Imbentori: A Tumblr Blog
Table of Contents
It may or may not have been obvious, but people my age like to express themselves on the internet.
I was active on Tumblr, that you can still visit:
A little while back, I even thought of parsing through the original text I have there, and publish them in some sort of a book…
I’m not throwing this idea permanently away. It’s just that I have more interesting things to tackle, in my opinion.
In the meantime, read the foreword I drafted some time ago for this would-be collection of personal essays.
The tongue that swirls with its perceived languages can only cope so much from the demands of diction. Imbentori, then, is one own tongue’s attempt to speak the library of tensions as they never unfold in one’s mind. It is a list of personal truths told with cryptic lingo (or with International Art English1, one could argue) to add dimension to the mundane.
I wanted to tell stories, fiction or otherwise, that had shaped me definitively. In some entries, though, there’s no room for interpretation. In any case, if you feel like the stream of thoughts challenge the way you read, hmm, then it’s purpose didn’t go off tangent.
“Which is what, exactly?” I hear you ask.
“Well,” I mutter, racking my brain for proper wording. “The intention of sharing this version of my Youth—captured between 2012 and 2018—is to offer a perspective of someone who both despises the world, yet remains hopeful of the people’s capacity to kick-start a change, although they bore me at that.” And then you plop back on your chair, still unsatisfied with my ambiguous response.
You will notice quirks. One of the most notable was how I refuse to capitalize letters that needed capitalization. It’s style; you’ll get over it.
It’s tempting to edit away all the cringe parts, but I think those parts are what makes this body of work, if you can call it that, unique. Right now, I’ll compromise by trimming some of the bad stuff.
If everything sounds strange, it’s because I had been in this odd phase.
There’s a free copy online
Most of them are lumped into what I call Unscholarly Notes, after a chapter in one of my favorite books by F. Sionil Jose.
The following are the entries that I like, with slight edits.
Entry # 1
Date: Wed, 30 Oct 2013
Someone called me on the phone, but I did’nt hear it immediately, because I was too absorbed on the gyrating sound waves coming out of the speakers. My music, Queen, was too loud, and the speakers are of the modern tech, so that they don’t do that magical feedback every time a call or a text comes in my phone.
You all know that, right? A few years back, speakers screech when a phone nearby would receive something. Nowadays, they don’t. They have killed the magic.
I picked up the phone. The voice at the other end was raspy but clear. It was one of the mistresses of the former landlord of the community where I live in now. She said she was coming to pick up some of her old clothes and to drop a few other things.
There are visitors who seemed wanting to stay, but I can’t allow that. I want to be at my own now, see what will happen. If she comes, and she stays, and she waits for the landlord, the two of them will lock themselves in their old room where they will make love for the rest of the day. Why can’t they just leave me in peace?
Entry # 2
Date: Wed, 30 Oct 2013
Dear diary, today I watched more videos of people fucking each other. I think it’s called pornography or erotica, but it depends on the grade of steam which confutes any discrepancy between the two.
These people surprised me with their whines. I don’t get it. Am I supposed to touch my genitals just to emulate what they were experiencing? There was an order of preference that I have read somewhere, but my not remembering when and where I found such an article proves how sleazy can I be. What I know is that, I must do it with one or more persons, but with whom?
I clicked on a panel that played a video of two girls shamed by an “ex-convict” on an absurd level, and he got to ram his penis down their throats for more than four minutes. It was moving like a piston. I felt nervous for these people who have nothing but their blessed bodies. Maybe this isn’t entertainment but something inhumane that feeds off the carnal desires. If I must really think about it, I suppose it was not their choice to participate in such a graphic scenario.
Sex workers puzzle me. I know I have no right to question their deeds, but still, the nature of their work is beyond my comprehension. I feel so dumb saying that.
Dear diary, I am lonely. I want to fight off the urge. I want to spend the rest of the week cuddling in someone’s arms. I don’t need to take cold baths, because life isn’t a big porcelain bath tub, nor a playlist of fetishes.
Entry # 3
Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2013
On moments that I look out of the window, I see the glorious sky. Everything is modernized. Everything looks hopeful, yet ugly, but only if you looked long enough to see the details.
Entry # 4
Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2013
I wish I could cough up wonderful lyrics and come up with good guitar chords to go with it.
I wish to do a thousand tough push-ups for every mistake I make. That way, I would be strong enough to endure future errors.
I wish to rebuild the walls I destroyed in order to get here, but it seems that it’s all too late now. Someone out there knows why.
Entry # 5
Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013
People from the suburbs have vacated the other room. It is free from dirt now. They have also cleaned it. Got rid of the pests that might want to scurry about the floor. I am glad the room is all mine now.
The room lacks decorations and soft pillows. It would echo in here. It lacks inspiration, but it has me now. And now, I have it.
Entry # 6
Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013
Kill me not with admiration, and tell me I am the best person to have entered your life ever. My guitar strings ache to be strummed, my boxes of mementos long to be remembered, but I don’t care about them. I care about you.
You who have brought yourself to your own knees. You whose ponytail I held in place just so you could mourn and bow down before me. I could set up a room for the two of us where we could strangle the milk of life out of each other, but you chose to be free. And to be honest, that was your only option.
You chose to be with your cats and your boy friends. I had nothing to do with them, so I, in turn, chose to set you free, even if I wanted otherwise.
Entry # 7
Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013
My grandfather, who looked like Quezon, once belonged to a guerrilla force. They lived in the mountain side, just like any other rebellion at the time. They boiled unripe corncobs and cow bones they stole from the farms nearby for lunch. They were outlaws. They wanted to throw the Japanese out of the country, only that they failed to do so.
Theirs were the stories of war against alien adversaries who were more powerful. They were simpletons turned militia who knew only a few things about war. If they wanted so bad to be an active threat to their opponents, they could have constructed at least one smart plot. But they preferred to be cowards hidden behind ferns and rocks.
He died at the age of 80. Everybody prayed their own versions of lamentations at his funeral. I was not there. I did not even see him during his last moments, so damn me now.
My mother regularly reminds us of her admiration for her father. In her own words, he was the greatest man who lived. She told me how her mother wept during the funeral, so much so that they laughed at her, saying she was over-reacting.
Entry # 8
Date: Sat, 02 Nov 2013
To the brother whose downfall is inevitable,
Your woman talked to me the other night, but I was not listening carefully. Did she say that you were destroyed by an old lady? That you broke into tears inside a taxi, because none of your schemes worked out?
Old hags do tend to cause that. Sometimes, they are too old for emotions that they can’t even handle themselves. They resort to a so-called systematic deity whom they worship as much as they worship their laundry. It is all helpless now.
For you and for her, the old widow.
The sparrows will soon take her and all of her possessions away. The last air she will breathe looms nigh before her.
Entry # 9
Date: Sun, 03 Nov 2013
I can’t promise not to be so anxious about the impermeability of jagged things here in this wanton city, here in this side of the world. I can lock myself up in a room with venomous dingoes and snapping Venus flytraps, but tell me, can I really lock myself up in a room with deranged weirdos? I cannot be the spark of some other lame people’s thoughts. I, too, am suffering. I cannot be of some help to others, sorry about that.
Some other night, I was not thinking straight again. I think I was capable of horrendous crimes that time. So instead of losing it, I got myself jacked in the computer and played all of the piano concertos repetitively, until I came back to my senses, and everything seemed wonderful again.
Entry # 10
Date: Mon, 04 Nov 2013
Let it sit there in the mellow light. And let it be clear to you that it is not yours, that thing. This is not a race that you could just break into a run like you are going to make it to the finish line. If you run now, you will not make it. The finish line is only a perceived idea through which we wish to project the kind of reality we wanted, the goals we wish to get.
So hear me out on this, and just let the thing sit by itself. It is safely locked in here. The room is all so-and-so-proof—nothing goes in or out. Entirely vacuum sealed.
Now, step out of the room and close the door behind you.
Listen to me. It is the pride in us that will bleed us to death. You are not owned by your pride. And you need to rack your brains if you have to, just so you will remember that. If you have to jot these down, do it, for tomorrow and the day after that and so on, there will be difficult exams. Life is a practical test.
Entry # 11
Date: Tue, 05 Nov 2013
Regardless of the hours of rest I give myself, this quake in my chest still would not die down. My heart thrashes for no romantic reason. And during its convulsive moments, I feel this fear might consume me. Later this day, I might trace my steps back into the previous night to see what I have done to feel so gutted and spooked, although I highly doubt it would be of any help.
Entry # 12
Date: Thu, 07 Nov 2013
On a night with the least expectations, someone might want to show up by the front gate. She could be a friend, her derelict vehicle behind her, engine vibrating in anticipation of a long senseless drive.
She might want to invite me in her car, and ask for advice: about how she was so doped that her mother found out; about the terrible travails that almost diminished her mind to dementia.
I might say, “Get us out of here first.” The tires would then screech.
I might tell someone to go to the nearest bridge, preferably at least a mile long, and there we might just drive back and forth. But the bridge would not respond to such foolish actions.
She might get tired of driving and just take me to her room instead.
Of course, no one will actually show up and demand my presence. None of this will ever happen.
Entry # 13
Date: Thu, 07 Nov 2013
On several facets of human frailty that I fail to tamper with logic, a deep resentment in discussing them prevails. Is it because human that I am, that in order to function normally, I have to act as if my weaknesses are repulsive topics? But isn’t that denial, enough a reason to be asking for psychiatric help?
Well, I don’t need help. I’m doing good with my dull, simple life, thank you very much.
Entry # 14
Date: Sun, 10 Nov 2013
Gentlemen can’t rack their brains. Ladies won’t do it for them. The might has been passed back and forth, so that one day, no one will be needing the other. We might all become asexual, and the only terrible thing about that is not finding enough limbs to stimulate the genitals.
Entry # 15: the response to any dream is its own ending
Date: Tue, 12 Nov 2013
I ask now for the wisdom of people hearing me out about this one
tiny bit (Yes, my dead grandfather, you are one of them, so please
stop brushing my shoulder with your phantom hands.):
TO DREAM of someone every single night when the clock strikes nine at the fall of all the bass with the banging in unison of all buttheads to the tune of all that has collapsed and will be collapsing with an angelic choir from the ripped-open heavens apart IS normal as long as it does not leave me grasping for breath, right? My dreams are made of sad stuff. When I wake up from one, I put a pillow between my legs and hug another with my arms, because it’s all I have. A bunch of un-talkative pillows, all heat-less and disappointingly foamy. They have phased out the feathery once. Too many geese and ducklings and mallards had suffered.
I saw once a meme somewhere, asking what if the pillows recorded our dreams and all we had to do is plug them to our computers in the morning to see our them, if any, again. Are they that stupid to not know that all dreams have no substantial beginnings? Only endings. Sometimes good, but most of them just stop abruptly.
Once upon a time, I had many dreams of this particular person who stopped jamming with me all of a sudden—and that is fine. Maybe she dreamed of other persons, too, who would be genuinely interested in the good stuff of pop music she liked. My sister, upon witnessing me looking so badly wrecked, decided one day to teach me a lesson on how to deal with the feminine intricacy: Snap out of it.
Entry # 16
Date: Tue, 12 Nov 2013
Science never told us that deeply ingrained within the cosmic particles the earth was made up of, are so much drudgery that when the godly forces of Universe swirled it all up into a gargantuan sphere, the amalgam was but a place abundant of disappointment. Disappointment that, if served frequently in many a cold dose, will dissolve human faith. Thus, it isolates a person in a barren phenomena, a distant sanctuary of the inner self, sometimes called madness.
Entry # 17
Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2013
The roads that branch out to those distant havens are all awfully pungent like rotten onion. So here’s a useless lifehack: Be skeptical of maps with X’s on them, simply because they are stupid and do not belong in this time and age. Only ancient topography had these large red marks on them. They were created by humans for humans as imaginary goals with no evident rewards, so they could feel free to be objective, be freed from their doubts of existence, be ambitious despite the dull Sundays. What use really is there of a map? The long roads are boring and tiring; the short ones are swift and tasteless.
After thousands of years of improving technology, we still find ourselves stuck and deserted in a different dimension.
Entry # 18
Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2013
Despite the miseries the kid had gone through, he managed to salvage his childhood by talking to a toy. He is his own true friend. A bond was naturally formed between him and Himself, idealistically unbreakable even at the toughest times. He was seldom seen crying simply because he was seldom seen at all. When he was locking himself up in his room, who knows what things he was doing there, the miracles enchanting him there. People were worried, but only because they don’t understand. And those who do never had enough time to pay him a visit.
The kid was bright, I must say. He learned that people do not always see the world as he sees it, and that it is his duty to understand them.
The sores still burn him throughout the years, but now he’s too tough for them. In fact, his toughness is so much for him to handle that it grows out as patches of facial hair and untrimmed nails and badly-attended hygiene. The sores itch him somewhere just above the chest, but he’s become tolerant now.
Entry # 19
Date: Thu, 14 Nov 2013
I was pushing myself, tapping at the frontal lobes, hoping to remember something they taught me almost twelve hours ago. I was the new guy, one who gives the glass around a circle of conversationalists. We all drank the glass full of poison.
Laps later, talk got better. At that time, I munched on meat served on the table when this scourge started boiling in my stomach. The potion I had been passing around betrayed me; the friend became the repulsive adversary. In a blink, I was in the bathroom, throwing up. The liquid rushing through the throat and nasal cavity made painful spasms. Vomit dripped on my lips and in my nostrils. I felt weak.
This guy on the mirror squinted his eyes at me. He looked desolated and trapped. Too, he looked cool in that Joker shirt. Next time I see him, I’d take him out into the real world.
I cleaned up my mess. Peed after that. Went out and found my cousin waiting by the restroom door, asking if I were still doing good. I nodded and smiled and went to bed.
I try to recall what they told me, but all of those went with the gastric pulp down the reservoir of rejected principles (called toilet).
Entry # 20
Date: Sat, 16 Nov 2013
It has been a long time since I was last aware of my being atop a floor of some church. Maybe, in recalling it right now, it was the last time I would ever be in a church, or any holy establishment for that matter.
At first, I was bashful coming out as a cross-breed of agnostic and atheist, but the more I learned, the more certain I became, that relying on faith alone would not be smart a strategy if one, such as I, were to continue living in cussedness.
I dislike the overall ambiguity of it, mainly because of extremists and militants who distort and/or obscure the truth; although I like the religious holidays and how they are so good at briefly converting us into ethical and kind beings, in whatever ways we know how, genuine or not, before we return to our same old selves. During this period, we are allowed to vocalize our hopes for humanity with minimal judgmental feedback. Everybody suddenly can forgiving. And here and there, lights would appear as adornments of the house, a welcome banner to accommodate any spirit who would decide to lounge in and share some thoughts.
Some people give too much color to it, though, to a point that my eyes have had enough of this abject misery. Here we are still with our dumbness in tact, trying to make something out of nothing. Conjurers we are not.
Entry # 21
Date: Tue, 19 Nov 2013
Didn’t go to the morning class. Arrived late on the afternoon class, but it was fine. The professor decided to not show up, and make us wait in vain instead. Waited until the last class.
It was the hardest part, waiting. It always has been. Waited until my buttocks became sore in sitting. Waited until my legs deserted my being for standing too long.
Stuck my head out for some colleagues who were playing crossword puzzle on a tablet. They thanked me every time I got a word right. Waited for the last class. The raging current of boredom was made to take me away from the university, but it didn’t.
And I waited still. Until the last class. I was hanging around gay people giving lecture to straight dudes about homosexuality, and I lingered long enough to hear everything they all had to say.
I waited until finally, the wait was over. When I stepped in the last class, a 30-page surprise exam was waiting for me in my desk. “It’s a joke,” I thought, almost too loud. It wasn’t a joke. And the last professor for the day did not seem to be in the mood for bad jokes. In 45 minutes I was done with the whole thing. Whether I took the exam seriously was out of the question. It’s a funny world we live in. We wait for the wrong things to happen.
Entry # 22
Date: Wed, 20 Nov 2013
When I think of how dashing I am, I picture myself lost with the commuters waiting in the train station, all well-dressed and well-mannered.
When I’m drunk, I dance while I pee. I draw murals on bathroom tiles with urine, and on the morning it would smell of ammonia.
I fan an old book on my nose and start sniffing its wasted years of abandonment, the smell of aging vanilla diffusing profusely from its pages to the air, renovating my deconstructed thoughts. I try to record what I’m doing as drafts (not videos) on my phone.
I think I’m hot stuff, sometimes. I think I’m all glam from head to toe, but it is all feigned. No need now for brashness; I am fully aware of what I really am, and it’s really not that difficult to see. I think of mysterious sounds droning somewhere to console me, but all that echoes back is a monotonous buzz. It’s all cheap cologne and thrift store clothes and perforated undergarments; and the train station is really just a dark alley of bad crimes, and the commuters are really just rats. The joints are creaky when they shouldn’t be.
I may feel pretty sometimes, but rainbows aren’t going to last the whole day. I’m just like everyone else, trying to be cool.
Entry # 23
Date: Sat, 23 Nov 2013
Last Wednesday, I was already 30 minutes late for one of my classes, but I lingered around the corridor, eyeing occasionally the glass door behind which I should be, waiting for the professor to go out. You see, almost always does he excuse himself to go out to fetch something. I saw this as my opportunity to sneak in his class.
Go out he did, only when I least expected it. I fumbled for my phone and acted to be waiting for something else, and I can only hope that he did not recognize me as one of his students. I decided to chicken out. I made up excuses and debated with myself, but in the end, I chickened out. I was so close. Ridiculously so to have not carried on with this stupid plan. Being late already means demerits, and not appearing at all in this important subject only made me sink deeper into my own grave. The lesson, I hope I know now, is to never back out, not now, not later or ever.
Entry # 24
Date: Tue, 26 Nov 2013
none of us could think straight, maybe it’s because of the libido setting in, or the lack of sense of responsibility, or the vague feeling of abandonment. i don’t know. i tried suppressing mine by drinking lots of chilling fluids from the freezer, but my brain almost got frozen. so i stopped searching for the things that might cure me of my disease.
a not-so-close friend admitted she was a bit worried i might get old faster than her, but i assured her that my gears are not rusty yet. just three days ago, when i woke up, i did some push-ups. my gears are not rusty yet. i did two sets of push-ups, five reps each, and i felt good. but later that day, my shoulder blades started aching. my pillows are all wet. how is that? my blankets, my bed sheets, my notebooks, my bag, all wet, each one of them. drenched with gooey substance. the smell is not evident, but with careful observation, one can easily deduce that such could only come from the windows of one abominable soul.
i know what you are thinking. but it isn’t true. they say words are powerful, but when they come from a tainted memory, words can be deceiving. do not be fooled. learn how to read beyond the lines. when i say my pillows are wet, i could mean my pillows were doused in nightmarish sweat. think about it.
Entry # 25: 50 years past bedtime
Date: Sat, 30 Nov 2013
I will be your only medication when you reach the end of your career. I will be the palpable, inexplicable aftertaste with which you will want to harm yourself at the back of your tongue. I will not be toxic, though. Therefore, there will be no harm. Simply, I will be needed, just as one needs pills when one is feverish and unhealthy.
Preservation—for it is the old and golden that needs preserving; instincts and memories flashed pseudo-permanently on films or photographic papers. Sometimes we think of ourselves as a selfish bunch, but there is more to that. Thoughts in sarcophagus, mummified, waiting to be unearthed by future archaeologists.
Hopefully, after I bury these distractions, these murky musings—you, of course, along with all of it—our descendants would take the time to dig them up, to debunk the surrounding myths, to suffer from our recklessness, and to procure among the ruins that glistening wisdom I assumed to have possessed but never actually had.
Date: Sun, 01 Dec 2013
I have not yet involved myself in a physically intimate act, sometimes crudely referred to as having sex, with another person. Fuck me, right?
Entry # 27: Kb
Date: Mon, 02 Dec 2013
Should drunk people go to church? They seem to be passionate about begging for forgiveness.
I tried to lift myself up from the wooden floor but it’s no use. It’s rather a good thing, exceptional even, that near me is a pen and a notebook. This is written first before I typed it heavily into my hard drive.
I ask too much forgiveness; I should be a pope or live a celibate life or someone immune to the temptations of foreign flesh. I will use my hand. Good thing that is not the case. I guess you were not born for the likes of me.
When in the morning I wake up, you will still be in my mind. It works only if you were just as partial to me as am I to you.
I tried writing, but nothing came out of my pen except drools and spoiled sardines. What does that even mean? I hope you like those who struggle to formulate proper thoughts from defiled beings, because if not—too bad.
Instead of a lovely letter, it came out like this. You should’ve seen my notebook, how aggressively I scribbled down the lines, not all too hyperbolic for your taste, but given time, I think they will mean something to someone someday.
The dog’s been chirping the whole night, but how come? Dogs are not created for this sort of thing. I have wondered enough to think where you might be in this darkest hour, but I am not myself at this minute. The likes of me cannot make advances because the likes of me drop by to say hello a bit too late.
Entry # 28
Date: Mon, 02 Dec 2013
Outside lies an interesting field. Acres of solitary people forming point circles of commotion. Wanting to be heard or seen or sometimes left out. Institutions for the misguided, for the zealots, and the in-betweens. But I prefer Here, breathing comfortably around denizens unwilling to choke me with their ideals. Here is a good place. Here you aren’t, you weren’t, you won’t be. Oh the joy of cumulative absence, whatever it means to you!
Entry # 29
Date: Wed, 11 Dec 2013
I ask myself if the idea of my mind being attuned to a sweet raspberry voice I have never heard were reliable, that is, if paying heed to such would be worth my while. Disconnect a lonely guy from the tranquil comforts of his zone, and believe me, he will soon be hearing a voice so lovely he won’t believe it is from his own illusory incantations.
Entry # 30
Date: Thu, 12 Dec 2013 10:26:32
My monochrome phone rang, and I picked it up. “Hey,” said the woman on the other line. “Are you free right now?” It took me a while to recognize the voice. It was, of course, Marian. Psych grad at 25. Practitioner of an unhealthy lifestyle. Preacher of poorly executed quips. That Marian.
“Yeah,” I said.
Once, she was a cast in my midnight dream, but that was before the wedding earlier this year. Had I been more receptive, I would have known her discreet “suggestions” and would have gladly reciprocated her hints. But marriage does bring out the woman in every girl; Marian knows better than to gun every young man in the room with her pheromones. She is now more dedicated to her husband, as she should be.
M and I talked for a while about this party she was inviting me in. I did not like going to parties, but this was a choice not mine to make.
I dislike family gatherings, as they always end up in political discussions that I am tired of hearing. Aunts and uncles throw back and forth the same opinions that I have memorized, but I won’t bother you with the details. We are a mess, you must know that.
Bonifacio died not because he was a part of the revolution, not because the enemies' rifles peppered him with bullets. He died because it was an order of the former leader. Do I think it was a betrayal of sorts? Here I was, wondering about patriotism on a birthday party.
We are a mess, my kin and I, you must know that. We think deeply in the dark moments of solitude, but in the wee hours of the morning, we weep brat-like because we tend to soil our sheets with the crap coming out of our boring mouths.
After drinking the equivalent of three bottles of beer, I wanted to sleep off the rest of the night, that I might shut the people out of my head finally.
Introductions again on the morrow, but not now. I need some snoozing.
Entry # 31
Date: Fri, 13 Dec 2013
It would be nice for me to find you elsewhere, perhaps in a more okay place than this one. A wretched world where seven billion weirdlings live never is a good rendezvous for two people, one of whom aspires to be the ideal fling of the other. Outer Space wouldn’t do as well.
The infinite quirks of our daily lives bore the heck of me. Get me out of such languorous affairs, and let me see you already prepped up for this simple occasion I am trying to pull you in.
Entry # 32
Date: Sat, 14 Dec 2013
The looks and the sounds and the feels of the people I have been browsing emotionally tortures me. The rumor is true: People are more beautiful on the internet. About their smarts, though—they vary from person to person. What is the etiquette, then, when it comes to dealing with these kinds of humans? Whatever it is, I just have to make sure that I am not to be so spooky to them. Ah—
Do not force it, they say. Do not. Do not, and all shall naturally, smoothly follow.
Entry # 33
Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013
An old hag I know is into fits of cough lately. Her dear weak lungs now finally giving up on her. I would advise her to take her vitamins soon.
An old hag is the wisest crook I know, and if she died in her sleep, it would be a shame.
And the old hag needs some back rub, but it’s the middle of the night, and she hates the mere sight of me. It is not me whom she needs, but her god.
And her god would talk to her in her dreams, asking her to stop smoking. “Do it for them,” he would say. But she is such a stubborn woman that even a divine deity as influential and popular as her god could not convince her.
Entry # 34
Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013
It is astonishing to find something so repulsive to be so breathtakingly beautiful. An amateur disease gone viral. Hers was a daring shot to the skies of blaring cyber-fame. The magic in her soul is hers to handle, and for the world to leash.
Entry # 35
Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013
Love is real. An invincible arc passing between at least two contacts. An idea agreed upon. A painful abstraction of an empty stomach. An ignorance that could not be vanquished. A gimmick pulling back the strands of hair to a neat style. A cheap perfume. A cheap mint. Strings of used floss. Polished fingernails. An affection for the outdated minds. Love is real, but lovers are not.
Entry # 36: innumerable pointlessness
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 2013
- Raindrops fell on hot roads. Heat from the deepest, most complex of sanatorium was exhumed to the surface. Heavy clouds trap the vapors. Everyone was getting agitated as the city melted beneath the sky. It’s physics.
- Shards shot out to random directions, away from the crime scene. The vase had fallen to the floor, and I wondered why. The shards were everywhere. And what about the flowers? It’s unfortunate one could not simply reverse the path of every force of every particle that moved. There is no Rewind Button; this God did not make the events in the Universe to be reversible. It’s physics.
- I wasn’t looking when you were talking to me. Nothing in your speech is interesting. Because it’s about metaphysics.
Entry # 37
Date: Thu, 19 Dec 2013
Talk about a lot of things.
Words came out of my mouth, slurry and very much undefined. I had no good sound to produce, no good thought to mutter, and still I opted to speak as if it were an obligation. I was told that random conversations alleviate the pressure inside—a release, a black opening, a tiny hole where the strangling gasesss would essscape, slithering all the way out.
The buzz I made was a lot, but the anguish in the guts remains. I might be perpetually strangled.
Entry # 38
Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2013
Several minutes before midnight, all is burning. All is white with joy and desire and illustrative rage; and the tremendous heat escaping from the excited bodies make sudden changes.
Earth has been such a happy place where happy memories are shelved in boundless rooms. And we have made it that way. Humans are a mass so optimistic that the illusions of hellish ways of how the world would end cannot consummate our prospects of having something divine.
The midnight is coming, or has come. Or has gone. No one knows for sure. Time has been distorted by countless corrections and mistakes. Either we are dying, or already we are dead.
Enrty # 39
Date: Sat, 21 Dec 2013
I’m holding you sober. Your sobriety is a blessing, actually, like a sneeze released violently after being held for so long. Thus, while my presence is still vivid, I hold you not in solace but in a fiery excitement. This is not a violation of privacy, not even a vile stratagem I organized; rather, a celebration of two miscible personas and the events that might follow.
Sometimes, I would look around, then see your face cranked and distorted with stress; your nails empty of colors; hair badly done, wanting of immediate care. I would want to extend a comforting arm, enlist you as someone deserving of goodness in life that only I could hand out, administer whatever assistance appropriate; and yet you remain indefeasible and mighty, even in this blurry world, that I dare not go near.
I’m holding you as an idol misplace in vain, as I would hold an expensive wristwatch I can’t afford. In reality, I cannot hold you, nor can I ask you to kindly hike up the skirt and show me a flawed world no longer knowledgeable of pampering.
Entry # 40
Date: Tue, 24 Dec 2013
Sometimes, I wish you could take a five-minute day-off (ha!) from your skewed visions of screwed-up existence, but I have known the feeling for so long I cannot help but set up a gig for you to immerse yourself in, since I cannot convince you to see your life otherwise. It cannot be silenced easily, I know. It cannot be shushed. I believe, though, that one day, if you pulled and pushed the oars hard enough, you will transcend from such a low point in your life, one way or another. Be dear now, and don’t do anything stupid.
Entry # 41
Date: Wed, 25 Dec 2013
I am a freelancer friend. Everybody’s nobody. The bastard who is somehow successful of winning many a peer by staying neutral, but is befriended truly by only a few. I am the embodiment of a grapevine full of backlashes, backstabbing secrets, and unfinished arguments. Containing them all is like taming a bull: I can’t. But I am a friend of this and a friend of anti-this, and this is all I have. Good luck with that.
I am the messenger who died in the landmine field, and my lords and ladies whose anguish I have failed to deliver to their respective recipients would have desired for me another form of death; however, I don’t wish to inform them my failure, nor do I want a second shot at retribution.
I am a freelancer friend, but if this did not make sense, it would work out for me just fine.
I have witnessed how people silently accuse others for their amusement, but have done nothing against it. I, too, am a perpetrator, and knowing that that title doesn’t offend me offends me. If this did not make sense, then I know I am doing it right.
I am a freelancer friend, what a hectic job it is.
I am everyone’s mailbox of undelivered hate, and if you would just please bash my head with a baseball bat like what jocks do in shitty movies for fun—
Entry # 42
Date: Sat, 28 Dec 2013 12:01:00
I don’t mind goofing around with people who listen to drone tracks for entertainment, because they’re the ones who have interesting thoughts to share.
I don’t mind getting hexed by alpha dogs of my social circle. I’ve done a lot of bad things, and a little curse from them would only serve as a reminder that I should be doing worse.
I don’t mind being missed by some chubby lass who happens to be one of the peers' leading darlings, even if she’s just joking. I don’t mind because I don’t believe her. She’s just being nice. Sometimes, I would like to think of myself as immune to such charms, but some charms develop new kind of strains that pass through my defense system.
I don’t mind not fitting anywhere with anyone, because no matter what I do, there will still be empty slots for me to get in.
I don’t mind being unable to patch this wanton bleeding with a remedial touch, for there will be appropriate hands willing to do that. I’ll just have to hang on and look for them and hope it’s not too late.
Entry # 43: Things I’ve Learned in Matabungkay Beach Resort the First Time I Got There
Date: Wed, 01 Jan 2014
Cousins plan to take me to the faraway hellhole. I remember the environment as derisive, making one learn a couple of things:
- Cigarette butts are as ubiquitous as the grey sand.
- Kids invade the beach at day while adults patiently wait for the night.
- Fatty meats are ironically must-haves when celebrating.
- Also alcohol and gambling.
- Forget not thy earplugs. Terrible singers populate the local karaoke hubs, letting loose of their anguish with their hard accents.
- Overlooking the sandy deposits of Matangbukay are lifeguard towers. They all seem empty, though.
- Derived from the interiors of truck tires are plenty of lifebuoys (which compensate for the scarcity of lifeguards).
- Everybody wears bikini in this place. Everybody.
- People are not at all loud and rowdy. At least, that’s what I have observed 500 meters away from them.
- To avoid sunburn, avoid the sun.
- Grill everything; die from colon cancer later.
- End your trip by catching a final glimpse of the setting sun.
Entry # 44
Date: Thu, 02 Jan 2014
The meandering eyes possess a certain sharpness that only age or sickness could defeat. The meteoric pair sweeps the scenery before relaying any acquired data to a decent brain. However, they’re altogether defamed with detestable comments that often come from detestable figures, increasingly so that the evening has become an impatient wait for the dawn.
Entry # 45: (i wrote once to a semi-imaginary fling. how stupid.)
Date: Thu, 02 Jan 2014
In writing this do I realize that your prolonged absence simply cannot be vanquished by smoke nor stupor. I appeal to you, thus, to redeem me immediately from the miring transpiration of my existence. Be that lucent reminder that at least one person is mad enough to console me, that I am worth the distance from the punitive gags others throw at me.
In reciprocation, I will be at my best behavior. By this, I mean to hush down my stupidities and will not be much of a douche most modern persons are. This will prevent your thoughts from being clouded with wrong accusations and conclusions.
If, however, things would go out of control, for such is Nature and all of its components, from order dissipating to disorder, then we must accept it.
(Strange for me to say these things about us parting already when we haven’t even met yet.)
I must go now, stranger. My bed invites me to DreamLand; it shall wane a bit of my impatience, and halt temporarily the effluvium of my tizzy thoughts of a faraway you. Take care always.
Entry # 46
Date: Fri, 03 Jan 2014
We are isolated in an inaccessible isle of complexity quitters, far from where the funerals of social behaviors are. We have secrets that can astound earthworms and overlords alike We are not honorifics nor bureaucracies, but we are capable of vigorous copulation and funny possibilities. We are so stupidly driven we think we can own our disgusting selves. We are an asylum of dumb fucks in dusty trunks. We are a multitude of tragedies.
Entry # 47
Date: Fri, 03 Jan 2014
My eyes now burn as the light effervescing from the monitor steal me away. I am looking at all the highlights of the human race, the darkness of the human travail, every peak and every trough. I am staring, too, at some faces, those declaring innocence. Inanimate faces are the only innocent things one can look peacefully at nowadays; and what a bad-luck-for-the-earth, for they cannot change the world.
Entry # 48
Date: Sat, 04 Jan 2014
Many a night had I perspired in my sleep, the stench would be heavy by morning. I had to sun them thrice a week to eliminate the odor. But not anymore. I shall suffer no longer from sweaty nights. Alas! here comes the monsoon. It reveals the relief: a nourishing surge for the nonexistent seeds sown in the soiled thoughts of all, delightfully that it excites those who had grown tired of their dull vacation. A transition of seasons when peculiar things are deemed okay: again will bills drop to more affordable rates; wenches in corporal suits will now be drenched whores in the storm; vehicles will soon float as chunks of metal lilies on torrents of filth; bastards into sentimental poets. The rest—they are kids again, and the sour smell from their fermented armpits has gone.
Entry # 49
Date: Sat, 04 Jan 2014
There have always been clusters of authoritarian behaviors ruining interpersonal relationships everywhere. It focuses one’s views on a central dogma—the person’s self. As a result of this dread, imagination becomes the solution to those who are defeated by the ruthless bossiness. The key to their internally induced contentment may lie on daydreaming that peace has a chance. That peace does stand a chance in changing the heartless into philanthropist.
Entry # 50: four steps to senselessness and non-misanthropy
Date: Sun, 05 Jan 2014 12:01:17
- Protection before insertion. Diminish as much damage as you can by initiating the verification of a thought or an idea before you try putting it in a debate with others. It doesn’t have to be clean, but it must be cleansed.
- Allow usage of coins and undeviced dice for the sake of maintaining balance. The balance is to be kept horizontal. If it tilts, stop throwing up.
- Consider also ringing in your head the chances of diabloism. Does it divide or unite? Usually, I would suggest strongly the latter, but if yours is a non-canonical stance, it’s your choice. Just don’t expect them to hear you out.
- And in this mixology of brainiac profusion, I do not wish to astound the “elders” who have looked my way. I can offer nothing, not wisdom for I am inexperienced, not wits for I have been flunking, not even myself for I am nobody; but I could offer a fragment of personhood that you maybe familiar with, for I am a human nevertheless, doing robotic dance moves for a living.
Entry # 51
Date: Sun, 05 Jan 2014
The sight is flared up to maximum, and one can easily see the radiance shooting up in geometric spirals. Every time I look, a small part of me gets injured, as if it had been approved by the whole universe to be so magnetizing yet detrimental. Such elegance prohibits me to witness its passing. It’s all theoretically acceptable, now that I think of it.
Entry # 52
Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2014
everyone—making homebound sentences to all directions and physically cancelling themselves out, given that each statement is of equal magnitude to the others they have made—is a nobody; and personally, it is enticing as it is discombobulating.
the joker in the movie The Dark Knight said, “this is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.” nothing. nothing happens.
Entry # 53
Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2014
They have spoken. I know now exactly the best thing to do. Fairness is a virtue we have to embrace. We have to teach them this, especially that we see a lot of unfairness in this world. Pity is only given to those who deserve it. Thanks.
Entry # 54
Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2014
The most inefficient guy in the bunch was heard chuckling over some unfunny improv. The cunning in his smile was made not to be infectious. He uploads what he cannot contain, mulls at what he could; and with this strategy does he religiously follow himself around the glitchy planes.
I am startled by his need to branch out from the existing norms, and to just create one that would fit his style. I wish to lend him a hand one of these days.
Entry # 55
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2014
I would like to oversleep some other time outside the house, in urban caverns beneath cement bridges where slums never bother each other, except only when asking for some little things. I would like to own myself for a while.
People would be looking for me, but I would be flat on my stomach, looking out far beyond the cities, watching the sun sink behind the buildings, aching and smiling as if they would never know. They might never hear from me again. I might go somewhere else where their warped movement I would never hear of. And that would be my moment, in the shadows, with fetid individuals who remain astonishingly optimistic despite their ordeals.
I would be hungry most of the time, feel groggy and smell bad, but that’s part of the plan. Restoration never comes easily.
Entry # 56
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2014
I don’t see myself either ill-fated or privileged. I just hang in here whenever I get the chance to just hang around a bit longer. I could not help but notice how different people are; and perhaps it is the right time to start expecting more instead of less, to learn again the profits of breakage, to harness the prowess and gather every last bit of sickness and health.
Entry # 57
Date: Wed, 22 Jan 2014
Tried not to be hostile today. It was difficult. I’ve always thought that I’m one of the good guys, and that most people have lost their grooves, and that I should ignore their flickering noise.
Then, I remembered something my psychology teacher told me: “Superiority complex is the worst kind of inferiority complex.” I realize now that it makes sense.
Yes, the wrong people can make the bad things come to life, make them look better and cleaner. They direct the waters from the drainage back to the treatment facility, where all these fluids of all urban creatures are to be chemically infused with some drinkable liquid. They are wrong in doing so. But I was also wrong in putting myself several steps ahead of them, when really, all this time that I have been in the field, I cautiously look out for my steps, trying to figure out if I might be stepping on something hazardous that would shatter me to pieces, while everyone is already crossing the finish lines at the far side of the meadow.
I know this is a phantom exercise difficult to do, but doing it is kind of alleviating. (I don’t think alleviating is the proper term, but there goes.)
Entry # 58
Date: Thu, 23 Jan 2014
I would like to buy my own camera, but I am too impoverished to obtain a new one. I must rely on my photographic memory for now.
I would like to buy me a new bike, so I can ride down the streets where children bathe and dance in the rain; but I’m too broke, so I would have to stick to walking.
I would like to buy a new pair of shoes, but then I remembered that updating my wardrobe isn’t my thing. So, I gave up on the idea, wore my worn-out slippers, and walked outside.
I would like for the sun to shine just a little, that there may be a glimpse of hope waiting behind the clouds.
Entry # 59
Date: Sat, 11 Jan 2014
I remember stepping into the room where our fiery fate had long been waiting. Inside were common things. We could have set ourselves ablaze had we been careless, and “do you hear yourself?” was all that you’d muttered. Did I answer that, or was I into your dilated eyes then that I was stupefied? I don’t remember. Remind me of that sometime, do you mind? Who would have thought that within these white walls we chanted the same unintelligible syllables that only you and I must know?
Entry # 60
Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014
The distant booming of a plane diverted my attention to the stillness of everything. Apart from the late night lights, outside was a dark aura that shines gloom over the land, and a magic called sleep had once been conjured upon those who grew tired of waiting for the night to fall. And to those who had been either immune to the curse or too bewildered by the things that had transpired recently to even dare to sleep, no matter how deviant and diminutive they were, they’re still up. They dug deeper into themselves, finding who they were at the moment. Some transform, others go mad and wild in flats without kitchens.
And I—I was here waiting for the hypnosis to kiss me so that I might finally rest these eyes. Most people were no longer awake as the curse tapped them. But know this: there was no awakening. Morning would come again hours from now as it has always, and the sun would rise still to put an end on the night’s sorcery, and they who had slept through the night would mechanically open their eyes for themselves or for their families or for that work, that school; but they would never be awake. They might have opened their eyes, but they would never see again what once was. They would fail to recognize—as it was in the past—the decaying things in front of them. All those time they were awake, they really were asleep!
Entry # 61: a quick message to someone who is not the same as before
Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014
How will I face some new faces of Change, such as yours, if I am still stuck at the image of your former self, a bright effigy of both fluffiness and porcelain simplicity, now only a dissolved memorandum of the past? Your worshipers have followed you still, despite dismembering your own mane into some sort of a bobcat hairdo, which, I believe, is an emblem of someone who’s up to something worse than bad. Please, tell me one day, if we must inevitably talk, that this is not the case. Forgive me if, however, from now on, I’d be dodging your glances. I am not a fan of your Change. I was never a fan of yours to begin with.
Entry # 62:
Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014
I don’t mind you taking breaks from our conversations. I don’t mind you pressing another particle of soft powder on your face. I don’t mind you doing anything at all. And when it is really time for you to go, to return to whatever job you paused just so you could mingle with me, I won’t mind, really.
I don’t mind you not existing at all, imaginary friend. Please come whenever you like. I could use some back-rubbing.
Entry # 63:
Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014
Spending time With myself again somewhere, wondering if someday our old jokes would make us laugh again. Our eyes, if they ever meet again, would gleam the same uncomfortable passion.
This world kills me, and I need you to redeem me from myself, because sometimes, murders pollute the forests inside me. Perhaps by taking a chance to talk to me about the simplest of things would calm me down.
Fool me again with your whining, and that is fine, that is, as long as you are patient enough to hear my forlorn desires.
Entry # 64
Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2014
You are the beacon present in my daydreaming pastime. A multidimensional demigoddess of the morning light, present nowhere near me, yet reachable, if only I wanted to fight traffic for at least two hours. But even if I traveled that long, I wouldn’t be sure if you would even look my way. I look at the portraits stolen from the entanglement of codes of your cryptic love blog, and I see me damned to the bones. From the storms and debris I see you rise and fall, your chest doing the same. Jet-black shines with great ember, even outshining my wits. I look, and my eyes become deranged, my tongue blenched and smoked with the same coyness you are invigorated with.
The people who have touched you in any way are social alphas, but I cannot look up to them, because they wanted nothing but to hear you grunt some dumb syllables. This I cannot change. I can, however, buy you plastic flowers and inexpensive sweets. I can help you with your final college paper, but only if you would offer to help me in mine after. I’m being clever now, but that’s because I am hoping that someday you would let us be clever together.
Entry # 65
Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2014
Scum is sometimes needed to retain an insubstantial kind of masculinity. It clings for a long time, the scum, even after many attempts of reformation. And this process I truly detest, as I find it ridiculous that manliness sometimes requires filth to be smothering the grin.
Entry # 66: the fury of sunny days and humid nights
Date: Wed, 29 Jan 2014
I used to say, “I am not a clone of my former self. The past belongs only to the past.” That unalterable segment of existence which I would soon, bit after bit, forget. What I was before can’t be what I am now nor what I will be. Ever since people (and things) around me began changing at a different rate, my life has been a slow process of stepping down to bedrock. Something in them possessed a great influence that I can’t overpower. Is it because I was born to be a prey? But I am not. I look back at the months gone by, thinking what happened. Or rather, what have I been doing.
My people get drunk with me whenever their schedules permit them. They have this habit of opening me up. I am their patient on an operating table. One would pick a scalpel and plunge the thing down somewhere in my abdomen; the other would strangle a dark flesh, pick it up and say, “People, this is the liver.” What a sight: waterproof fluid squirting everywhere. “This is your liver in escapism.” There would be red drops in our drinks. Bloody Mary. And then I would reckon flashes of the former days, lashes always lashing. The world never has deceived me. I have many places in me. I can show you that. But you must knock first.
There was a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I folded it into a blank bullet and fired it skywards. You know what’s absurd? People who hold you in their hatred lungs, claiming that you have injured them with accidental projectiles, which, if only they really checked out, was their own un/doing. I had to think of something to jot down on it. But you—I can’t be breathed into doing something just because you exhaled my direction. So, fill in the gap. Fate is only a funny valentine, an incredulous affair written randomly in the stretch of space, not on paper nor in mind.
Entry # 67
Date: Thu, 30 Jan 2014
the seconds go by, and not one sign of drowsiness is here. i am pulled back to surface by the imaginings i had this morning, perhaps an induction of the infernal core.
the first one was about my oral hygiene. in real life, i brush my teeth and wash my mouth at least twice a day. but it was in this moment that a cyst sprouted at the far right corner of my mouth. it felt discomforting. i could not bring to a full close my jaws because of the lump. without warning, the cyst detached itself from the gums (this happened abruptly), and out it came. the thing fell right into my hands. i tried squishing it a bit, seeing if it would burst into a bloody mess. there was a bad taste in my mouth, like a yellowish spunk of infection. a hint of iron.
the second dream came around quickly, picking up where the first left off. it was a party of douches and dames, the bass indelible, and why I was even there made me wonder. there were hookers dancing at one corner, giggling at their own reflections. high school friends were there, too. they looked sleek in their thrift-shop suits. one of the hooker was strip-teasing, and I watched a bit before finally retiring to one of the bedrooms, bored to death. i was searching for something in there, something i no longer knew, but was interrupted when one of the girls came in without knocking. everything faded.
the last of these dreams was about an odd contest. it includes some bulky guys. i can’t remember clearly now the mechanics of the game, but the emerging victor was supposed to have an “intimate intercourse” with the trophy girl. didn’t remember how it came to be, but–but the girl was motionless as stone. something bad was bound to happen, and i felt it was my duty to intervene. i sat down on the bed beside her. she motioned me to lie down next to her. when I did, she yanked my arms, and only then did I notice that she a former schoolmate. she was saying something, that she didn’t want all others prying over her body, how monstrous they behaved, how savage; that I was her savior, her last debuff that would put an end to all this scam. maybe she was right, but in order to prove her theory, her particles should not have begun drifting away.
Tweet-like witticisms back in the day.
- Spontaneous conflagration is the result of the heat of the moment.
- a face that launched thousands of fake social media accounts
- Home is where you hang your enemy’s head.
- I will find a neck and bury my face in it until the pheromones wave me down to sleep.
- tales arriving and departing the mind of a metaphysical new-wave enthusiast that might or might not lead to existentialism
- is ending better than fending
- succeeding in turning people off with my boorish swoons since ‘93
- The graffiti on the streets and bridges offer better philosophy and romance than I can.
- I am a boring individual who persists living in a world where people are becoming less and less attentive.
- I can’t commit a heavenly error without receiving a flaming feedback.
- Not to Miggy you out or anything, but I think that nicknames are good substitutes for ugly verbs.
- We defend the things we think we can.
- Losing times are mostly dedicated to brain teasers or the answers to the most philosophically drunk questions, so please try to forgive me when I talk about them.
- Something about belief mattered greatly.
- Mine are not flimsy limbs but constrictive appendages that will suffocate the luvste out of you should you dare go nigh hither.
- How about leaving them in a low-quality containment, and let them sort themselves out.
- at least let me know if i ever crossed your mind
- If you wished hard enough, thought about it long enough, dreamed painfully enough, the feeling just naturally comes.
- unintentional precognition sprawled everywhere
- Think twice before trusting someone with two mobile phones.
- Pursuit of distress is pursuit of sadness is pursuit of madness is pursuit of stale coffee in stale, cold morning.
- Jokes lose their purpose when you tell them to people who often get involve in bar fights.
- Imagining an opposite sex version of yourself is absurd as it sounds.
- Apologize when you step on someone’s foot.
- Be mad, but be respectful still.
- sext: i will bang you like i bang my door—carefully
- any song can be a driving song if one is so willing to adjust the track and go with the crack.
Reminds me of a paper called “Bullshit Makes The Art Grow Profounder” (Turpin et. al., 2019). Some 20(20) years ago when I last visited an art museum (or was it just gallery?), I couldn’t help but roll my eyes on a lot of pieces' description cards that seemingly always include how the artist “explores” this or that. ↩︎
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