Thursday
[
Magpie arrived and I was still wearing my PJs, obviously haven’t taken a bath, and still in front of the PC. I had been working on some things for 13 hours.
And I was failing.
“Oh my god!” she said, “Have you eaten?”
“Yep,” I replied, “Gnomie fed me when she got in at 6. I’m so fucking tired. Jesus. I can’t move.”
“Stop now. Rest for an hour before you take a bath.”
I just nodded, shut down the computer, tried to eat once more but I couldn’t taste anything, and replied to text messages.
One message said:
“What’s stalking-texting? I’m worried for you. Are you okay?”
I had explained what the stalkers would do. I had sighed a very tired laugh--- all for the love of words.
“Yes, I saw you gave your name away. A brave act and worthy of the point/s you made abt being responsible & accountable for the words we publish in writing or spoken word. Don’t fear, there are many of us making the same points & fighting.”
Minutes later I felt myself falling apart and I had cried out in help to two loved ones who know how this exhaustion would unravel me--- knowing that none of them could do anything about it--- except to let it all wash over me and hope that it would not drown me.
The black hole had come and I was fighting it with anger.
In this fight, I have to be angry otherwise I despair.
I was too tired to laugh it off or be even angry and lashing out would just hurt people. I was already lashing out at those two and I wanted to stop but I couldn’t.
“Why can’t you help me? Help me! I am falling apart!”
The black hole was winning.
I remembered then what someone had contemptuously said to me last May, “Unlike you, I don’t take pills to cure whatever.”
I had wanted to say, “Spoken like someone who has no idea or understanding about this. Who said that I am taking pills? Who said that pills would cure anything?” But I kept my silence. After all, he needed to talk his thoughts out and he was lashing out.
When you are lashing out--- driven by demons to do this--- the other is just supposed to listen, even when you think that the person should do something. It is the kind of anger that would be exhausted in the telling and in the end you will be relieved. You will even apologize and you will be forgiven. During and especially after, you will feel such self-hate and you will want to kill yourself.
Only the very wise and the very loving would listen and take all that anger unto themselves, then would slice Occam’s Razor into your soul, and would say in the end, “There is nothing to apologize for.”
[
I dialed a number and my call was picked up.
I couldn’t even say “hello” because I started sobbing.
“Come. Now. Get out of the house. Come here.”
I stopped in the middle of a sob and choked out, “I’m just so tired. I haven’t taken a bath. I’m all dirty.”
“Then take a bath here. There are clothes here.”
I said, “I can’t go out of the house without taking a bath. I’ll come over. Just wait. I’ll come.”
While taking a scalding bath, I had remembered how on a May morning in 1999 I woke up feeling how I felt now.
The person I had called had also said, “Get out of the house. Now.”
[
The old man opened his door, hiding behind the door.
I asked, “Are you wearing a shirt?”
He laughed, “Uh, no.”
I said, “Jesus Christ put on a shirt. I know it’s your place but you don’t answer the door shirtless, even if it’s me, especially if it’s me. What’s the matter with you?”
He walked away laughing to put on a shirt. I called out, “Are you decent now?”
He laughed, “Yep.”
I turned to him and he held out his hand towards the table and benches in the room. I sat and forced myself to be still.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Some…Still have something to drink here?”
“Nope. You want to?”
“Yep. Sorry, I should’ve bought something on my way here but I wasn’t thinking anymore.”
“Okay, hold on. I’ll go downstairs and get some. What do you want?”
“Same poison.”
When he left, I laid my head on the table and looked to the open widows, looking outside into the darkness feeling that the darkness was in me.
When he came back, I looked up and to him as he laid the rum, two cans of coke and chips on the table.
Then he sat down.
I said, “I want to kill myself. There, I said it. Jesus Christ. After years, I’m saying it again.”
He nodded, and said, “There are the windows. Jump.”
I started laughing.
He stood up and looked outside and down the windows, “It’s only four floors up. You won’t die this way. Let me get the keys to the rooftop. Let’s jump together.”
He started laughing, too.
I sputtered, “Ohmygod I needed that. Whew. Thanks. Y’know that’s what I used to say too whenever people tell me they want to off themselves? ‘Go ahead!’”
He and I were laughing so much.
“When was the last time we saw each other and talked?” he asked.
“Last week of October and then November 6,” I said.
“That long? Let’s catch up.”
Occam’s Razor is in and I slowly drank as the blade gets pushed deeper into not just my soul but his as well.
In our souls:
“How’s the color of your urine lately?” I asked.
“Good. Better. Yellow now. Clear.”
“That’s good. Dad couldn’t pee the night before I left. He drank hard stuff again. He has no problems when drinking beer but the hard stuff…hay. I had to get him Hytrin and I waited and listened every time he would go to the CR. Nothing. Around
I remember when the old man had cried in 2006 when I told him that my dad was sick. Two tears that he wasn’t ashamed of showing and that he wiped away. He had said, “Your dad is a good man.”
And when one of his friends died last year, he had also said, “Sa pag ka old man kung ito, wala na kong magagaw pa kung di umiyak. They are all dying, one by one and I’m afraid that one day I will wake up and they’re all gone and I’m the only left behind.”
And I had said, “I’m younger than you older folks. I’ll still be around by then. You won’t be alone. And I’ll make sure you get an Irish wake. I’d probably be dancing drunk on your grave in a tantrum, screaming ‘How fucking dare you die! You just wait ‘til I die too and then we’ll meet and I’ll bitch-slap you!’” He had laughed.
“How’s the Duma Virus?” he asked.
“What did I tell you last May? I’ll fuck it then I’ll kill it. Well, I’m fucking it,” I said, “Look at what’s all coming out.”
We laughed.
In laughing I remember when I had dinner alone with Mickey in Dumaguete last May and I had asked him, “What do you do when you open a can of worms?”
Mickey had said, “Simple: you get a bigger can.”
He and I had laughed so much, too.
Then the old man and I spoke of getting older and the things that would make us sad and drive us to nights like Thursday: his ogres, and my black holes.
Friday
[
“I’m finally sleepy,” I said, looking at the half-full lapad that I had solely emptied. In my black hole, the old man stays sober.
He had said, “I just got home minutes after you called. I had hurried home because I was seeing black slippers, heavy steps. Up the stairs I was seeing black slippers and I was thinking ‘Uh-oh’. Then you walked in wearing black slippers.”
I laughed, “In sync. Don’t you dare fucking die until I’m 40. You’d be what by that time? Almost 70?”
He laughed, “I was thinking 99 would do.”
“Yeah, 100 is corny.”
I slept on his bed, he slept on the pull-out.
“If I wake up from nightmares…” I said.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
During the night, I knew that I woke up thrashing and he had just held my hand or tucked the blankets around me and said, “Sshhhh…Sleep.”
I slept.
[
I woke up to his hand holding my hand. I patted his hand and gave him a weak smile. He rubbed my back, felt the knots, and then stopped.
“Oh dear, people have been cold to you huh?”
“Some,” I mumbled, “I only got them when I came back.”
Then he held my right arm and hand, pressed and I winced.
“You must have been really angry---someone touched you without your permission? And you didn’t allow yourself to hit back? And of course you cried. When was this? Look at this. It’s almost frozen stiff.”
“Saturday,” I mumbled, “No point in hitting back. Let’s unlock the bad juju of that touch. It’s messing up my vibe.” I carefully moved to present my back to him.
And by god, the whole process hurt: I would wince, then flinch, and curse “Goddammit that hurts!” He just kept on pressing points. I had grumbled, “Damn the Chinese and their pressing fingers on wounds to heal. Goddamn really hurts.”
He said, “It’s your chi--- here,” and he pressed my right lower back.
“You now where I feel it?” I asked.
“The opposite,” he said.
“Yep. That really hurts.”
“It hurts to hold something that matters up. Plus you’ve been sitting a lot lately. What did I tell you? Always take a break now and then to walk around or get some sun and air. Or rain.”
After a while, the sweat started to break out.
“There,” he said.
“Yeah, and I’m finally hungry.”
[
The old man cooked breakfast for us while we talked about days and I wrote. As we ate, we talked about the dominant perception on the use of English and how it also affects learning and use of English in education and life.
We were talking about the English Proficiency program that he had asked me to help him with for Payatas.
It’s all in the basics, he and I agreed. I had told him once more of having college students who have elementary level proficiency:
“My god! I was wondering what the hell they learned before college. Imagine, 2nd or 3rd year in college tapos elementary level yun English?
Di man lamang magtanong kung bakit ang mga bagay ganyan o bakit ang mga buhay nila ganun. Pag di magtanong at mag-isip, how are they supposed to have any idea what to do? Tang inang strawberry generation ito. Di mo pa mapagsabihan. Hurt kaagad--- ayan emo moments nila--- dapat yun teacher ang super considerate over sa grabe. Spoon-feeding ang demand ng students. Diyos ko.
Tapos karamihan ng mga teachers, wala na rin energy to encourage or push them to that. Given na yan, sino bang gaganahan eh ang liit ng sueldo? Serbisyo sa bayan talaga ang magturo lalo na pag kupal mga students.”
He said, “Masaklap pa yun mga may alam kuno in English, they’re not even using it properly or effectively.”
I said, “Values nga eh. It’s all about the values in learning and using English. Hay, I’ll just finish everything that I have to write then I’ll go back to teaching again.”
[
“Jesus, some unlocking,” I said.
“Why?”
“I feel like I need to vomit and go to the john at the same time.”
“That bad, huh? Go ahead.”
“It’s purging. Kadiri yun vibes eh. Excuse me.”
While purging, I heard him start playing something in the guitar. I listened the whole time. When I came out, I asked, “What was that you were playing?”
He said, “This song I’ve been working on. “Pares”, pairs. I started hearing it again when you read that last poem just a while ago. Melody is created between repeating two cords, twice.” And he played it.
He said, “It’s a matter of 1 beside another 1.”
Unlocked: Short Fiction
“By god! You just gave me thesis of this story I have been working on! The story’s title is ‘The Number 1’. I’ll write. Keep on playing.” He laughed.
Unlocked: Theory & Criticism
The difference between deconstruction and destruction in the simplest sense.
Unlocked: Novel
Chapter 15 of “Bulimia of Boys and Men”: Burying A Child.
Then he stopped playing and we started talking again. He told me of this guy who would beat up his mother in his drugged haze then after he would try to hang himself.
Unlocked: Blog
Deconstructing Suicide.
“Just keep talking, tell me stories,” I said, “It’s unlocking the blocks in my writing.”
Unlocked: CNF
Chapter 15 of “Catching The Duma Virus”: Writing in 1993. Content.
Unlocked: Blog
Pictures of music that inspired which
Twist: 2 pictures that would make Egg laugh
[
I had apologized to Magpie about why I didn’t come home, that I needed to thrash some things out in my head, that I was sorry that I didn’t tell her sooner.
She said, “Okay, if u need an impatient magpie to listen, am just here. Love you maus!”
I finally gave her my blog URL.
[
The cat told me, “Just be well beh. Just be well.”
[
The old man went to the Heart Centre to get his ECG. I was left alone. Alone, I went over Ma’am Marj’s syllabus for her CNF grad class once more.
Unlocked: CNF
Concept Paper of Duma Virus
Unlocked: Theory&Criticism for CNF
Meta-writing = Duma Virus
Then I cleaned the kitchen.
[
I sent a message to Egg in
“Ok man. Mundo konti. I mis u too. Super. How r u?”
I told her that I kind of had a meltdown. And that I would be going to
“Yey! Ok. Great I mis
She [and some people] used to read my other blog and I had deleted it without telling her. I told her that I was just tired and that I had too many deadlines. I also told her what I’ve been working on and that some of my stories and the cat’s have been included in syllabi for Creative Writing classes.
“Wow! Congrats! So proud of u maus! Btw, my exofcmate who reads u lovd
I told her something like, “Really? Thanks kamo! Itayo dapat talaga ang flag ng gay&co federacion because they’re god’s children too noh!”
I told her that when she reads my blog, it would be as if I were talking to her and sharing what’s happening since we don’t have the end of the day or mornings or weekends to be together to talk.
[
The old man came back and we talked some more. We talked about the work he’s going to do for Filipiniana online, about incorporating music, literature and art in that website.
Before he returned he sent a text message, “On my way back. Just gonna grab a jeep.”
I replied, “Don’t grab it. Ride it. Horsey tigidig. Hehehe.”
Unlocked: Blog
Diplomacy vs. Honesty in Writing
I said, “I’m sleepy. Siesta.”
I fell asleep and woke to the old man playing playing Juanlunatech’s, “Kejeng-Kejeng”.
Friday
[Sunset]
Vinti arrived and he helped the old man heat bath water for me.
I said, “Galing nung song mong sinulat! Yun [I sang] ‘Di mo man aminin…’ Tumatak eh!”
He said, “Ah, yun kejeng-kejeng!”
Then he saw something I drew on my journal, “Tangna naka acid ka niyan?”
I laughed, “Hindi. Di nga ako nagdrudrugs di ba? Yun ang music niyo nung November 6 sa mag:net.”
Unlocked: Blog
Critique of Juanlunatech’s music.
Use of images before words when writing of music
The more you listen, the more you find words.
Vinti said, “Maganda kung colored yun drawings mong ganyan.”
I laughed, “Alam mo sinabi rin yan ni Pancho sa ‘kin. Pinag-iisipan ko pa kung paano ko gagawin.”
I said to Vinti, “What do you think of ‘Fuck you and the horse you rode in on?’”
Vinti laughed so hard. I said, “Yeah, I had the same reaction. You should meet Adam. He was the one who said that.”
[
I took a bath after the two had tuned bass and lead to jam. Bathing, I listened to them play.
I came out when they paused and said, “Poy, I feel marginalized! I’m marginalized by the mirror in your bathroom and this pink towel!”
The mirror was too high and I could barely reach it and the pink towel was a bit short.
The old man peered through the corridor, saw me, and laughed, “Marginalize it some more!”
I said, “Nyak! God save me from monks!”
[
The two now are jamming to “Kejeng-Kejeng”. Vinti talked about his Art History class. He talked about Abstract Expressionism and how Clement Greenberg defined it.
Unlocked: Blog
“Everyone’s An Abstract Expressionist”
Then we talked about my God story and the cat’s “Dialogue Between The Last Man and Death” story. Then we talked about God, spirituality and past lives.
Vinti said, “You’re god’s angry little girl!”
I laughed, “I like that!”
Then the old man and I told Vinti about last night.
We all laughed.
Unlocked: CNF
Chapter 13 of “Catching the Duma Virus”: [the ending, make it a list]
They begin playing a new version of their song “Sometimes”. Vinti pointed out adjustments to the old man’s playing.
The old man said, “It’s a stutter step.”
Vinti said, “There’s a hiccup…there!”
After, Vinti asked me, “What do you think?”
I asked, “The new version?”
“Yeah.”
I said, “Na-record niyo na yun original di ba?”
“Yeah.”
I said, “Record niyo ‘to tapos compare niyo.”
Vinti said, “Tama!”
[
I patiently waited for them to have their fill of their guitars.
The old man asked, “Alam mo ba yun ‘Hagdanan’?”
I shook my head and they started playing it. There’s an eerie poem somewhere there, waiting.
I told Vinti, “It’s like Beetlejuice stairs. Have you watched that movie? ‘Beetlejuice’? You should.”
Then Vinti told me how he fell down the stairs when he was a kid, “Sabi nun mga katulong ‘Si Binti! Si Binti!’ Tapos ala lang, I just got up and walked away.”
I said, “Wow, tigas nga ng ulo mo.”
[
Javy’s
I asked Vinti, “Is it detrimental to your band na ang pogi niyo?” [Referring to the fact that Frank, their drummer, is also very handsome boy and Rick, their bassist, is another lover boy.]
Vinti covered his face in dismay, “Oo”, then laughed.
I laughed [to the old man], “Did you see his face?”
We all laughed.
Unlocked: 6-word-stories
We all started making 6-word-stories in between eating, drinking and sharing stories.
Vinti: “Live performance. Your cue! Blank stare.”
The world ends after the last---
My organ card: organs stay mine.
“I am Humanity,” said the rat.
Get used to it, yeah, normal.
Fuck you? I don’t do lines.
Fuck me? Go fall on line.
Five songs in an EP: sound.
Rastafarian, “---Puff?” and the Buddhist passes.
Finger pointed to my face? Stupid.
Abstract Expressionist: non-representation, et ceterum.
Chaos Theory: still not getting it.
Decoded: I am a cosmic decoder.
Old man: “I am not what I am.”
I teased him, “That is so cabaret gay!”
Saturday
[
I told the monks that it was time for me to go home because Magpie, Gnomie and the cat might be very worried.
Before I left, the old man was telling me about the “Wala sa pana, nasa indian” philosophy in Golf which one of the old caddies had explained to him years ago.
I started laughing and said:
Unlocked: the 19th
“You just gave me the grounding for that mag:net reading critique!”
And Occam’s Razor is out and the black hole is gone.
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