Melancholic Witch

ten-der

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 05:08:06 GMT

1. lourd de veyra's open letter to the criticine editor made me flinch. especially whenever i hear or learn lotsa grandiose filmfest updates and other cinematic gilt-edged gatherings.

2. a pregnant woman delights in my scent.

3. it's really home sweet home whenever the house glows in incandescence. or it is my blunt excuse not to turn off the lights for fear-factor purposes.

4. chatting online, a friend parcels out derangements and flair for monicker-giving by bequeathing pillars-of-the-arts-names to real characters we chance upon.

5. i wish i could be a prism to break thy body to assure people i can be in different places at the same time.

6. i keep getting those trivia books from random individuals. this is their subtlest nudge to remind me i've been hauling the bore-wagon.

7. the slower people would talk, the more i can't understand.

8. everyone despises their faces and headshots on id's. maybe because it is supposed to show who and how they really are.

9. i have been forgiven when i haven't even apologized.

10. i don't need to answer questions never asked of me.

Reel-izations

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 03:16:07 GMT

1. Amelie has done it. With a sliver of light from the silver screen, it is interesting to look at people's faces in the dark.

2. I have tried watching movies alone. Cerebral ones would not matter. But when it's a comical trip and lest you'd be the one laughed at, laughter must be shared in the theater.

3. Why do people leave in haste while the credits are rolling? Don't you people want to read random names and other film what-have-yous for the last time in an insurmountable font size?

4. My real reel childhood frustration is not being able to play/slide in the slopes in front of the wide screen during movie intervals.

5. With the list of frail flicks and overpriced popcorn, cinema is no longer a paradise. I mostly go for the sake of friendship.

6. I always anticipate a ruined reel like cut scenes or failing surround system. People must realize they are just in front of a large-scale form of piracy.

7. I miss the old school Standing-Room-Only.

8. I give much importance to screening time. Apart from the tantrum you would get from me when we start in the middle of the film, I hate missing trailers more than anything.

9. When sure seats was not yet in the theater vocabulary, I have watched a film three consecutive times without leaving the theater.

10. I've always wanted to try eating a rice meal while watching. Too late, my no-rice habit is still in progress.

Still Life

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 03:10:03 GMT

"Dude, you can't be a statue. Even if you're all down and out, that's the least job you should ever get into" said my sister when I showed my ultimate restless mode during mass yesterday.

I can't be still. Something always gets in the way of repose: random thoughts, brow-raising recollections, posture problems (I keep on shifting weights on both legs) and er, my imaginary insects.

Don't you admire sentinels of historical places for their ability and patience to stand still even for hours and hours mindless of their busy and mobile environment? Why do they have to be still when they want to protect the place? It would be more appropriate to show activity and alertness at the very least.

Why am I even bothered about stillness? I mean, yeah sure, in this century of clicks and tricks, you can't be stationary. Even if you don't want to move, you will be moved. There is no such thing as a slow down road sign. There is no room for idle and still adjectives in our vocabulary. There is only movement, change, flux. Otherwise, death. And that is why we keep forgetting that once in awhile it is important to be still. You need to be still to have a closer look at Things. You need to be still to have a closer look at yourself.

Journal Confession

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 05:46:52 GMT

I'm sorry, the Facebook notes page is just too minimalistic. It keeps me serene.

Re-Collect

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 05:39:05 GMT

Now that I think of it, I never really collected anything. Regress to childhood. Relive the glorious high school days and even the lax life of college. I have never ever collected any tangible object. I could not take pride of something dearly kept. Preserved at the most. Even those that still lingers within dusty shelves. If you are going to ask people around I'm pretty sure they have something in their pockets to brag about: stationeries, stickers, pins, stamps and even the bizarre and uncanny ones.

I can't even say I have collected people.

Sat-ugh-day

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:09:23 GMT

The Fire Set

My sister and I have started to take the zip lessons. We are excited to play with fire. Ha! Just a teensy comment, they should really break the classes into the modules as per level. It’s really frustrating to see everyone twirling when you can’t even master a simple routine. Eight more weeks? Ugh, I have to gain more kerosene, I mean patience.

Instrumental

Booze is tasteless without music. Same thing, music without talk seems empty, seems instrumental. I mean seriously how many people go to an unadorned if not a hyped gig bringing some piece of commentary about what is being played if less than who is playing? Ugh, few. The wick of provocative conversations remains unlit. Yeah, sure a lot of people would insinuate that you don’t really have to talk when you are in a bar with pounding sound system that knocks the hell out of your eardrums but at least tads of ‘ear notes’ would do (whisper, oops, I mean more of yelling at someone’s ear while the music is in volume or cramming wise words during song intervals). In that way, the music being played blooms in maturity and we are ready to pluck its meaning.

Talkative Bunny

Ugh, there he goes. I’ve never met someone who would actually perk the mood up the way he did. You would find him annoying if you would not give him a chance to prove his point for being energized. But he is indeed an interesting character. I’ve never talked that much in my entire life. I have finally gained access to that particular pole of my personality.

Incendiary

That’s the word that I have learned from Almost Famous. Loquy (pronounced as low-key, taken from the word soliloquy) played at guijo last Saturday. I was invited by a friend who is, you know friends with the band (ugh. here I go again reviving my groupie antics). I am not really a fan per se. All I’ve heard from them was their released radio friendly song that had hit the airwaves one or two years ago. Yeah, that song inspired by Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. I’m not even sure of the title. I haven’t watched/heard them play live as well (of course, technically Kevin, Louie and that drummer of Wolfgang <forgot his name> are not inexperienced crowd pleasers). After hearing them play three to four originals, I have agreed with what my friend has said that their songs could be categorized as “mountain music”. Their lyrics encapsulate the nature in us. Just a digression: I was expecting a low key/subdued performance when my friend advised me it’s going to be quite heavy so it seems kind of strange because the line-up includes Kalayo (the new Pinikpikan) who are world music performers. Indeed the night was severely gratifying when Loquy played great classics from Led Zeppelin, DMB, Peppers and Jeff Buckley. He brought his Razorback trademark side of him. It’s funny he even made a side remark that he feels as if they are just playing/jamming at home. Moments such as these make you want not to go home, make you wanting for more and more.

Sunday Too Soon

When the clock strikes twelve I know it’s there: the dreaded day of the week. I feel like Cinderella with a heart in rush— as if my coach will actually turn into one big squash and everything else goes back to being imaginary.

Haunt/Hunt

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 03:13:50 GMT

What would you do if you've seen a ghost amidst beautiful creatures around you? Amidst strobes. Amidst the coils of smoke and dancing bottles. Amidst gyrating bodies. Amidst the heart-nip of each drum beat and the ebb of sound waves. Do you scream for help? Do you whisper to an innocent ear? Do you close your eyes? Do you walk away or run in haste? Or you would simply pretend that you yourself is an apparition.

Sanitize Sanity

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 06:46:16 GMT

Right now, I think I have the best job in the world: pour alcohol around 80 kids' palms.

Anesthesia

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 06:42:14 GMT

I told the doctor to wait. Raise the syringe and put it on hold. I've been carefully recalling thoughts. I would never ever forget. This miniscule milli-liter won't make memory doze off. Or it could just sway it through a slumber, temporarily leaving the conscious world. But after the snap of synapses, it would awaken and rest where it should. Before the needle kisses my skin, I am trying my best to erase the room for forgetting.

Notes @ Shang (during the French Filmfest Tribute to Philippine Cinema)

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 00:30:10 GMT

Anino

Watching Ronnie Lazaro, I was reminded of those kids whose smiling faces I’ve captured, or as Raymond Red has put it, I’ve stolen. Maybe I could find time to return everything. Maybe I could still find them.

Un Secret

I am in love with Cecile de France.

Pre-Serbis

I didn’t realize too soon that genuine people of the arts could talk, giggle and even hum along to a boyband tune. All of a sudden, I feel like a stranger in this room.

Kinatay

Hear ye, hear ye! Thus the king has announced: CCP or UP on July.

“I want Filipinos to watch it in its entirety the way they showed it in Cannes.”

Post-Serbis

Coco Martin and even Ping Medina aren’t really sell-outs. Though they are visible in that show in a local channel with its confetti of praises due to high ratings, their acting prowess seemed to have hibernated in the mainstream compared to their respective roles in Serbis and Maximo Oliveros. Was it done in deliberation to preserve the holy indie waters?

Sleepwalk

Why did my feet have to walk in the same pace? Why did they bring me to this same place? Why this same heart race?

Departure

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 00:19:16 GMT

The act of leaving is far more depressing than staying. It requires motility. It requires space. It requires change. It must dispel habits. It needs renewal of deeds to make one self adaptable to the new setting. It is a new kind of beginning, perhaps ending. It is a whole new loneliness. But staying, being left behind requires less toil. It is too a miserable spot. But period requires no other space. The idea of settling gives a slender slice of solace.

Blog Trip

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 13:05:31 GMT

Here's the guide to the new link. Hiding, oh, i mean, blogging ain't easy.

1. It is in wordpress.
2. The url has three words. No space, no dash, no number, no underscore.
3. The first word is the first word in my favorite Postal Service song (that has three words as well).
4. The second word is an adjective and my current mood these days.
5. The third word is a person who uses a tent.
6. The blog title is the same with one of my album titles in Friendster photos.
7. All entries are branches of happy thoughts.

Jump Start

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 14:50:47 GMT

Since there are no more melancholic reserves, I'll be doing jumping jack in wordpress. I won't tell much about this flight. After all, happiness is temporary.

Better/Bitter Not

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 01:25:36 GMT

I'm searching for old and lost journals. The real tangible ones. I haven't retrieved all after covering myself with dust. I got around seven of them. I think I have twenty. Or more. It's no surprise. I've been writing since grade four. Well, in smaller notebooks so as not to have second thoughts where have they gone at this very moment. I've read again what I've written. Creep! All creepy, cheesy, maudlin, superficial (give me more of the negative!) writings. Mostly about boys, new school things, school activities, and let's add more boys. Another thing I've noticed was I never got to use all the pages. The pattern is I would normally end when there is still ten or more pages left. If not the unused sheets, the journal seemed to be thinner compared to the others. Ripped writings. Torn memories. I never should have done it, no matter what. All words and letters are supposed to be treasured, even the rotten and ought-to-be forgotten ones. That's the only proof that I could show people that I've lived, that I've loved. That's the only way to tell the truth about myself.

Lying Should Be A Capital Sin

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 12:26:45 GMT

"Being greedy is being giving. It's just I have been extravagant in giving."

-Imelda Marcos' positive remark about being listed as one of the greediest people in the world

Un-TV

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 15:54:27 GMT

During childhood, mother used to warn me and my sister of her very own do’s and don’ts during the holy week. We are not allowed to play for any acquired wound would not heal. We should attend those wearisome processions in the village. We should not be lurking around elsewhere for Christ is dead. We should take a bath before 3:00 PM unless we want to douse ourselves with blood. And the most common of all, thou shall not turn on the radio or TV.

Boohoo. Who gives a damn? If I would only take a walk in the park in our village, I could see boys playing basketball and training for the summer league. Forget about the 3:00 cut-off. Most people are basking in the sun and undulating along the waves and shores of Boracay and other summer hideaways. Mother skipped the stations of the cross this year due to popping veins. And about silence, cable companies have brought the ultimate evil. And I am writing this as a guilty party.

Just today, I get to be a couch potato again during the first-installment of my teaching vacation. I really had no choice. There is this forever nuisance of the alignment of schedules between friends and other significant creatures— hospital duty, Ilocos and Tokyo trip, holiday work, and the others are practically just, err, lazy. My last resort is kinship that still left an x mark. My sister went to Caramoan yesterday. She has continued to brag about her wakeboard experience that led to this emergence of regret. I should not have chickened out when I was there months ago. So it’s just me, the tube and a basket of mangoes. Short digression: father came home last weekend with truckloads of mangoes that he harvested from our home in the province. In the span of two days, I have eaten a total of twelve, all the ripe ones. I am beginning to feel the surfacing heat rash. The unused talc is now on stand-by.

Anyhow, aside from my intermittent reading hours, I inevitably spent the day on the television that had none of the interesting— monotonous news about the preparations for holy week (I learned about the BLOWBAG though), earthquake in Italy, the homecoming of the top bar passer (whose hugging-her-mother-scene brought me into quick tears), and the commercialized crucifixion of the masochists. The latter was slightly alarming after hearing that they have been doing the same routine for eleven years. All of them are impoverished. Shouldn’t those filthy-rich personalities that we regularly see on TV due to action-packed scenes of corruption and other wrongdoings be the ones to be nailed on the cross? At least, they could afford the best medication for the pending wounds on their palms and feet. They should consider it, you know, for elections' sake. We all know people vote for dramatic heroes and saviors. Apart from the tedious news, I just watched a couple of random music videos. Man, I have to admit MTV sucks. Gone are the days when I was glued to the channel because of great documentaries and live bootleg performances of true artists. There were many ‘talk shows’ then because these people talk about the artists and their work. Now, there are a lot of people who talk because they are in a reality show. Please kill the wild boys, Paris Hilton and the sweet sixteens. The local channels are more torturous: dubbed second-rate series from the land of noodles, soaps that exploit great talents such as Irma Adlawan and Joel Torre, or the spin of teenster-romance that stimulates vomiting (well, I have to save John Lloyd Cruz). Cartoon channels are no fun without the antics of my sister. Learning the lives of celebrities would make me more miserable.

With this roster for viewing, maybe my mother is right, I need to go back to basics. I should yield to a week-long sacrifice of stillness through a sequence of fervent prayers. I am now looking for my rosary beads.

Ah, there’s a consolation, Nobuta Wo Produce would be aired in a local channel soon. Happy! Yamapi!

Post-Cinema Paradiso/Buckley's Grace

Sun, 05 Apr 2009 14:12:50 GMT

I will talk again. I’ll talk and talk to you until forever will be dismantled by time itself. I will talk to you because I have not heard any talk about you. I woke up late this morning for I smoothly sailed along the diaphanous cycles of random objects. I have failed to do background check but I was told, dreaming permits each and everyone of us to be quietly and safely insane, even if accompanied by a requiem. But these objects have miraculously kept me sane. They concealed the real dream-cycles. They overshadowed repetitiveness. Thank goodness for last night’s stories. I’ve had lots from wonderful people: floppy disks, enzymes, vinyl, beaches, dormitories and even exorcism. You would not get it. I seriously wish you were there too so you could have them. The truth is I slept late. I worked for six straight days and I am in dire need of new things, new dreams to gain. I was probably half-awake when Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah played. In that semi-ecstatic state, I’ve come across the instant that it is already Palm Sunday. I would have felt the same heat just like last year had the air-conditioning not been operative. I want to prove to you now that I do care about music. No more secret codes. There are no more chairs or throne in the kitchen. We have to change his lyrics. This time we must assent. We no longer need any king of convenience. And I watched the film again this morning. The reel dude has the same countenance. Puer Aeternus, like before. I know you keep warning me again and again of nostalgia. I can’t help it. You cannot stop liking beautiful People and Things, or plaintive movie scenes. They have remained lovely, despite my geek-like guesswork of the foreshadowing. I have always admired it. What if we could also do some kind of a cut and paste for our ending?

Re-lent

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 07:15:42 GMT

It's almost Holy week. I'm sure everybody's looking forward to a week-stretch of party-ing, oops, I mean, praying. But seriously, the ancestral no-television-for-God-is-dead routine is long gone. People equate this particular time of the year with literal rest. Body and mind break. The quietude that you could not attain during the other holidays in the calendar. Hopefully. Lest there would be desecrating stints by the heartless and the faithless for business' sake. People are more or less on a trip to the beach and the other non-worldly places. Speaking of trips, short digression: my friends and I recently checked online the availability of seats for plane rides, and no surprise, all are filled. And I have to say, we stealthily did this during the snooze-inducing-paascu-presentation. See what I mean when I say people are looking forward to rest?

Going back, since it's the Lenten season, you expect people to, you know, repent. But since Ash Wednesday (which marks day one of lent), I have never ever seen anyone, at the very least, relent if not repent. I am no Pontius Pilate. I admit, I, too, am having difficulties seizing the good side of thy self. I have the tendency to be a spiritual schizophrenic. But this day brought salvation to that thought. I've met a true redeemer. Since it's a Saturday, you expect less people to be on the road at six o'clock in the morning. Everyone at home is still in deep slumber when I left. And so I rode this jeepney with just me and a man probably in his early thirties as passengers. I paid my fare with a fifty peso-bill. Probably the driver used up all his coins in a drinking session last night or at the gas station earlier that he has none left for change. Usually, drivers would cause a traffic disturbance when they would drive side-by-side with a fellow jeepney driver, have a small chat only to ask a favor to break the bill into smaller denominations. But this one hastily gave my money back, leaving me with no choice but to ransack my already chaotic bag for more coins. Then there goes my hero, the middle-aged dude, who took his wallet and paid for my fare. Wow. Amazing. I couldn't do anything but to give a thousand thank-yous. Yeah, for sure, people wouldn't be in much awe considering it's only seven pesos. But still for me, it was a small act of kindness that you couldn't buy in this world.

I was reminded of a similar story from a friend years ago. She rode an FX taxi on her way to school. Unfortunately, she left her wallet at home and it was too late to get off the vehicle. Initially, there was no one who was willing to help her. But my friend, with trained theatrical skills, pleaded the gentlest-looking passenger. She said she would give three apples in exchange of the thirty peso fare. Luckily, the lady assented. I realized just now, I also brought an apple in my bag. I wish I had given it to him. Who knows, his redeeming act and that bite-size fruit could change the entire story of Genesis.

Summer Scraps

Thu, 02 Apr 2009 23:56:56 GMT

The weather’s fickle. A student from my remedial class watched CNN the other night and reported to me that there would be sporadic rainfall within the summer season. I recently bought a piece of my favorite umbrella from the Japanese store. This time the blue one. I still have never thought of bringing it to school. Maybe some things are just meant for display satisfaction.

+++

My mother’s overtly paranoid about my schedule. Before leaving the house, she always asks me what time I would be coming home. I never should have told her about my Wednesdays. As if shift of religion is the answer to all of my problems.

+++

I like going to department stores on a weekday this summer. I am blissful to see kids shopping with their parents. As if weekends have never existed. I am just reminded of my own childhood summer: bargain of kiddie bathing suits, basking in the land of never-ending ice cream and beholding Barbie dolls and sorts.

+++

Friends have finally come out of their work-lair. I’ve been haphazardly signing up for summer plans. I should really check the calendar. I do not want to wrestle in this heat with hot-headed people.

+++

If I could only hush the Facebook-conundrum. This is such a pity. I obviously must overcome this monotony.

Heart Attack

Wed, 01 Apr 2009 01:37:28 GMT

We had the annual physical examination in school today. Lousy check-up really. For completion's sake. I mean, for years, I have memorized D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C from the Snellen's chart and they still couldn't get it when I told them. I was asked about my family's medical history and I told them in truth that my father's prone to hypertension and my mom's people had diabetic stories, now what? The only part that I did like was the blood test. As always, I have been wanting to bleed. And I just couldn't take those fake facial expressions of faint-heartedness because of the quick prick. Right, girls? What is it to feel that split of a second dot of the thorn-like needle on your skin? We've had gained more pain. Our skin was bruised and wounded many many times. The anticipation of pain will more or less decrease the probability of actually feeling it. Those that happen involuntarily, those that attack our most unguarded self, those are the pain that could kill.

Book-stored

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 01:25:09 GMT

It was one of the rarest moments when I have learned to resist. Thinking before doing. Consequences arrived before actions. Not to deny, it was so much easier to go with the flow. To take shape with what was preformed. Each snap will turn the lights on. Just like that. No burden, no tension. No tug, no force.

Yesterday, apart from spending all of my afternoon resisting heat (the war that I could not wage), I have found my temporary fortress in books. Together with another book-lover, we've scoured towering and vainglorious shelves and stands. And there it was, perchance, seated on the center of a strategical slab. The book of the instant. The avail of a second. My hand grabbed the thing in haste and there's no way, really, there's no way my neurons could compete with this reflexive circumstance.

I've read excerpts from the review. Read paragraph one and two. Browsed the pages. Smelled the fresh and viscous print of each. Marveled at the increasing numbers waiting for intimate perusal. But after my companion's few more rounds, I carefully put back the book and left the place without any paper bag.

Hurrah.

I have let go. This is the proximal distance. But when I think about how many books are still on queue at home, I pick my pocket for regret. It wouldn't hurt for another diminutive space to add. Those lonely reserves. Those armor and ardor. I've been used to the life plan of ants. Waiting for the imminent plague. Ready for the onslaught of the unknown. For sooner or later, all pseudo and makeshift sanctuaries would crumble. And I would survive with nothing but words and letters.

Monologue

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 04:28:09 GMT

There's lesser work in school now with the absence of kids.

After the Earth-hour-global-warming-drama, we're back in full-freon-conditioning.

It sucks all the more for there's no one to talk to. You go online, there no one. You try to dial some numbers, no answer. It could have helped if their lines were busy or there's some loose internet connection.

I am usually quiet. But I just need someone to talk to. Right now. This very moment. This critical juncture.

Where are these People and Things that have made this inexplicable and indispensable noise in the world?

In this freaking feverish 35 degrees heat of search, they are still, they are, there is still none.

Signage/Sign-of-age

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 01:46:18 GMT

I am sort of engaged in reading and believing signs. For the past few weeks, I've been trapped in a great quandary of what my life would be with the heap of decisions that have piled up on the vast desk of my mind.

One of my closest friends has been tortured by my idiosyncratic "it-is-a-sign" retorts that she eventually confessed of immensely becoming sick of it.

Quarter life crisis. Maybe. But come to think of it, I am supposed to be more analytical and careful about People and Things. After all, wisdom comes with age. Or is it I need signs because I have kept on forgetting?

Shift-F7

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 23:20:41 GMT

There are so many inexplicable things that have been happening in my life lately. No matter how hard I try to vent out what I feel to the person I am most comfortable with, there is no way I could be understood. There goes my life-long mantra that no one could ever ever really understand me. Amidst the pool of words that you have painstakingly picked from your pocket dictionary, they just could not encapsulate what is meant, what is necessary to be known. I've tried people. Be it strangers, too. I remember someone telling me to release qualms of saying your stories to random people. The very word random makes it helpful to your situation. They don't know you and they don't know anything about your life. They are free of bias and they would probably blurt out the random-est retort that they could think of. And sometimes the random-est sense is what I need. I have been full of prescriptions, meticulous examinations. It is difficult to have always been in a bell jar. People would come and see you but won't do anything really. You're there. Preserved specimen of whosoever. You could see through but you could not escape. Your life is sustained by this liquid-y thing that refuses people from opening the very vessel you are in. You are probably a display of sorts.

You could not blame my silence for this. I am not silent. I was never silent. The truth is, my world has been muted. That's what made me silent. The verb is stronger than the adjective. That's what my professors used to say. The most powerful words. And they have taken hold of me. I really really tried. I mean, if you have an idea of how many blogs did it take for me to say my piece to anything and to anyone. Unimaginable number for someone described as this recluse type. I am so exposed, here in the world wide web at the very least. I have lost count of those blogs, by the way. I know they're there, somewhere in this pixel-ized world, and at some point, someone has read through them. So what I'm trying to say in this entry is, no one could really help. I don't know, a friend even recommended a shrink. But that's not what I need. Everything seems to be inaccessible in this supposed-accessible-media-driven-world. I wish I could just Google this quandary I am in. Or better, pressing the Shift-F7 buttons would, right then and there, give me the exact definition that I most definitely need.

Almost

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 06:27:42 GMT

Dude, all the archives, all the libraries, those quasi-venerable collections. I've dusted shelves upon shelves, those that might have endured the antediluvian cerebration. It might have slipped into the ray-less or fell into the crack of the less known. I've been adamant, if it requires more than the zero hour, this search ain't over. Please tell me it isn't.

P.S.
Quentin's right. You can't write poetry on the computer.