Reloc

I am moving to wordpress, for the simplest reason that I love the layouts there.

Oh yeah, I am back to writing again.. i hope.

Wallflower Existence

Come on, kid.

You're still clinging to that belief that all your efforts are not wasted? That all the things you do for them don't go unnoticed? You're still expecting that every damn time and things you give about them will be reciprocated? You're ready to jump from a cliff for people who don't really give a bullcrap?

Dream on.

Angst

I don't why, but my heart's filled with so much hate that even I get frightened. Hate that starts in the morning inside the four corners of this poor excuse for a home; then grows as I worm my way in this suffocating world of fake people and relationships that hang on pretensions, distrust and deceit; then in the night, condenses into a vile seed that promises to grow anew the next morning. Then the cycle of hate repeats.

This hate burns and eats everything from within. I dread the day when it totally consumes me. Somebody save me.

Shatter

This is one completely random out-of-the-blue post, if we go by the rate of which I update this blog. There can only be two reasons why the update meter suddenly moved: 1) a sudden gust of inspiration seized me and took me to writing land; or 2) the parts that bound my disjointed self have started to shatter, and having exhausted all possible remedies, I turned to writing to keep the last remaining pieces from being lost. I hate to admit it's number two.

Argh. What's worse is they don't even know it.

Serious Stuff

I made this blog because I wanted something to pour my serious thoughts into. That’s why I put an extra effort to conceive an appropriate name and come up with another blog where I can dump my nonsense brain shit (the bananaman). Call it symptomatic of a split personality, but I don’t care since so far, I have been able to successfully separate the two sides of me whenever I face this blog.

I just hope I can do the same in the real world.

I have always been known as a sunny, cheerful, happy-go-lucky guy, who would rather engage in nonsense fun-filled conversations instead of being preoccupied with sensible yet boring things. I easily get suffocated in any dead-serious atmosphere and I always shy away from any formal activities like ceremonies, which I find too tiresome, predictable and, well, boring.

I can provide anyone a lesson in mindless meaningless monologues about anything under the sun or in the worlds beyond. I am the usual “adik” or “lugaw” whose scatterbrain provide an instant case study for any psychologist interested in the workings of the human mind - or the lack thereof. I am the clown that provides easy and free entertainment for anyone.

As a good friend, I am more than happy to be of such service. But as a person with some dignity to protect, I want to think otherwise.

The problem with being not so serious is that people naturally won’t take me seriously, despite my futile protestations that I be looked at straight in the eyes. Yes, I do talk about serious things, but I do it in a “less serious” way; in the back of my mind, taking some pressure off always helps. But in the end, anything I say or do always comes out as a joke to them.

It is insulting, really, to be treated like that damn boy who cried wolf. Hindi naman sa lahat ng oras ay nagbibiro ako. It doesn’t help that these people who laugh with you when you’re joking are the same people who laugh at you when you’re already not. And they are the ones you supposedly call “close friends.”

It is insulting, because being a joke means my believability is next to nil. When fiction is better than me in make-believe’s, I lose credibility. When I lose that very thing, down goes with it is the respect of the people around me. Respect is earned, and some people just won’t give me any.

It doesn’t help that I am not really equipped with the appropriate training to feign a serious look. The glowing aura around me just won’t go away to give way for that gloomy crestfallen condition. I was never good in dramatic antics; having that emotional hairtrigger to shift from happy to dull. My face has this stupid smile plastered on since time immemorial.

Being a human just like everyone else, I believe I deserve to be accorded with the same serious treatment and respect whenever I start thinking, speaking and/or acting like one. It isn’t that hard to do, I think.

When a clown takes off his makeup, it means his performance is already over. He’s human after all - capable of getting hurt, lonely and tired. At least give him his due.

This is a serious article and I do mean everything in it.

Free Fall

So this is how it feels.

In my upside-down position, I can feel a bloodrush in my head, making me nauseous. Good nausea, I must say. That dizzy, alcohol-induced, tipsy kind of feeling. My eyes are now on malfunction mode, as the world around me starts to spin. My insides are doing somersaults, tossing and tumbling as if inside a washing machine.

Ok, this is crazy. I am careening downwards, like a meteor gatecrashing through the atmosphere. Except that a meteor fall looks beautiful while I look like a crippled acrobat doing a bungled trapeze. How do you sky dive, really? Do you randomly spiral downwards? No? Oh damn. But hey, at least it’s nice in here - I think. The windblast on my face burns, but it makes me feel as light as feather. So no weight problems here.

It’s still a long long way before ground level. Hmm, I just thought of something. Remember the classic experiment back in high school? Which will fall first when dropped from the second floor, a ball of cloth or a ball of steel? Stupid me I thought it was the steel, as it was heavier. But no, both will reach the ground at the same time. Law of gravity, yes.

Since I am already at it, maybe I can use physics to describe what is happening to me right now. Not that I am good in mathematics, but it sounds cool to explain some stupid emotional imbalance using scientific terms. Besides, it’s the only thing I understood in my science class.

Anyway, law of gravity goes like this:

F = G (m1*m2)/d^2.

The gravitational force, F, is the product of the masses of two objects, m1 and m2, multiplied by G, the gravitational constant. It is inversely proportional to the square of the distance, d, between the two masses. So it means that more massive objects have stronger gravitational pull. Also, the closer they get, the stronger their force of attraction is.

Now, I have always believed that you are like gravity. I mean, everything is drawn to you. You are like one big chocolate cake that attracts everyone, including dirty flies like me. And you do it in a seemingly effortless way. So that makes me wonder - why?

Applying the above formula, we can probably solve that problem. Let us say you are the earth, the first object, or m1, while I am the inconsequential twerp caught in a free fall, m2. The force of attraction between us - or rather, my attraction to you - is determined by the product of m1 and m2.

Let us say that mass is the amount of feelings within us. Since I am the one being attracted, you m1 being held constant, the degree of my feelings for you m2 determines the result. So the more I feel, the more I fall.

Then, F is inversely proportional to the square of the distance between us. I guess that’s elementary; the closer I get to you, the stronger your gravitational pull, the stronger I fall for you.

Then there’s acceleration due to gravity. In a free fall, acceleration in earth’s gravity is approximately 10 m/s^2, or 1 G. The value only means you are a perfect 10 to me. Anyway, acceleration is velocity in a given time, or a = v/t. But v = d/t, so using substitution, a = d/t^2.

In this sense, I fall faster the nearer I get to you. The stronger the gravitational force gets, the stronger the impact will be.

As I write this boring equations, I am starting to see the objects below more clearly now. Boy, that was fast. So it is just a matter of time before I hit the ground - before I fall for you completely. The way I am dropping now, I will die a bloody pulp.

Who can blame me? I don’t know how I get into this situation in the first place. This is the first time, at least with you. I have no other experiences of this kind. I don’t even know how to fall properly, what more to land? But I guess there’s no use complaining now. Like I can do anything at this point.

Unless you catch me.

Distansya

Sa lansangan mo natagpuan iyong tunay na kalayaan.

Sa lansangan mo nasaksihan ang pagsulat ng kasaysayan.

Sa lansangan mo natagpuan ang iyong buhay't kabuluhan.

Sa lansangan mo nahanap ang sagot na iyong inaaasam.

Sa kahabaan ng daang binalak mong bagtasin,

Baon mo ang hindi mamamatay na adhikain.

Sa iyong pagsulong sa daan sa pagitan natin,

Ihahatid ka ng aking diwa at mga tingin.

Ironic

No, not the comeuppance I got from exercising the freedom to assemble in a sort of perverted way (read previous entry).

I am referring to the curious scene I witnessed in SONA protest rally last Monday (I am posting lest I forget).

The red-shirt-wearing-activists, most of them students like me, braved the scorching heat as they marched towards Batasan. Together with the masa, the proletariat class whose welfare they swore to defend, they passionately shouted these lines that revealed their unwavering principles:

"Imperyalismo (ibagsak)! Burukrata Kapitalismo (ibagsak) ! Pyudalismo (ibagsak)!"

Then when lunch time came,they all ate at the nearby McDonalds's.

Unfamiliar Grounds

The group I was with left around 11:00 am. The sun bashfully flaunted its uninviting presence. Holding "guns" made of cardboard, banners painted with fiery slogans, and other various props, they braved the scorching weather and joined the march. The advancing street army welcomed their ranks and quickly, they found their positions behind the moving line, dragging me along.

Before we left our college where we assembled, they had a program of sorts. A representative from each group spoke on the day's agenda. While they were busy mouthing rhetorics, I did a head count. My orgmates were still around. Then I looked around to check if I failed to count someone - I did.

She was not around.

Shouting fervid chants, the students trod the whole length of the University Avenue. The group spearheading our batch engaged in a chanting competition with the other groups; one Film student/activist shouted at the top of his lungs, solving all the mysteries surrounding his peculiar speaking voice. But all attention to his vocal chords quickly evaporated when, some flanks ahead of us, I saw a hauntingly familiar presence, that of someone who I longed to see since that morning.

My heart leaped from anticipation and uncertainty. Somewhere within the throng of bodies, I caught divided glimpses of her figure, like frame skips in a pirated DVD movie. I saw her red shirt (the color of the day) and her hairbun. She was holding a flag or a banner - I wasn't so sure - and walking ever gracefully despite the weather. I could not clearly discern the entirety of her features, but I knew it was her.

Then she was devoured by the crowd, disappearing quickly before I could reset my senses. I ran towards the hilly sides of the avenue in my vain effort not to lose sight of her. But alas, all I saw was a mishmash of bodies baking under the heat. I helplessly returned to my place and grudgingly let the current move me along.

The rest of the march was uneventful, save for some trivial matters that whored for my attention. Like another group of student-activists joining us in Tandang Sora. I initially thought they were punk/groupies feeling cool-and-emo under the heat in their all-black attires. But when I saw their flags with the same fiery slogans, I immediately dropped my feebleminded assumption.

Then there was this guy who declared his unbridled love for the occupier in Malacanang by turning whatever surface he deemed fit for vandalizing into his canvass. Using red spray paint, he painted his adulation for GMA: "GMA Terorista!". He could not have been more straightforward.

My head going in circles because of the heat and stirred emotions, we passed by another group of "kasamahan" atop a parked jeepney. They looked like high schoolers to me, I was pretty sure. They too had a chant of their own. Borrowing the progressive wisdom of their older brethren, they shouted with all their hearts, "Ano ang sigaw ng masa? Patalsikin si Gloria!" At that point I didn't know if they were as
disoriented as me. Did they come here on their own political beliefs? Or did they out of curiosity, boredom, or pursuit of something? The answer was beyond me.

Finally, we reached the end of the line. The student groups (me in it) merged with the workers, farmers and urban poor groups in the road near Ever Gotesco. I and my orgmates did not mind showing our sigh of relief. The more uninitiated among them were just too happy to rest their legs. We sat on the parched concrete using our banners, props and whatever there was as seats. We looked like fish sprawled on the ground for drying.

The program started after a few minutes. A loudspeaker blared in our place, shattering our eardrums. I swore I could hear the blinking eyes of the speaker as she spoke the real state of the nation. I stood up and moved around, my eyes again in search for the lady-gem swallowed by the torrent of protesters a while ago.

My burnt face stung every time I wipe the sweat off my face. It was 12 noon and the sun was sitting snugly on his throne in the sky. I could see tanlines forming on my arms. And I could hear my body screaming cold justice. Still, I kept my eyes peeled for that elusive figure.

Media people started to pop out of nowhere to cover this event. Like seasoned veterans from the same gatherings in the past, they walked casually amongst us. I could see a lady reporter interviewing some man who could be a leader or representative of one of the groups that came there to air their grievances and demands for the government.

Mixed with the cords of microphones and videocams, there were carts of fishballs and buko juice. Kids about six carrying pails of ice tubig loitered while announcing their wares. Not bowing to the competition were men selling mineral water and ice candies inside their styrofoam buckets.

The place began to metamorphose into someone's ashtray as the afternoon dragged on. The smell of the parched road, sweat, cigarette smoke, fishballs, and evaporating spilled water created this indescribable smell that permeated the air around us. That addled my senses yet again but I persisted on scanning the place for her.

I looked and looked and looked. Still no sign of her, not even the faintest shadow. No nothing. Then it was 3 pm. I could not make any sense of anything around me anymore. I could not understand what the speaker onstage was saying through the speakers near us. The words of the farmer who sat down to share with us his story evaded my comprehension. The solid homogeneous crowd suddenly became scattered distinct faces. And the heat had became a good friend. Then came a grim realization: I was lost.

What the hell am I doing in this place, I cursed myself. And as I walked away from the rabbithole that enticed me to the place where I revealed my foolish desires, my eyes burned with anguish and my heart felt heavy as lead.

death before one's eyes

The scenes were all vivid. But the clarity of the whole picture was spoiled by the quick progression of the events, like flashes of images in a cinematic dream sequence. Like one big abstract movie, I could not make any sense out of it even until now.

I was wasting my time in front of the computer last Friday afternoon when the neighboring kids came into our yard and made a ruckus. My brother went out and saw them “borrowing” our bike. One of the imps did not seem to hear my brother’s warning and instead, said this line that proved to be one bad news told a few minutes too late.

“Umiiyak si Manunuy, nakita namin kanina,” the rascal said.

Manunuy was how the little kids called my mother. An uneasy feeling seized me, that of anxiety and bewilderment. I told my brother to go and check on her. But I could not stop thinking of what could have made her cry and in front of the kids at that. After a while I decided to see for myself. When I came out of the house, I met my brother. In a low broken voice, he told me the bad news.

I ran to my relative’s house and in there I saw mom. Indeed, she was in tears. In between sobs, she recounted her last ordeal, her voice breaking from the unbearable weight inside her. I could not feel her pain, but I could see it. I went inside the house and finally knew why.

There she was, lying still on the sala floor where her bed was. Her orange daster was a peaceful contrast against the whiteness of her pillow and bedding; any movement would be betrayed by the stillness of the setup. She was flat on her back, her two frail arms placed comfortably on her side. Indeed, she looked as if she was in a deep sleep, except that she wouldn’t be waking up anymore.

My grandmother had just died. And she did right in front of my mother, her daughter.

Her voice with tinges of bitterness, regret, denial and helplessness, mother described her last minutes with her mother. Minutes before she died, grandmother acted strangely. According to her, Lola suddenly shouted and called out to some unseen entities to take her away, waving her outstretched arm as if reaching out to someone. My mom initially dismissed it as another one of Lola’s topak moments. But an air of fear embraced her and she found herself praying for the soul of her mother. Then Lola silently turned on her side. Mother thought she fell asleep.

At that very moment, I just came home from school. I was resting on my bed when I heard my mother outside saying something to me which I did not understand. She had just gone out of Lola’s house to check our house. Then she went back. Not long after, I turned on the PC. After a few minutes, the kids came. Then the bad news.

In that short span of time, everything turned around. And it did completely for my mother and her sisters. When mom came back, Lola was already gone. Not long after Mom went out to check our house, my aunts found Lola breathing slowly until she passed away.

I don’t know if I would be thankful that Lola did not breathe her last on my mother’s arms. That would be too much for her, considering how much she blamed herself for her death, how much she regretted the what-if’s and what-could-have-been’s of those last minutes.

I don’t know too why I feel very little grief. Perhaps it hasn’t sunk in me yet. Or perhaps it happened too quickly that I did not have much time to react. Perhaps it’s because I can’t summon the memories I have with my Lola that I can’t feel the bond broken by her demise. Or probably my concern for my mother overwhelmed whatever sorrow that tried to get inside me.

For every goodbye, cry not for those who departed but for those left behind. What just happened might have left a nasty blur before my eyes, but when the picture clears up and these eyes start to cry, I know that the first tears will be for my mother.