dasal (isyu at daing ng madaldal na isipan)

my Kuyz

we weren't all right

falling-out does happen

he and i, we were reconciled, thanks to

the light that has cast His rays upon us,

inspiring us to take this shot

then i began to realize how God-given he is,

and is realizing still

yeah, i guess we're back on track

LSS

*salamat kay Danj sa pagpapahiram ng MP3 niya. Nagpapasalamat si Danj Kay k.J at Salamin na kumanta nito sa gig nila.

"All These Things I've Done" by The Killers

When there's nowhere else to run
Is there room for one more son
One more sonIf you can hold on
If you can hold on, hold on I wanna stand up,
I wanna let go
You know, you know - no you don't, you don't

I wanna shine on in the hearts of men
I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand
Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no no no no

Help me out
Yeah, you know you got to help me out
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
And when there's nowhere else to run

Is there room for one more son
These changes ain't changing me
The cold-hearted boy
I used to be

Yeah, you know you got to help me out
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
You're gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down

I got soul, but I'm not a soldier
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier
...

Yeah, you know you got to help me out
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
You're gonna bring yourself down
You're gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down
Over and in, last call for sin
While everyone's lost, the battle is won
With all these things that I've done
All these things that I've done
If you can hold on
If you can hold on

TO ALL THE DEAD WHO DIED OF DEADLY MISTAKES

I pray that everything will be understood by those whom you left behind. You have left this world suddenly, only with the forewarning of a goodbye. Maybe you weren’t expecting that your physical body will shut down so soon, or maybe you were hoping for it to be that way because of how life has pained you. Regardless, it was all too shocking, all to painful, and all to surreal for those whom you have bereaved. As for the rest of the world, it’s just another mortality – take a glimpse of the dead and move on. As for us who believe that there is a God and His Enemy, it’s another uncertain journey for your soul.

Not Lesbian Nor Gay, But Girl Slash Guy

It was a dehydrating day of driving when I and my Dad decided to stop over to fill up the tank as well as our stomachs. Judging by the absence of a vacant parking space, people greatly treasured the service of coolly-ventilated restaurants. So we decided to grab a bite through the take-out counter. Dad stayed in the car while I charged the scorching heat of concrete between our car and the entrance door with my hair tied under a baseball cap.
I lined behind two old women who were claiming their discount by presenting senior citizen cards. It took them quite a long time negotiating with the cashier about the validity of the card, making me more concern about the state of my Dad getting baked in the car. Finally, a waiter realized that eternity already passed since the beginning of that negotiation, so he asked the cashier in the next counter if she can accommodate me. He turned to me and said,”Sir, you can proceed to the next counter.” I smiled but didn’t move. He took a good look at my features, observing me from toe to cap, and smiled heartily. “Hey! Kindly serve ‘Sir’ over here!” he shouted for everyone to hear. He turned back to me again joking, “Really, Sir. Don’t be scared. We don’t bite…you will be the one who’ll do the biting on our delicious meals…” My expression was in the middle of a smile and an appalled grin. But it wasn’t the first time that happened.
I remembered the time when I taught in the Day Care because of our school’s scholastic organization’s Outreach Program. I was observing the kids, reminding them every once in a while to stop punching each other, when one of them tagged my skirt. He looked at me with inquisitive eyes and I beamed back. “Why? Don’t you understand the lesson?”
Without so much of a warning or a sign that I’m about to be humiliated straight to my below-the-knee girl’s uniform wearing self he spits “You’re gay.” His tone was not questioning. It was declarative.
Now, I have nothing against the third sex. In fact, I find them fascinating in the sense that they are, well, queer. (One of my best friends is the gayest ever, and I adore him to the core). But putting it that way, well, I got myself disoriented throughout the lesson. The kid just stared at me, expecting the affirmation of his basic skills in comic anatomy. I and my friends just laughed at it, them laughing like hyenas that were hyper-ventilating, and I, my jaws twitching to fake a smile.
That was just the umpteenth time it occurred, but it was significant since, I have mentioned, I was wearing a five-inch below the knee skirt as were my other certified GIRL classmates. Maybe it’s the fact that I often forget to tell everyone I get acquainted with that I am a natural girl. Or maybe it’s because I have similarities with Shaquille O’Neal, as my brother insists. Either way, sixty percent of the people I meet get the first impression that I’m a boy, not gay. Boy. Does this insecure me? Well, I would be lying if I say that I take it as a compliment. At first, it got me asking questions like “Am I really a girl?” or “Was I a hermaphrodite and my mom just chose the feminine genital for me?” But as time passed along with more remarks, I felt strangely happy about myself.
I felt comfortable with everything that I do – from playing demented basketball to laughing my tonsils out over a simple newspaper joke. People don’t mind, in fact, I got more friends because of my hermaphroditic personality. Friends, boys, girls and gays alike confide in me, not because I’m witty with advises or I suck at it, but because I understand precisely how they feel. I jive with the sexualities. My Mom too had doubts if I was really a girl, preparing herself for the confession of my being a lesbian, because some guy friends would visit our home looking for my company just for the sake of goofing around, boy’s style. I am not picky with people. I can get along with the most demure of the princesses to the “piggiest” of the pigs. Being a girl-slash-guy surely is beneficial. It’s just who I am. And I thank God for that.
So, I finally got the iced drinks from the counter, smiling at the waiter before I head for the concrete desert outside. As I left the resto, they all giggled - signifying something good; they finally recognized the waiter’s error and realized that I AM A GIRL! (Okay, I’m not sure of that. But they were definitely laughing the moment I walked out the door.)
Whatever it was, it’s no cliché – it really is fun being a girl.
Slash guy.

I Because of You^ and He

^too much: all of these, it’s too much.

^you know how much i love you: you who know me more than what i’ve made known to you, you who scrutinizes my mind to the deadliest of its cells, you who searches my soul to the depths of my unsaid, you who compels me to live a life floating in tears, you who makes me soar in undying wings of faith beyond, you whom i love more than i could ever hate myself, you, my you.

^you know how much i love him: he who doesn’t know me even though i think he does, he who lacerates my mind from your heart, he who can never search me for the faintest sign of love through the densest pretension, he who compels me to forbid a single tear to make sprout this ground that buries my reality, he who makes me soar with waxed lies, he, he who is not mine.

^i have crushed us: for the last time, i have crushed us.

^i have taken my life because of him: i who had made him take what used to be resilient in every abrasion of this hellish earth, taken what used to be calm in the midst of my attempts for emotional suicide, taken what used to be a strong defense against blinded love that causes agony, taken what used to be a rational mind against a deceiving heart, taken what used to be yours, i, i have taken them all.

^i have pained you again during the time i told you i love him: and again when i refused to talk to you because i was loving him, and again when i’d rather dream of his voice than read what you have written for me because I love him, and again when i tried to ruin all our plans to silently make room for him because i love him, and again when i chose to remember his smile rather than your tears for me let go of him because i was loving him, and again when i am contented in seeing him from a distance rather than staying close to you because i love him, and again because i love him.

^i don’t know the difference anymore: between your understanding and my guilt, i don’t know the difference.

^if you could possibly stay with me through all of him: possibly whisper to my deafness to hold on to you and loosen my grip of him, possibly understand my numb eyes and unleash its cleansing current that he imprisoned, possibly tell me that it wouldn’t matter if i love him or despise him because i love him too much, possibly help me say goodbye to him or say hello to a lover whom i will never be, possibly bear with me as i bear my grief for he and i, possibly cleanse my mind with your thoughts of us, possibly remind me of how we became the eternal lovers that we are, possibly love me more despite of my despicable unfaithfulness, possibly hasten me to move on to a mature spirit through your coercing encouragement, if you could possibly, please, if you could.

^i don’t feel worthy because of me: i who dishevel everything that you have painstakingly put to order, i who blame him when in truth it is i who has the grievous fault, i who complicate the supposedly divine feeling then turning it into the most evil of all, i who blind myself constantly with my own truth instead of yours, i who destroyed him because i thought he destroys me, i who has taken every truth in him then turning all of him into a lie, i who is selfish because i want him to change into someone that he wasn’t designed to be, i who pain both you and him, i, i am in the middle of sin.

^Lord Jesus: i need you more than i could have possibly needed you because of him, Lord.

Lecheng Brain

“Hindi naman mababasa yan ng mga bobo. Ano pang kuwenta niyan?” itatanong sa akin ng isang sinicong kaibigan. “Kahit pa tungkol sa kanila yan, mga edukado rin lang naman ang makakabasa.”
“Hindi ah,” naman ang pinakamatalinong maisasagot ko sa kanya.
“Oo. Walang kuwenta yan. Ano bang gusto mong mangyari? Sa tingin mo ba mababawasan ng isinulat mo ang kabobohan dito sa Pilipinas?”
“Oo,” papiyok ko namang sasabihin. Papawala na ang diksyon ng katalinuhan.
“Nakakaawa ka naman. Hindi mo ba nakikita na kayo-kayo lang ng mga kapwa mo manunulat ang kikilatis niyan. Kayo-kayo rin lang ang mag-iisip. Kayo-kayo rin lang ang tatalino. Ano pang kuwenta ng pagsusulat niyo kung kayo-kayo rin lang ang makikinabang?”
“Eh bakit ‘di mo subukang basahin?” Kakayanin kong manaig ang katalinuhan.
“Subukan? Sinubukan ko nang basahin lahat ng kauri niyan. May pattern, may batas na sinusunod. Masyadong malalim, masyadong exclusive ang lenguahe, masyadong nagsasabing ‘matalino kami, wala ka nang pag-asa’. Hindi nanghihikayat. Nantataboy pa. Nakaka-insecure. Nakakabobo.”
Nakaharap pa lang ako sa computer, naiisip ko na ang ganitong engkuwentro. Ang kanyang sasabihin, ang kanyang pagtatanong, ang kanyang panlalait, ang kanyang kabobohan.
Nabanggit niya sa akin noon na “kasalanan ng manunulat kung bakit hindi nila napapabasa ang brains ng mga leche.”
Sa takbo ng kanyang pag-iisip, di ko na kasalanan yun.

Survival 101 by the School of Rock

Hala, Ang Filipino ni Ma'am

Ito ang pinaka-ayaw ko sa lahat: bibigyan mo ng pagkakataong mabuhay ang isang libro, pero pagkatapos ay papatayin naman nito ang sanity mo. Sa lahat ng libro, lahat-lahat ng may katuturan, wala kayong utang na loob sa curiosity ng mambabasa. Serial killer kayo ng mga bobo.

Walang pinagkaiba ang Makinilyang Altar. Curious lang naman ako kasi guro ko sa Fil20 ang nagsulat. Mas lalo pang tumindi ang curiosity ko nang lagi itong naka-out sa library tuwing maisipan kong i-search ito sa OPAC para lang magmukhang researcher. Aba, bumebenta si Ma’am. Ngunit hindi ko agarang binasa ito nang mahiram ko na, unang talata pa lang umiral na ang kabobohan ko. Ngunit nang sinearch ko ang synopsis nito sa web para mapreserve ang aking angking kamangmangan, lumabas ang review ng isang istudyante na naisulat sa wikang Ingles. Pinukaw raw ng librong ito ang takot niya sa mga Filipino novels. Elitista ang writer na ito, nagbasa ng Filipino novel kasi required sa University of the Philippines. Hmmmm… interesting. Kaya pag-uwi ko, hindi ko na pinansin ang sakit ng aking ulo sa unang talata, hanggang sa sumuko na ito sa page twelve. Hala, pakiramdam ko may kaunting dunong na pumipintig sa kukote ko. Marunong pala akong magbasa. I’m proud.

Pero naluluha ako habang binabasa ko ito. Nakakaiyak naman talaga ang ibang mga parte, pero hindi yun ang rason. Passive father si Deo Dimasupil, oo, pero hindi pa rin yun. Ideal daughter sana si Laya Dimasupil kung pinapansin lang siya ng tatay niya, pwede, pero hindi rin yun. Namatay ang alagang manok ni Bituin, at cannibals ang mag-anak niya kasi iprinito nila ito para sa pananghalian. Dramatic, pero hindi eh. Maraming boses ang nagkukuwento at kailangang balik-balikan ang division para lang malaman mo kung sino ba ang nagsasalaysay. Yun, yun yon. Mamaya-maya, si Laya. Tapos bigla-bigla na lang tinig na ni Propesor Deo Dimasupil. Nagsalita pa nga si Ma’am Gloria na isa rin palang manunulat katulad ng kanyang asawa. Nakakaiyak manghula kung sino ba ang nagsasalita, tapos mali pala ang iyong inaakala kaya hindi mo mai-connect ang mga pangyayari. Uulitin mo ulit na basahin para maitama. Tunay ngang nakakapagpaluha ng mga mata. Nakakabobo.

Hala, unfaithful wife pala si Laya. Patunay siya sa cliché na first love never dies. Flirt. Flirt yung Sid nay yun, yung first love niya. Alam na ngang may asawa si Laya – oh well, mutual agreement naman iyon. Ang mga eksena sa ibabaw ng table, sa shelf, sa sahig, lahat daw iyon ay ginusto ni Laya. Sige, hindi naman birhen ang utak ko sa sex, pero iba pala kung may hitsura na ang karakter sa aking isipan. Hala, Ma’am, patawad talaga. Naalala ko ang sabi ni Ser Vlad, guro ko dati sa MPs10, na huwag raw naming itatali ang awtor sa isinulat niya. Hindi ko na nga ginawa yun, pero dahil sa kabobohan ko, naidawit si Ma’am kasi sabi ni Laya hindi raw maihihiwalay ng makinilyang altar ang awtor sa akda niya. Tapos sabi nung nagsulat ng Introduction na mas nakilala raw niya si Rogelio Sicat dahil sa librong ito. Hala, tatay yun ni Ma’am eh. Ibig bang sabihin nun ay accurate ang events sa librong ito? Naiyak ulit ako.

Kalmado ang hitsura ni Ma’am. Sa katunayan, nagagandahan ko siya kasi Pilipina talaga ang hitsura niya. Nakakainggit pa talaga ang mga mata niya, parang naluluhang masaya. Nakita ko na rin ang asawa niya kasi siya ang namahala sa quiz namin nang minsang hindi nakapasok si Ma’am. Mukha naman silang masaya. Tapos sisirahin ko lang ang imaheng iyon kasi hindi ko maihiwalay si Ma’am sa Makinilyang Altar. Sad.

Iyon ang isang matinding problema ng kabobohan. Confession ba iyon o fiction lang para may spice ang nobela? Kung ano man iyon, hanga pa rin ako sa librong ito. Hindi kaakibat ng manunulat ang kanyang gawa, parang kahit sabihin niyang mamamatay tao siya, hindi ako maniniwala kasi malaya pa rin siyang pumapatay ng kabobohan. Matapang. Matapat. Totoo. O, yan nanaman, pinupuri ko na si Ma’am, pinupuri ko na ang libro ngunit kani-kanina lang ay isinusumpa ko ito. Hm, kabobohan. Inconsistent talaga.

Ngunit sa pangkalahatan, higit pa sa pagkasuklam ko sa mga librong nagpapadugo ng ilong, inudyak ng Makinilyang Altar na maari kong mahalin ang sariling wikang banyaga para sa akin. May posibilidad na mapukaw ng Pilipinong tinig ang asiwa ko sa pagbasa nito. Mas malakas ang boses ng libro kaysa sa mga letra nito, boses na nangbubulyaw, nanghahamon. Nakakapandugo man ito ng ilong, nahuhugasan naman ng mga luha ang lansa.

Salamat, Makinilyang Altar. Excited na ako sa susunod kong babasahin na babawas sa aking kabobohan. Paalam, kabobohan.

Hindi, hindi nananahimik ang Makinilyang Altar.

Sigh. I hate the feeling of a wannabe-writer. Self-pity encloses as the words parade in front of me, forming pictures that I never thought visible, then leaving me dumfounded with nothing to capture it with. Literature intimidates me, especially the ones authored by living writers, young and younger they get. But they fascinate me. I’m always caught drooling by them poems, short stories, essays, plays, screenplay, everything that spells ‘publishable’ and ‘copyright’.
Difficult. There’s still time to clench my fingers and tuck it in, somewhere where letters won’t be able to make them dance. My mind, I confess, is his own boss. All I ask of him is to critique a poem and imitate it. He won’t budge, though he says he will. In his own time. Well, I say to him, time will come that your stubbornness will kill my future. My academics is at stake here, mister. Then turn back, he constantly serenades me.
Can’t. I got myself into wanting this and turning back is not plausible. Quitting is like asking myself to grow ten years younger, asking Mr. Mind to forget every reason that makes me live. He won’t listen. Memory alteration is something he could never do.
Go. I would very much like to write for myself. Can’t. Myself don’t inspire me that much. God does. People do. Writers do. Readers, too. I have learned never to envy anyone who writes extremely well even if they are younger than me, a trait that I couldn’t have acquired if not for my lack of word power. I wonder why other people call them crappy, people who are not aware of the risk they take everytime they write. To open themselves up, lie on the operating table, expose their inner soul, not caring whether the examiners will kill or heal. Sacrifice is unreadable by arrogance.
Pray. I’m waiting for Him. I might forever be a wannabe-writer, but that is something that I would really want, and that He would lovely grant.