at her ears.<br /><br />She began longing for the days of her namelessness, the grey years of being a shadow that belonged to no one, not even to herself. By the time she had met him, she already felt blinded by the harsh, garish lights her celebrity had thrown against her. She saw in him a chance to return to her anonymity by burrowing beneath his dull, dreary habits, his astonishing confidence within which she could fade or blur.<br /><br />They had met in the late evening train. They ended up sipping coffee together in a 24-hour fast-food joint.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><br /></div><br />The eatery was empty except a man who has just finished his meal. He smokes a cigarette while he watches them disinterestedly. Just another couple from the city, he must have thought.<br /><br />“What do you do for a living?” she asks him, over their fried fish, stewed vegetables, and bowls of steaming beef broth, trying to ignore the man at the other table.<br /><br />“I’m a doctor. I meet a lot of strangers, like you.” The steam from his bowl of broth fogging his eyeglasses. He removes them, wipes the lenses with a corner of his shirt. Young wrinkles at the corners of his deep bespectacled eyes as he squints at her.<br /><br />“It’s better to be with strangers, you agree?” She is surprised at her boldness but realizes how much she means her words, how they gain power when spoken out loud.<br /><br />“My girlfriend would agree with you,” he says, placing his eyeglasses back.<br /><br />“And would you?”<br /><br />She felt him weigh words, ponder possible answers. “I used to work in a far-flung coastal province in the south where I was the only doctor for many miles. I did not know anyone and the village people did not at first trust me. They started to let me treat them, only after I began going out to the sea with the fishermen.”<br /><br />She does not reply to this, feels herself avoiding his eyes. She notices the man from the other table leaving. The old woman who runs the eatery comes out of the kitchen and starts cleaning, pushing the chairs beneath tables, gathering leftovers from the plates.<br /><br />“We should ask if we could rent a room here for tonight. I never liked driving in the dark,” he tells her when she still does not say anything.<br /><br />She plays with the melting ice in her glass of water, clunking the chunks against each other.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><br /></div><br />The first few months after they had met, he hardly understood her. They had gone out on dates and, always, she avoided conversations that led to stories about her.<br /><br />He understood her reservations better after he had read her book, but he was hardly surprised. The slim volume, <i>Hitchhiking Games</i>, was only less than three hundred pages. The kind of book whose title on the spine you cannot read if you stood too far from the shelves. It was a surprise how it charmed thousands of readers in a place where usually, only the university-bred middle-class read.<br /><br />Although it was a romance novel, it was not even a book with a mainstream idea. At best, it was a well-written spin-off of Milan Kundera’s short story <i>The Hitchhiking Game.</i> In Kundera’s original version, a girl pretends to hitch a ride in her boyfriend’s car. The game allows both of them to step out of their intimacy and pretend that they are strangers to each other. The unspoken deal allows them a chance at crude honesty, to show each other hidden parts of their selves. The game and the story end, disastrously, in mutual disgust.<br /><br />In her novel, the story ends differently. The couple end up unable to stop the game, because it allowed them a chance to reclaim privacies that their relationship had violated. They find out that, as strangers, they loved each other more—not necessarily because they could finally be honest with each other, but because there are things that became unnecessary to talk about.<br /><br />He noticed her effort to thoroughly believe in her book, claimed her version of the ending as her own explanation of why she preferred to maintain a distance, to remain a stranger even to him.<br /><br />He learned to expect nothing from her. He would introduce her to his family and friends, and she would neither remember their names nor would she expect to be remembered. Once, a friend of his asked her if she was the novelist, and she had answered no. Later, she told him it was not exactly a lie. “I just happened to write one small book. It hardly makes me a novelist,” she reasoned.<br /><br />He knew that she stayed with him not only because he allowed her freedom and solitude, but also because of an unspoken affection that she did not know how to express. He could sense that she was someone who grew up alone, and when, suddenly, everybody seemed to know her intimately, she retreated further behind the shadows of her privacy.<br /><br />When he had convinced her that a weekend vacation would be best for her (and for the both them), it was almost exactly two years since they had first met. She finally said yes after a week, and it made him trust his belief that she was beginning to let go of her inhibitions.<br /><br />They rented a house atop the mountains in a seaside town. It reminded him of his days as a village doctor fresh from medical school. For a while, even she looked happy and without a worry. They spent the whole day lounging in chairs that they brought out in the garden shade, staring at the fierce blue of the sea.<br /><br />But they both had not thought about what the evening might hold for a young couple like them, the dangers of an intimate bed. After dinner, she became quiet and morose. They went to sleep with their backs to each other, a sea of ruffled blankets between them.<br /><br />In the morning when he woke up, he found her gone.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><br /></div><br />The room they were given for the night is almost dark and naked apart from the bed, a pair of dusty wooden chairs, a mirror hanging beside a wide window with moonlit curtains. The scent of kerosene from a flickering lamp on a low table. There is no light bulb they could switch on.<br /><br />She sits on the edge of the bed, gazing blankly at herself in the mirror. Outside the window, the bustle of wind among the trees, the creaking of bamboo.<br /><br />Behind her, he begins to undress. There is patience in his smooth movements. As he places his glasses on the table beside the lamp, as he removes his shoes, as he peels off his socks, as he unbuttons his shirt, as he unbuckles his belt with a soft click of metal. Denim rustling down his legs. She watches him silently, their eyes meeting each other wordlessly.<br /><br />She turns away from the mirror and looks at him directly behind her. She studies him as he sits on one of the dusty chairs—the flickering candlelight playing shadows on his face, the shallow hollows in his shoulders that cupped beads of sweat, his chest gleaming with skin.<br /><br />Fully clothed, she felt a desire to feel such bareness across her own skin, to discover her own body through his. Suddenly, she understands that she is wrong to have feared familiarity. For intimacy, after all, does not always mean surrender, the mere taking off of clothes for someone else, the plain loss of loneliness. It also means the new idea of understanding her own self better through him, the idea of her hand on his hot nape, or her hair sweeping across his chest.<br /><br />He calls her by her name for the first time since they began their hitchhiking game. For the first time since she met him on a night train two years ago, she responds to her name with something like a smile. ■VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-89760333521446834632009-12-31T19:26:00.000-08:002010-02-24T22:45:08.085-08:00thicker than waterI KNEW OF COURSE that it was a mistake to attend my sister's funeral, but when you have done so many mistakes already, does another one on top of the pile make any difference? Besides, the dreaded truth was doomed to be unraveled sooner or later. If it was any consolation for everyone involved, it happened on a day that was already expected to end in disaster. In a way, funerals are meant to be like that—the sheer awkwardness after the last shovel of earth sealed the dead, the ominous goodbyes among the bereaved as they return to their own empty homes.<br /><br />Ann, my sister, had thought of everything. The coffin, in all its environmentalist glory, was the last of her cruel jokes. Pre-ordered one month after she gave birth to the baby and two weeks before she willfully drove her car off a cliff and into a ravine, it was made entirely of wood and devoid of even iron nails. It was her way of saying to me—her only brother—that she was determined to rot under the ground and disappear entirely, now that her revenge was beautifully done.<a name='more'></a><br /><br />The whole family was present. Mother insisted on coming, despite my protests that she should spare herself from the stress. She has after all survived my Father’s death ten years ago. But she insisted that her little girl gets to be buried only once in her life. She would of course later regret her decision to come because of what was to be finally revealed to her.<br /><br />There were also our cousins, aunts, uncles, and distant unknown relatives who were there only because of the intrigue stirred by Ann’s tragic demise. They all bawled theatrically at my sister’s first inch of descent into the hole in the ground, but Paul and I did not shed a single tear.<br /><br />Paul remained silent throughout the ceremony because he was truly the victim in all of it, and only the truly wronged are capable of quiet sadness. As for me, I was (and still am), plain and simple, guilty.<br /><br />All throughout the tedious ceremony, Paul protectively held the baby in his arms. When everything was done, he reluctantly gave me the baby and drove us home. To the outsider eye, the three of us made the ideal, strange, dysfunctional family, bound by grief and guilt.<br /><br />I am writing all this down to explain to myself why.<br /><br /><div align=center>≈≈≈</div><br /><br />I remember the day I met Paul for the first time. It was a dull, ordinary day; as if we were characters in some novel or movie, and that this was supposed to be the day we would look back to and realize that it had changed our lives.<br /><br />It was just after the last day of high school for me and several things preoccupied me endlessly that summer: the prospect of going to the state university, my plans to grow a beard and some muscles, the new porn rag under my bed, and Father’s hint of a “graduation gift.”<br /><br />Meanwhile, Ann was going to be a senior in the following enrolment and she was beginning to show signs of becoming the strange, cunning woman that she eventually became. She also was starting to feel jealous whenever I went out with my friends, because I “no longer could find time for her.” Once, she had expressly forbidden me to go on dates.<br /><br />Then came that hot summer morning when she said she wanted to go for a dip. “I will die of this infernal heat, if you don’t go on a swim with me,” she threatened. She lay splayed on my bed, still in her pajamas, while I was sitting by the window, reading Dean Koontz.<br /><br />“Tell me how we can possibly do that,” I retorted, without looking up from the book, thinking that it was just one of her many momentary whims that I could fend off or ignore.<br /><br />“We can go to Paul’s.”<br /><br />“We don’t know any Paul. If we do, does he own a beach resort, by any chance?” I was getting impatient because I had been absorbed with my reading, until her boredom told her to invent this impromptu excursion.<br /><br />“No, but his dad could buy one if he likes. That’s how filthy rich they are. You know Paul. You must do: tall, pale boy with braces, chauffeured everyday to the school by a big car. He also graduated this year, so you should really know him.”<br /><br />“What has he got to do with us?” I asked, finally remembering the quiet boy who was fawned over by the whole school faculty including the school head. (Years later, I would remember this stupid question because Paul would eventually have “everything to do with us.”)<br /><br />“They have a pool. And Paul and I are new friends. He was inviting me to drop by at their house sometime this week anyway. Get up, get your clothes, we’re giving him a surprise,” she rattled incessantly, as she jumped from my bed and went out of my room to harass Mother so she could let us go. Accepting defeat, I got up, packed a small bag of clothes and towels, and gave Paul a surprise.<br /><br />I should never have allowed Ann this one symptom of her insanity, but I guess it is useless now to regret choices in the past, because the things that happened at Paul’s house had happened, and the consequences are now beyond repair. Childish games and illicit love—they’re a lethal mix.<br /><br /><div align=center>≈≈≈</div><br /><br />Writing all this down tires me—the attempt to reconcile causes and effects and the effort to play down everything by telling everything with humor and nonchalance. I have always kept my sanity through understatements. But sometimes, something like melancholy seeps through the barrier and soon, I am flooded.<br /><br />At Ann’s funeral, I wore ordinary clothes, while everyone else wore appropriate black and white, including Paul. I avoided profuse condolences and while the priest muttered his interminable verses, I went on small breaks to smoke a few respectful meters away from the small crowd. It was during one of these cigarette breaks, when Paul approached me.<br /><br />“Adam, can’t you be at least decent just this one time? Just this one time, for a change,” he confronted me angrily. In his arms, the baby slept soundly.<br /><br />“I’m smoking—bad for the baby,” I told him, while I lighted another stick. I looked away from him and noticed that the churchly ministrations to my sister’s mangled remains were done. Mother was approaching us, hobbling toward us with her trusty walking stick. She shouted weakly to us to come back inside the makeshift tent, her hand shielding her eyes from the vicious morning sun.<br /><br />“Let’s go, Adam. Please,” Paul pleaded.<br /><br />“Fine. Okay. Let me hold him for a while so you could rest.” I offered my arms so he could shift the baby to me, but he stepped back instinctively.<br /><br />“No, he’s fine with me,” he said, without looking at me.<br /><br />We were just in that awkward situation when Mother caught up with us: me offering my arms, Paul stepping back out of resentful mistrust. Embarrassed, I also looked away and continued smoking.<br /><br />“We were already serving some refreshments,” Mother said, meaning the burial was done. When neither of us said anything, the old woman looked at the baby and tickled its chin. Then with all her ancient wisdom and maternal intuition, she said: “Look at him. The little one looks just like Ann. He even looks more like you, Adam, now that I think about it.”<br /><br />Paul blushed in utter humiliation, but fixed his gaze on a far away tree. “Yes, he looks just like Ann and Adam,” he said, faking a little innocent laugh to forestall the unexpected turn of the conversation.<br /><br />But the bitterness in his voice did not escape Mother, whose long years had given her the gift of reading into words and gestures, gleaning the truth from lies and pretenses. Then she caught my eye and I could not lie to her. “Yes, he looks just like me and Ann,” I said.<br /><br />That sunny morning, with her beautiful daughter just buried, and in the company of her wayward son and quiet son-in-law, she broke into mournful tears, finally realizing the truth. She wept inconsolably, her weak frame wracked by her sobs.<br /><br />Paul and I made no move to soothe her, or explain, or assure her that everything will be fine. We watched her crying alone under the sun while the both of us waged our own inside, private battles.<br /><br /><div align=center>≈≈≈</div><br /><br />I could have sworn that the day of the funeral was just like the day we went to Paul’s house for the first time. I would not even put it past my sister to have planned the funeral on the same month. She was smart, though not wise, beyond her years, and her plans never go awry.<br /><br />When we finally arrived at Paul’s, I did not hide my astonishment at how big the “house” was, but Ann seemed to expect everything. We were taken care of by one of the uniformed maids and were told to wait in what appeared to be the living room. Paul greeted us with what I would later call his trademark shyness; though at that instant, his shyness was only due to the fact that his family’s undisguised wealth embarrassed him and not yet due to his attraction to me.<br /><br />For Paul was drawn to me, from the very beginning. Ann knew this and she used the situation for her own purposes. In a way, Paul also took advantage of Ann’s schemes, because he was the only son of a rich couple, and his parents naturally expected grandchildren, upon which they could foist their money. But in the end, though, Paul only became involved in all the mess, because he decided that day that I am cute.<br /><br />All throughout that day, when we finally attacked the pool, I would often catch Paul’s stolen stares at my skimpy trunks, and Ann, noticing, would smile in her own mischievous way. Over lunch (for Paul insisted that we spend the whole day with him), Ann announced to me suddenly that Paul was actually her new boyfriend. “He has been hitting on me for a very long time now and we were just looking for the prefect time to tell you, Adam,” she lied, taking Paul’s nervous hand and stroking it for show.<br /><br />Panic was obviously on Paul’s face, but he did not say anything, preferring to wait for my reaction. Ann was also eagerly waiting for me to say something, and in her eyes, I realized that she wanted me to disapprove. She was challenging me with her little game, and she wanted me to be angry. I should have given her what she wanted, but I didn’t.<br /><br />“I knew there’s something with all this. All this trouble of introducing me to your nice friend here,” I lied, smiling.<br /><br />“Well, at least now you know,” she said neutrally and kissed Paul’s blushing cheeks.<br /><br />Again I should have never let Ann have her way that day when Paul became her new “boyfriend.” Years later, I also should never have let Ann continue with her childish game and marry Paul eventually. I should never have let her marry anybody.<br /><br /><div align=center>≈≈≈</div><br /><br />Always I would look at the baby as the ultimate and unfortunate result of everything. Ann had named him Andrew for no particular reason other than the name starts with the same letter as both of ours do. I love Andrew more than anything in the world but I would also hate him as he grows up, quite unfair but he would forever be Ann’s reminder of my weakness and cowardice.<br /><br />For better or worse, Ann has left me and Paul in joint custody of Andrew. It was her ultimate revenge that Paul and I would both care for the poor baby who would later grow to be a permanently sickly child.<br /><br />I remember the day before Ann and Paul’s wedding. She stormed in my dingy apartment crying and begging me to tell her to back out from the marriage. She was already pregnant with Abby at that time and I was worried that something bad might happen to her and the baby. I told her to spend the night with me and phone Paul, which she did.<br /><br />I tried to calm her by talking to her. I told her that it was too late and that it would be best for her to start a family with a decent guy like Paul whom he trusts completely.<br /><br />“Me with a family, with Paul?” she asked me incredulously.<br /><br />“You will soon have a baby and he needs a father and a mother.”<br /><br />She silently stared at me with hate and disbelief. “Over my dead body, Adam.”<br /><br />We were in my bedroom and the yellow lamplight made her face look tired. She smelled of mingled perfume and sweat. I remember that she said it with such fierceness of will, with such finality, and my greatest mistake perhaps was to assume that it was again just one of her passing unusual statements.<br /><br />As always, it turned out, I was wrong. And Ann, my sweet girl, was right. ≈≈≈VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-85989821791547034882009-12-21T01:35:00.000-08:002009-12-21T01:45:44.095-08:00triptych1.<br />I sat on the edge<br />of the bed, consumed<br />with the movement of her<br />fingers tracing an invisible<br />tatoo on my naked hip,<br />her nails digging<br />into my skin to remind me of pain<br /><br />there was no she, only her<br />for was I just the boy<br />the gentle morning couldn't save?<br /><br />she packed her bags<br />that day, two little suitcases,<br />horrible and dignified<br /><br /><br />2.<br />I sat on the edge<br />of the bed, consumed<br />with the movement of his<br />slow restlessness<br />whipping the white bedsheets into cream,<br />his arms waiting and wanting<br />me to pin them down<br /><br />there was no he, only him,<br />for was I just the boy<br />the hateful afternoon could not save?<br /><br />he packed his bags<br />that day; two things he left:<br />his keys and the smell of his hair on my pillows<br /><br /><br />3.<br />I sat on the edge<br />of my bed, consumed<br />with the sound of my patient breathing,<br />the sound of my neighbor's TV,<br />reminding me of blue light <br />and take-out dinners<br /> <br />there was no one, only me,<br />for was I just the boy<br />the jealous night adores?<br /><br />I packed my bags<br />that night: two full, the other empty<br />time to collect the starsVICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-79284288823777550762009-10-17T10:33:00.001-07:002009-10-17T10:35:25.960-07:00ploningpanoorin mong lumalim ang dagat<br />magbilang ka ng mga patlang na pupuno sa paghihintay<br /><br />balutin mo ng panyo ang hangin ng tanghali,<br />hanggang sumuko ang araw sa ulan<br /><br />walang paghuhunos sa oras na lumipas,<br />at sa mga oras na darating o lilikhain<br /><br />ngunit isipin mo ring kapag sinukob ka<br />ng mga alon ng sarili mong kalungkutan,<br />maalala niya kayang hanapin ang iyong mga labi?VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-32677756802340322262009-09-13T03:54:00.000-07:002009-09-13T04:29:01.141-07:00ThesisWhen I asked the girl her name, hoping to start a little girl-to-girl chat to dispel the boredom, she said "Jenny" without a smile then went back to her book. She must be only a little younger than I am, maybe twenty, twenty-one, very pretty, with big sad eyes that many guys might find both seductive and vulnerable. No wonder we're both in the same room, waiting for similar reasons.<br /><br />"What are you reading?" I asked politely.<br /><br />"Oh. Just this book." She flipped the book over and showed me the cover. She finally managed a smile and said she was only pretending to read because she doesn't know what else to do while waiting. "Actually, I don't know what I'm going to do. Period."<br /><br />Then she caught my eye and I couldn't help but gather my maternal instincts. Pity welled up inside me. In plain sight of the nurses and the other patients in the clinic, I hugged her and she sobbed on my shoulder. The poor girl.<br /><br />Her eyes were red and swollen when she finished crying, her face wet with childish tears. "Are you okay?" I asked her, then realized it was a polite but stupid thing to ask.<br /><br />Then in one helpless breath, she told me her troubles, her affair with an older, married guy, the three positive pregnancy tests she got from self-help kits, and her resolve to go to the clinic to get a definitive result. She said she now regrets the whole thing. "My parents would kill me."<br /><br />I wanted to tell her she shouldn't be surprised if that happens, but I am not her mother (thank goodness). Mothers are supposed to say they'd kill their daughters who get bumped up, but I am a stranger and strangers are supposed to be either indifferent or sympathetic.<br /><br />Since I am in a good mood, and the cosmos have finally chosen to be good to me, blessing me with a baby after five long years, I decided to sympathetic. "Why don't we get a cup of coffee after I get my prenatal checkup and you get your pregnancy test results? So we could talk some more."<br /><br />"She shook her head and muttered something about meeting her baby's father and settling things, but my phone rang and I had to excuse myself.<br /><br />"Hello, honey." It was Richard, my husband. "I'm afraid I can't pick you up at the clinic because I have to meet with the student I was advising for her thesis. I've forgotten about until about an hour ago. The poor girl's got a bit of a trouble again."<br /><br />I suddenly felt my blood go cold. I looked at Jenny, sitting beside me, with her vilnerably seductive, seductively vulnerable, big sad eyes staring into space.<br /><br />"Who's this student of yours again? Maybe you could invite her to our house instead so you guys could be more comfortable." I waited tensely for Richard's answer.<br /><br />"No need for that, baby. Jenny has been very difficult lately, lots of problems. I think I will have to drop out of her thesis altogether. I don't think I could be her adviser anymore, you know what I mean? I told her she might want to abort her thesis at this point ... Hello, honey, are you still there?"VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-41440542945856790592009-07-16T00:23:00.000-07:002009-07-16T00:28:23.575-07:00Cold WarHe sits across the table, the morning paper covering his face, because he doesn't want you to gawk at the kiss mark on his neck. When he puts down the paper to sip his coffee, he smiles sweetly at you, wincing a little because the coffee tastes strangely salty.<br /><br />"I must have switched the labels again," he says in a matter-of-fact tone, then ladles in heaps of sugar from the salt container, and then he downs everything in one gulp. The beast.<br /><br />"You look better with more hair, sweetheart," you say, stifling a mischievous smirk because it was also you who mixed hair removal cream with his shampoo.<br /><br />"It's not that bad. I spend less time grooming up every morning, since I shaved my head," he says, laughing a little. You had to secretly agree yourself that he does still look dashing even without "more hair."<br /><br />You try to bore holes on his face with your steady stare, this man who seems aware but impossibly impervious to all your acts of revenge, who takes everything lightly. You struggle to loosen your grip on the bread knife.<br /><br />He finishes his breakfast and gets up to leave. He plants a small kiss on your cheek, tells you he will be home late because of a meeting. You don't move from your chair to see him to the door.<br /><br />You wait for him to shout a barrage of curses once he gets to his car. Last night, you smeared egg yolks across his car's windshield.<br /><br />A couple of minutes passed, and you still could not hear him cursing loudly through the garage. Five minutes passed. Seven minutes. Impatient now and worried that everything may not be going according to plan, you get up from your chair. You go to the window and peek from behind an opening in the curtains.<br /><br />Finally, you see him hunched over his car's now freshly cleaned windshield, wiping it dry with a washcloth. You could faintly hear him whistling the catchy tune of a popular novelty song.<br /><br />Fucking motherfucker of an asshole.VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-13359904644308777332009-06-12T04:18:00.000-07:002009-06-12T04:23:56.023-07:00One day at the hospital, when we both laughedThere is no face to look upon, only bloodied bandages wound about the head, two lidless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The blanket covers the rest of the body, a small act of mercy by the nurse, though strictly, aside from the dressings, the burns should be exposed to air as much as possible. He is frightened by this; pity is only for strangers.<br /><br />He sits at the foot of the bed, his sight beginning to blur. The life-support machines whir and beep urgently, ticking the time left for final parting words. But tears flow easier than speech, and he finally finds himself sobbing, making apologies. If he had only reconciled with him that day, Paul would not have gone through all the drama and taken the ill-fated bus. If he had not been too busy with work, if he had spent more time with Paul, perhaps-- <br /><br />Then he hears someone walking toward them. It is a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a baggy shirt, which advertised a brand of milk, and sweatpants. Then all of a sudden, she was sobbing hysterically, hugging Paul fiercely. He tries not to be baffled by the woman’s sudden outburst. Paulhas older sisters and female cousins he has never met. <br /><br />When the woman has stopped sobbing, she asks him if he was a friend. He says yes, of course; discretion in everything had always been his and Paul’s choice. <br /><br />“I’m his wife, Jane. You’re a friend?”<br /><br />He fumbles for answer, although what he really wants to do is to ask another question, to make sure he understands who the woman said she is. “Yes. No. I’m sorry, what was it?”<br /><br />“I asked if you’re one of his friends.”<br /><br />“No… just a friend… at the office… I didn’t know he was married.”<br /><br />“For three years.” She pauses, blows her nose with her already wet handkerchief. “I know he was always so quiet, always hesitant to say things about himself.” <br /><br />He does not say anything, and a sharp silence sliced the air between them. “Have you seen the nurse? I don’t know what to do now really. I just left the baby at home with the cleaner.”<br /><br />“You have a kid?”<br /><br />“Kids. The other one is turning three this June.”<br /><br />He is now confused, almost dizzy with a thousand questions going in his head, his thoughts toying with the possibility of betrayal. Then just as he is about to give up, leave, say good bye to Paul’s wife, at the corner of his eye, he notices a man sitting at the bed beside Paul’s. He ignores him.<br /><br />Then he hears the man calling his name, the voice strangely familiar. He turns toward the voice, and he feels the blood draining from his face as he realizes who it is. <br /><br />“Hey, sissy, are you sobbing?” ▪VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-27935618551495559942009-05-29T15:30:00.000-07:002009-05-29T21:23:32.185-07:00tea at four, for threeyou and your new friend wanted tea, so i went<br />in the kitchen and prepared some, rock<br />cakes on the side.<br /><br />(how english, how "healthy," how pretentious all this is.)<br /><br />i made a third cup for myself, arranged<br />everything on a dainty tray<br />and when you both were not looking,<br /><br />poured something inside one of the three teacups.<br /><br />i returned to you<br />two in my living room, smiled<br />like a ridiculous butler.<br /><br />and then you were smiling at me, too.<br /><br />only your eyes were not, and your friend was<br />telling you something, but you can not<br />hear him.<br /><br />i placed the tray on the table, and served you<br /><br />each a cup of black tea. i took<br />the remaining cup, and drank the tea,<br />the poison laced with the scent and flavor<br /><br />of bergamot and sorrow.VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-44577578389100003642009-05-04T17:19:00.000-07:002009-05-04T17:20:59.778-07:00KiddingI told you once about gray, like being half-awake, half-asleep<br /><br />The handsomeness of gray, how it holds a promise <br />of unuttered meaning lurking behind the flatness, dullness of ash<br /><br />But then you agreed about what I said, <br />and how am I supposed to say I was lying?VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-35405134831937876042009-05-04T14:02:00.000-07:002009-05-04T15:25:27.042-07:00AshesI sit on the edge of the bed, smoking cigarettes, <br />dimly aware of a pillow that has fallen on the floor, <br />nicotine melting the lump in my throat<br /><br />I like the way the yellow lamplight casts <br />my shadow against the absurd smoothness of the walls, <br />my skin like a thick blur<br /><br />A last puff, then I toss the cigarette into a dark corner, <br />perhaps right into the waiting petals <br />of my potted plant's perfect new flowerVICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-53106275203025264032009-04-14T19:21:00.000-07:002009-04-14T19:26:19.448-07:00KatipunanWalang pinagbago ang tagpuan, mas maalinsangan lang at mas walang alinlangan ang pagtatalik ng pawis at alikabok ng tag-init.<br /><br />Mag-aabot ka pa rin ng pasahe, bagaman para sa isa lang--dati ay para sa dalawa. Pareho kayong magkukunwang walang alam, di magkakilala. Mas madaling magpalasing sa init ng tanghaling tapat, kaysa umaming nasa katinuan.<br /><br />Nakaupo siya sa tapat mo, nakadungaw sa bintana ng jeep, kunwari ring hindi ka kilala, o nakilala. Iyon pa ring dati ang pabango niya, may guhit ng kababalat lang na kahel.<br /><br />Bababa siyang Katipunan, ihahatid ng mga mata mong puyat sa paghihintay ng sulyap at ngiting magsasabing maari mo na uli siyang mailibre ng pasahe sa susunod.VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-15222061083167526932009-02-16T17:06:00.000-08:002009-02-16T17:17:22.701-08:00Project in Progress III"Ayala station? The train just left Ayala station," he asks the woman in disbelief.<br /><br />"Hey, are you lost? I downed three bottles last night, but I know where I took this train." The woman stops flirting with her hair, ogling him with eyes big with concern. The passengers are also now looking at them with interest, even the nine year old with the big red backpack who appears to be sitting beside her mother.<br /><br />"No. I took this train on Ayala station. <em>We</em> took this train on Ayala station."<br /><br />"Suit yourself, kid." She opened her compact once more and started coating her face with powder, again with the wrong side of the compact's foam. She examines the bags under her eyes and exhales deeply, the reek of alcohol filling the air around her.<br /><br />"We'll see who's right." He gives her a patronizing smile, and then for good measure, he winks conspiratorially at a well-dressed guy who had been looking at them. As if to say, “Crazy girl, isn’t she?”<br /><br />The guy does not smile back and he notices he is uneasy standing between two muscled men. He cannot help but note the guy’s embarrassingly unmistakable erection. The guy shyly covers his groin with his sling bag.<br /><br />He decides they may be roughly of the same age. A call center agent, he thinks. Everyone he knows who can’t continue their studies has gone on to work at a call center. The guy is wearing a white long-sleeved shirt that looked expensive, the first two buttons opened. He can see sweat dripping down from the pit of his neck into his boyish chest. The MRT’s air-conditioning is atrocious.<br /><br />Then the train stops with a loud screech, ending his reverie. He sees Faux Blonde getting up from her seat.<br /><br />“You take care, okay?” She sends a kiss flying toward him.<br /><br />He looks out of the train and, with his good right eye, reads “Ayala” boldly printed in white against the blue signboard. He looks around him, at the other passengers, but no one would meet his eyes.<br /><br /><em>to be continued</em>VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33992077.post-18437183144475542322009-02-14T14:04:00.000-08:002009-02-16T16:53:45.053-08:00Project in Progress IIAmidst anonymous elbows, shoulders, arms that seem to belong to no one, he wonders if the proponents of the law of conservation of mass have ever been on a crowded train.<br /><br />As he fights his way into the middle part of the train, where the crowd of passengers is thinner, he is almost ready to believe space can be occupied by two bodies of mass at the same time. Then out of nowhere, an arm reaching for the handlebars above hits his head. His eyeglasses sliding down his nose, everything transforming into a blur, then a faint crack. Shit.<br /><br />He stoops down, feeling the floor for his glasses, but there is only a forest of feet and smelly shoes.<br /><br />"Hey. Is this what you're looking for?"<br /><br />He feels a woman's soft hands pressing something into his hands--his glasses. "You should be more careful, kid."<br /><br />He puts back his glasses on, squinting. All of the left lens is a big spider web. Great.<br /><br />"You should think about having your glasses secured around your neck with some sort of lace. You know that kind grouchy librarians use?"<br /><br />A woman sitting in one of the train benches stares at her with big droopy eyes. She produces a compact from inside her purse and starts dabbing at her pale, sweaty face. He notices that she was using the wrong side of the compact's foam.<br /><br />"The librarians I know do not wear glasses, " he replies, trying to keep his balance by holding on to a strap attached to a handlebar.<br /><br />"The nerds I know are smart," the woman says, closing her compact with a loud click. She then begins attacking her hair with a plastic comb. "And they say thank you when you help them."<br /><br />He decides not to be alarmed by the woman's lack of humor; he must save his energy for the more important things happening later today.<br /><br />The train still has not left Ayala Station. More people are trying to get aboard the train, holding the automatic doors from closing. The security guard, blowing his shrill whistle again, orders them to step away from the platform, prompting a fresh batch of curses from the frustrated passengers. The train doors close with a long, relieved beep. The train starts to move.<br /><br />Then the woman stares at him again, eager to start another conversation. "You know what, kid? You look.. too good-looking for a geek," the woman says, twirling a lock of her faux blonde hair.<br /><br />He ignores the remark and pretends to be looking intently at a nine-year old kid with a ridiculously big backpack. The backpack's zipper was partly open and he could see blankets and a small pillow inside the bag.<br /><br />Then the blonde woman says something strange: "God, I hate the MRT. I swear I'm going to get off in Ayala station and take a taxi instead."<br /><br /><em>to be continued</em>VICTORhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04123939120427864815noreply@blogger.com12