Down the Rabbit-hole and Back (fiction)

Mondays were never good for Alice. Actually, all Mondays are somewhat miserable for all people. But aside from the day’s sudden interference with the general weekend state of mind, Monday also meant a day of fast heartbeats gradually followed by surrendering sighs for Alice and the other production assistants in the weekly TV magazine show that they all slaved for. Alice referred to the whole process as “Monday Massacre” in which the supervisor and one of the producers, Betty Maneses—an overweight spinster whom most would pity if it weren’t for her bipolar personality, Machiavellian leadership skills, weird mustache, and bad breath, and whom they called “Master Bett” behind her back—took out all their story proposals and rejected them one by one, never missing the opportunity to remark on their naiveté, illiteracy, and idiocy and all the while calling them “honey” or “darling.”

There was one PA who’d get to have happy Mondays, though: Mike, The Master’s “Bet” whose stories all got a “go-shoot-signal” and who happened to have Jude Law’s Alfie’s swagger (and fashion sense), Brad Pitt’s Achilles’ ass (forget the heel), and Jim Carrey’s Lloyd Christmas’ brain (minus the sense of humor). Oh, and he also curiously happened to be sharing the same dwelling with Master Bett. How they actually managed to kiss and how he managed to ignore the hair above her lip and the godawful concoction of Bubba shawarma and probably stale saliva were, to Alice, a bit bestial. And the thought about anything beyond kissing once occurred to her mind, leaving her choco butternut donut to be forever half-finished.

This Monday was not any different. Once again, she’d be walking home, a small plastic bag in hand—containing instant coffee, her secret to survival and which she’d get at the little sari-sari store around the corner—her eyelids heavy and her chemically treated, once-straight-now-frizzy hair screaming “I couldn’t care less!” She looked forward to another week of abrupt calls from the mustached mistress depending on the erratic schedule of booking Mike’s guests, backpacking along with Mike’s subjects, and above all, Master’s bipolar tendencies. One good thing about her job, though, was the fact that her workplace was only two blocks away from where she lived.

“Windy today, eh?” Alice’s thoughts were interrupted by Lola Lani’s throaty greeting and possible remark on her I-couldn’t-care-less hair. Pushing her wheelchair was Lolo Caloy who, despite his being older, had managed to stay strong enough to attend to his weakening wife. They were Alice’s neighbors. And they’d been bugging her about their daughter, Shiela’s need for a personal assistant now that she’d just secured a position as events manager.

“Uh, yes. Good afternoon po,” Alice’s hand automatically pushed back her hair and reached out to Lola Lani’s own hand and directed it to lightly touch her forehead. She did the same with Lolo Caloy.

“No need! I still have baby hair, see?” chuckled the old man, referring to the small patch of hair left on the back of his head.

The old couple laughed as if nothing could ever hurt them anymore around this time. Alice laughed along, said her “Ingat po (Take care)!” and continued to walk home. They always met on the sidewalk because just when Alice would be coming from work, it was the couple’s 5 pm habit to take a stroll around the avenue and hear the 5:30 mass in the nearby chapel.

“I never want to grow that old,” Alice used to think. Now, though, she’d been thinking about the possibility of actually reaching that age. Would she be in a wheelchair as well? If so, would she be sitting there laughing along with her husband over senility, or would she be sitting by a grey window for hours on end, anticipating, waiting for death to claim her lost laughter?

By this time, she realized that she was already in front of the familiar, plain white wooden door. Arty, her four-year partner, once joked about calling it “the door to Wonderland” and it just kind of stuck. She shrugged off her thoughts and let out a long sigh. “Down the rabbit-hole again,” she thought aloud before opening the door. Wonderland was room 202 of #32 Delgado Apartments along Panay Ave. in Quezon City. In there, time ceased to exist. For four years, she had been living with a boy who failed to grow up, and they had been playing house, pretending that they would never tire of it. As she saw Arty snoring on the couch again, though, with Joe Versus the Volcano at maximum volume on HBO, she wasn’t so sure if she could go on pretending any longer.

After a few exchanges of “Arty, Arty, wake up” and several grunts later, Alice managed to rouse him to set the table for an early dinner. They silently ate and fought over washing the dishes afterwards (Arty lost the argument). He hadn’t shaved for almost a week now and the thickening beard from his jaw to his chin might be the only indication that he was, in fact, a grown man. Arty was a writer, although he wasn’t so sure for whom. He tried maintaining a column in the daily but he had trouble with the “daily deadlines.” He worked for a local congressman, writing his speeches, press releases, poster vote-me lines, and platforms, but he quit after six months, saying that he could not stomach the rotten system. Now, he got himself into editing somebody else’s novel because he said he never had enough time to write his own. He called himself a freelance writer. To Alice, though, he was simply “unemployed.” Before, she thought that Arty was an exciting struggling artist trying to find his place in the society. Now, all that Alice could see was the annoying beard, the empty eyes, the cigarette butts all over the room, and the overall wretchedness that had become of Wonderland.

“Did you buy coffee? I texted you this afternoon,” she said, her face expressionless, making Arty's eyebrows meet.

“Aw, crap, I forgot. I was gonna—”

“—Never mind, I bought a box of three-in-one’s from Aling Tere anyway,” Alice cut him off. He forgot. Again. Typical. She got out the instant coffee and began making two cups for both of them. They usually had coffee after dinner.

There was a brief silence before he asked in monotone, “So why would you tell me to buy some if you were already bent on getting it yourself?”

Alice could only stare at him, at his beard, at his empty eyes. She could tell that Arty was hurting but she couldn’t ignore the pain that boredom had built in her through all those four years of playing house and getting nowhere. She didn’t say anything as she placed Arty’s cup on the table and sipped from her own. If there was anything Arty hated the most, it was being ignored. He stood, returned to the couch, and went channel-surfing, leaving the coffee until it reached its cold and useless state.

That night, both of them went to bed, careful enough not to touch each other. If Alice had been the sort of girl who’d cry herself to sleep, she would have gone to work with red, puffy eyes the next day. But since it had already been four years down the rabbit-hole and since she was busier thinking about her possible future in a wheelchair, and the present state of her unmanageable hair, she slept with her last thoughts on getting a haircut right after work that next day.

“Off with her hair!” the Queen of Hearts would be booming in Alice’s head right before she slipped further into the dream. Two months later, she’d find herself resigning from Master Bett’s rule, packing her bags, leaving Wonderland, and setting off on her own in bright red shoes, armed with a new job as Lola Lani’s daughter’s secretary, and a fabulous bob. She would miss the boy in room 202, but she would cut on her caffeine and perhaps, everything would have to start from there.

Alice Leaves Wonderland (fiction)

As I sit here on the edge of the queen-size bed, I have all the world in front of me. My little piece of the world, actually. Our little piece. Her name is Alice. Once, I joked about calling the place Wonderland and it just kind of stuck. Wonderland is room 202 of #32 Delgado Apartments along Panay Ave. in Quezon City. In there, time ceased to exist.


Well, it did, until Alice’s alarm clock would ring at 5 a.m., and this would remind me that it didn’t. She worked as a researcher in the nearby TV station and she had to be in before her 7a.m. calltime. Considering that she took hour-long showers, she’d have to be up and about before six. Worse, it was Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten religiously playing at 5 a.m., which would then remind me of all my deadlines whose outputs were yet to be written.


“Alice, turn it oooooff,” I’d moan and muffle my head with a pillow. She would instantly turn beside me and get the phone to put the alarm on “snooze,” afterwhich, there would be a perfect ten-minute silence followed by another damned intro of that overused theme song of The Hills, Pantene commercials, and even the video game, Thrillville. “Aaarrgggghhhh! Alice! Alice!” I’d be doing this for about three to four times before she’d finally get up and I’d be feeling like the guy calling on Alvin in The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late). This was always how our weekday started. I hated weekdays.


Alice and I never really got along much except when it was about the movies. We both had a thing for long period films like Gone with the Wind and Memoirs of a Geisha, and fantasy films like Pan’s Labyrinth and Wizard of Oz. Oh, and we both loved cartoons: Shrek 1 through 3, Ice Age 1 through 3, and we were actually looking forward to the third Toy Story. She didn’t like horror much while I did, but she kind of liked Quentin Tarantino after I got her to watch Death Proof. I remember how she couldn’t stop laughing at the fight scene in the end to the point that she was tearing up, her face flushed, her hands over her red cheeks. “I never wanted Kurt Russell’s ass kicked this much! It’s priceless!” she blurted, and I found myself cracking up, too.


I didn’t admit that I liked When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle when she got the DVDs but I really did. In fact, that was when I found out how much I was into Meg Ryan flicks. Well, maybe Kate and Leopold would have to be an exception. And I didn’t like her much in In the Cut, either.


I remember this one time when we were spending another lazy Saturday morning in Wonderland, plopped on the couch like useless things, just watching and rewatching movies on HBO. I forgot which Meg Ryan flick it was, but it also had Tom Hanks in it and she had a twin in the story (or were they triplets?) and there was this scene when Tom and Meg were in a convertible looking over night-time Los Angeles. Alice was cuddling my arm and I thought she was just reflecting the mood of the scene. But then I felt her lips starting to quiver on my neck and her hand was caressing my thighs. Knowing the places that she could possibly touch next, I was trying to stop myself from giving in if only to play a bit “hard-to-get” for two seconds or so.


“Hey, wait until we finish the movie,” I said jokingly and went in to kiss her, obviously delaying the wait, but she pulled away slowly, clasped her hands on my face and whispered, “I’ll wait until you finish your novel.” She was smiling but I could tell that it was the sad sort of smile. I was aware that she meant to say “Finish it or else!” in a kind way because I knew Alice too well. She never really meant the things that she actually said. They always stood for something else and I always had to guess.


“It’s not my novel, I’m just the editor,” I retorted. And I turned back to the TV and Meg Ryan was already crying for some unknown reason. Tom Hanks was trying to comfort her.


“But it’s taking you too long, don’t you think? They never seem to know what they like. What about us? I mean, Arty, it’s been, what, four years?” she insisted, taking my arm and resting her head on my shoulder.


“Three,” I corrected her. “Hey, I’m doing my best. Just give me some more time, okay? We’ll talk about this later.”


With that, she withdrew my arm and left the couch. I thought she was only going to take a leak or throw her rage at a sandwich or something when she surprised me by hurling the kitchen wall’s calendar at me. The 21st was encircled with a red marker on that month of February. It was our fourth year together.


Needless to say, I’d to ditch Meg and Tom right away, and chase after her when she locked herself up in the bathroom. I was trying to apologize and make her come out but my rhetoric was only good enough to make her go to bed that night while I took to the couch. I’ve always hated sleeping on the couch. The next morning, I’d a most serious backache. I bet Alice wanted to continue with the cold treatment but the moment she saw how miserable I was, she got out some of her minty oils and gave me a massage. She knew how to soothe stiff muscles. She had a complete home spa treatment, in fact. I took it as her acceptance of my apology. Besides, I hardly went out, I often kept the blinds shut so I couldn’t distinguish night from day, and I only looked at one calendar: my deadlines. I’m pretty sure she understood.


Well, I thought she did. After that weekend, Alice didn’t really ignore me but she was kind of detached. Her eyes had that same sadness, she didn’t laugh or whine as much, and she got up on Natasha Bedingfield’s first raspy lines at 5 a.m. without my having to prod her. She didn’t nag me as much anymore, either. She didn’t argue over who had to do the dishes after dinner; she’d get up and wash them herself. When I asked her what was wrong, she only said, “I’m tired of spelling it out for you all the time, Arty.” I’d snap back, “Look, I forgot. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll make it up to you next year!” or something along those lines.


“Asshole,” I think aloud as I currently sit on the edge of the queen-size bed. Come to think of it, I never thought about how huge the bed really is until now. The whole room, in fact. I’ve been sitting here since morning. The whole world in front me. Wonderland. Or what’s left of it. It’s another one of those lazy Saturdays, except that I don’t feel like watching HBO alone. My gaze finds its way on the bed, on the colossal queen-size bed, and its red floral silk sheets. I run my hand over the cloth, closing my eyes, imagining that it is her skin I’m touching, taking in the smoothness and softness. I grab hold of a pillow, hold it near my nose, pretending that I have never smelled it before: coconut and peppermint. Something aches in me that I know I can never identify where exactly. I remember how long she stayed in the shower every night, cleaning herself up and putting on all these creams and concoctions, explaining all the while that “she never could sleep without fulfilling her rituals” in her usual defensive manner. I don’t know whether I should be laughing now or spilling out tears and profanities. My head’s throbbing like hell, as if the whole room’s closing in on me. The mess is unbearable. The closet’s all ransacked, the bedside table/makeshift dresser’s half-emptied, and her perfume lingers in the air. I haven’t done anything since I woke up to find this scene. It’s almost unbelievable, really. I mean, it’s been four years. This can’t be possible.


I bring myself to stand finally, my other senses struggling to regain their ability to function, my head swimming in this time warp. My first instinct is to get myself some beer so I make my way to the fridge. I pass by the coffee table on which one of my old books lay, Alice’s favorite, Gaston Leroux’s Phantom of the Opera—she adored the musical even more. Beside the book was a framed black-and-white photo of Alice and me taken in one of those cheap photo booths. She was still in college when the picture was taken and she was grinning, and she still had braces then. I walk past my extra-large jersey shirt carelessly dumped on the couch’s arm. Alice liked wearing it when we just stayed in during weekends. I accidentally step onto one of her indoor slippers: pink, size 7. But when she was wearing closed shoes, she wanted them to be a size 7 ½ or an 8, even. She was quite fond of wearing those, what d’you call it, uh, “kitten heels,” because she said she wasn’t the kind who liked punishing herself by enduring stilettos. I get to the fridge and I open it slowly, my energy slipping out of me almost as slowly. I find Alice’s yogurt and fruit juice drinks, the Nesvita cereal that she forgot to finish yesterday as she rushed to work, some facial creams that need refrigerating and that are now half-consumed, her pills and the meds for her allergies, the bottle of hazelnut chocolate spread that she usually eats as standalone, her sinful indulgence. There’s no beer. I guess I just took the last swig the other night and I forgot to do the groceries before the weekend. I hated doing the groceries, anyway. And it was one of Alice’s small pleasures in life.


“Fuck.” I slowly close the fridge’s door and walk towards the bed, trying hard to ignore all the other memories that all the things in the room flash like little projectors into my head—onto the white screen, the empty, clueless screen. On the fridge, a note is secured by a little strawberry magnet: I love you, Arty. I waited. I’m sorry. All the world’s in front of me and yet, all the world is gone now. I used to hate weekdays but I’m getting the feeling that I’ll be hating Saturdays more, though.

An I for an Eye (fiction)

It all started in a dare when Paolo turned eleven last week. Paolo’s the oldest among us and he has always been our sort of “leader” since his dad bought him the complete collection of Zoids action figures. His toys line up along their living room like a marching band when our own sala set has pictures of Tatay, Nanay, Kuya Marco, Baby Jessie, and me instead. I dunno why all the other boys fuss over those Zoids when I’m pretty sure that they also think that Zoids are really for babies. I mean it’s got really small parts and pieces but after you put ‘em all up together and you get yourself this mean robot—so what? Zoids can only become different kinds of mammals, dinosaurs, insects. But with the Transformers, they don’t only end up as just mean-looking robots, they also get to be cars and trucks and planes and motorcycles and stuff, like there’s a lot of stuff you can do with the Transformers—not like Paolo’s, uhm, baby toys. But then, the only reason I don’t get to be kind of the leader is because Tatay can’t afford any of those robots—although they really don’t have to know that, so forget about it.


Besides, I’m like the youngest in the group—we call ourselves “Decepticons” although we were the “Spartans” last month, depends on Paolo’s ideas. They all say I’m the smallest but really, me and Jeremy are just about the same height. I guess they’ll just have to wait and see until I get to be Kuya Marco’s age ‘cause he’s like the school’s best basketball player ever, and he’s always told me that I’ll get to learn how to play ball like that someday and (whispers) I’ve been practicing.


Anyhow, we were just playing Beast Wars outside Paolo’s house after we ate some cake to celebrate his birthday—so of course, he got to be Megatron again—when he saw Old Carding’s house, blinked at me, and had the craziest idea. But since the boys always think that everything Paolo says is brilliant, I can’t just tell them it’s crazy, y’know, or else, I’ll be out of the Decepticons. So the plan was this: I should be going to the inside of Old Carding’s house and quietly take a peek of his “secret room” and get out before he wakes or something and I must not ever get caught because the old man might gobble me up. “Since you’re little, it won’t be a problem for him to chew you!” Paolo warned. I looked at him and give him my scariest glare just to show that nothing scares me but really, I never got so scared in my life.


Old Carding’s house is only one corner away from Paolo’s. It’s the biggest, oldest-looking house in our subdivision. Nanay said that it was made way back when the country was still with Spain and I remember that it’s like a hundred years ago, maybe even more. They say Old Carding used to be a soldier and maybe that’s why he has that eyepatch on his left eye, he must’ve gotten it from the war or something. One thing’s for sure, though: he lives alone. And no one has ever seen him leave his house except when he goes out to buy some bread from Paolo’s family’s bakeshop. Paolo said that his Ate Maricris—she tends to the bakeshop—told him that once, Old Carding forgot or intended to not put his eyepatch on and she said his left eye had stitches all over and you could tell that there really was no eye in the socket at all. The first time we heard it from Paolo, we screamed—but not like little girls, of course. Old Carding has always scared us out of wits.


Well, to cut the story short, I gulped and breathe heavily and marched straight to Old Carding’s house, followed by the boys. I held my breath as I looked at the broken fence and worn-out gate and the old, big trees that towered behind them. Paolo was saying something like “You can always back out, Tommy. You really don’t have to do this if you can’t!” and the other Decepticons were like, “Yeah, Little Tommy’s scared! Little Tommy’s backin’out!” And in my head, all I was thinking of was Old Carding’s eyepatch and how it had no eye in the socket and how he can really eat me whole. My heart was beating so hard, I held onto my chest and I can feel it go up and down, up and down. All the other boys were jeering and making fun of me so I faced ‘em all and talked in my deepest sounding voice. “I’ll do it!” I said and I did felt more like a Spartan when I said it, too. Suddenly, there’s this brave feeling that bursted inside me and I feel like I can do most anything. In fact, I’m going to find Old Carding’s missing eyeball—it should be hidden in a bottle, floating in yellow liquid somewhere—and bring it to them as my surprise. I’ll give it to Paolo as my birthday present and his jaw will drop and he will make me the second leader or something and they’ll never, ever make fun of me again. I can imagine it all in my head, it was all so clear, and everything was worth it.


And so I said I’ll do it and Paolo went, “Alright! Go now, we’ll wait for you here” and he grinned at me as if I was about to chicken out on them and they were ready to wait and see if I was really gonna do it. But I was ready, y’know, I felt like a Spartan, you bet I did. I looked at the old house and then at the closed gate and saw that I could easily go through the wooden fence because it was broken somewhere. I found this hole which was big enough for my size—I bet Paolo can’t fit into it—and I slipped through it. Once I found myself in Old Carding’s front yard, I heard a lot of footsteps outside, and it sounded like the boys were all running away and they were laughing. I peeked through the hole and saw that the Decepticons were really gone, there was only the empty street outside and me alone in Old Carding’s yard. I froze. Suddenly, I didn’t felt like a Spartan anymore, it was a horrible feeling. Images of empty eye sockets kept flashing in my head as well as eye balls floating in yellow liquid in sealed clear jars, and Old Carding’s teeth sinking deep into someone’s skin—whose skin? I trembled and shook my head. I felt tears were coming on, but I held them and straightened myself. Whatever happens, it’s gonna have to be the boys’ fault, and at least, I’ll die with honor. Still, I was scared but I walked to the house anyway.


The front yard was big enough for six cars to fit in it. And the house looked even bigger and older and scarier when you’re near it. Its white paint was already fading away and there were holes and cracks everywhere on the walls. The house had a front porch just like my Lola Nelly’s old house back in the province and it also had a rocking chair and some potted plants but they didn’t look like my Lola’s. Old Carding’s plants already look dead because they’re all black and droopy. And his rocking chair moved because of the wind but I wondered if he ever sat on it since nobody ever saw him do so. The chair creeped me out, I didn’t like things that look like they could move on their own. The windows were all shut close and the main door was about six times my height and it actually had a metal knocker that looked like a really angry lion—just like the knockers that I see on TV on castle doors. My heart was beating even faster than before. The wooden stairs creaked under my feet as I took my every step—I counted, six big steps all in all—and I was wishing sooooo hard that I was climbing the steps to my my Lola’s house instead. Of course, I wasn’t expecting that the door was open so I made my way around the house—the porch sort of surrounded the whole first floor—and tried to look for a hidden passage, an open window maybe, or a weak door, or another little hole I could slide through.


And then, I saw that there was this back door with a screened window and I peeked through it. There was an empty kitchen inside where there was a really long, wooden table with tall wooden chairs all around it. I didn’t notice if there was any refrigerator but there was no one at the sink. Old Carding didn’t seem to be around, too. “He’s probably sleeping in his room with his eyepatch on his bedside table,” I thought. And I bet the eyeball was somewhere near as well.


I held my breath and touched the door knob. I turned it. It wasn’t locked at all.

The Baket List

Warning! Below is nothing but whining. This piece is strictly for whiners, those who are used to whiners, those who appreciate whining, those who can tolerate whining, and those who do not mind pausing for a moment from pretending that they are invincible and are willing to whine along. If you are not any of the aforementioned, I suggest that you immediately leave this page and go to a site that has more positive vibes like, say, Hallmark, or somewhere that has that fluffy life-is-perfect-if-only-you-wish-hard-enough kind of feel like Disney for instance. And if you happen to be a pro-whining person, then I also suggest that you check out Jessica Zafra’s site (jessicarulestheuniverse.com): she does it best.

“Ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako...” I mumble in the midst of heavy breathing in my little treks from building to building, corridor to corridor, classroom to classroom. They all look the same to me. Even the sea of faces do not seem any different from one another unless somebody familiar calls my name and reminds me that I still live, or that I still have friends (or acquaintances), or that I am recognized and remembered when all I want is to be Casper at the moment, minus the “friendly ghost” part. I recite my mantra for this year over and over—“Ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako...”—either in my head or in the form of loud thoughts. In spite of that, each repetition, for some strange f**king reason, makes the objective even more distant, the prospect of the work even more arduous. What’s sicker is that I have barely begun and yet the frustration.... The frustration is. Most unbearable. Beyond that of which was caused by my shattered dreams of being a novelist at 18, by my inability to swim or dance or be good at any kind of sport aside from my imaginings of Quidditch, by the deaths of Hedwig and Dumbledore!

Speaking of, I have been wanting to know when the sixth Harry Potter movie will come out on IMAX in SM North since last week and so I went to see the screening time literally handwritten in a ten-ish font size on a small piece of paper in front of the ticket lady (this was to be found in the allegedly “Third Biggest Mall in the World”). And then I noticed this particular phrase which I assume is the SM Cinema’s tagline: “Your Life as a Movie.” Pakshet. Another one of Henry Sy’s capitalist lies. In movies, the director gets to choose his/her actors. Even the actors can refuse a script. The writers get to choose their kind of adventure. The audience gets to pick between a Sharon Cuneta or a Megan Fox flick (this is, by the way, a no-brainer). After the film, there’s a lot of fanfare and publicity and if your film doesn’t suck like Gigli or Glitter or Crossroads even, then it might have a shot at being an immortalized classic like, say, Gone With the Wind or Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Oh but then, life is anything but Scarlett O’Hara’s waist or Holly Golightly’s happy-go-lucky-free-as-a-bird-elegant-sort-of-whore kind of lifestyle. Nah. Life is nothing like the movies. Maybe the silver screen has been trying to imitate life but it’s never the other way around. Otherwise, we’d all have credits rolling in the end. In real life, we only have epitaphs or urns for a conclusion (if we get lucky enough to have others give us decent funerals, anyway). My thinking that life is like a Meg Ryan chick flick—or a Nicholas Sparks romance, or a Coca-cola billboard, or a Jollibee commercial—has since been over for me. Not when happiness ceases to be a worthy enough pursuit and remains a mere word, a noun of nine letters with double P’s and S’s and three vowels. This is when I ask that horrible question that Rick Warren has tried to answer in vain (at least for me): What do I live for?

The following are even more questions that currently drive me nuts enough to kick the bucket. Hopefully, they will have their final answers and leave me in peace (and alive) or just vanish from the realms of my overworked and yet questioning brain without being answered but leave me in peace just the same (well and alive, too).

1) Bakit lagi na lang akong pagod kahit ‘di naman ako nagpapagod?

2) Bakit minsan, ‘di naman umuulan pero panay ang shower mula sa taas? Umiiyak din kaya ang mga puno?

3) Bakit kung kelan ga-graduate na, mas tinatamad ka nang mag-aral? Parang ‘di ka na apektado ng pressure at gusto mo na lang maglaho dahil wala kang makitang point sa paggawa ng thesis na hindi naman malilimbag sa isang international journal (balita ko maraming pera rito) at magsasayang pa ng sangkatutak na papel na galing sa libo-libong puno (hence, your own contribution to the murder of Mother Nature). Hypothesis: The Revision and Repetitive Editing and Printing for the Sake of a Decent Thesis That Will Only Satisfy a Select Few of the Judging Faculty are Harmful to the Environment.

4) Bakit merong mga kaibigang talagang panandalian lang? Parang ‘yung mga murang payong na nabibili sa tabi-tabi at mapapakinabangan lamang sa loob ng isang linggo (kung maswerte ka).

5) Bakit ako nagtitiis at nagtitiyaga pa kung ang pinakamadali ay ang tumakas (san naman kaya ‘ko pupunta?), magpakamatay (‘di pa naman ata ‘ko ganun kayabang), mamundok (the only way to fix a society is to be an active part of it), o maglaho na lang (‘di pa ‘ko marunong mag-teleport...besides, energy can never be destroyed, only transformed)? (wild guess: nagtatapang-tapangan pa kasi e)

6) Bakit ‘pag ikaw nagmamahal, handa kang isigaw sa buong mundong mahal mo siya kahit ‘di siya willing gawin ang bagay na ‘yun? ‘Pag mas expressive ba, ibig ba sabihin, mas marunong ka magmahal o madaldal ka lang talaga?

7) Bakit ‘pag me problema, mas napapansin niya? Pero ‘pag wala, indifferent siya? Mas masaya’t makulit siya sa ibang tao pero pagdatingg sa’yo, puro hinanakit at problema lang ang maririnig mo.

8) Bakit ‘pag nagkakasakit, saka lang nagiging mahalaga ang buhay para sa isang tao? Dahil kung nagkakasakit man, parang ibang tao nang nagpapatakbo ng buhay mo maliban sa mga gamot at duktor na pilit pahahabain ang buhay na hindi naman iyo.

9) Bakit buong buhay mo, tuturuan ka nilang maging isang “mapagmahal na nilalang ng Diyos” pero sa oras na nagmamahal ka na, sasabihin nilang unahin mo muna ang sarili mo?

10) Bakit kelangang “bakit?” Bakit hindi “bakit hindi?” Bakit “bakit?”

And yet, the mumbling continues: “Ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako....”

Hans and Gretchen (fiction)

Hans and Gretchen: A Love Story

Hans Christian Fontanilla was the kind of person whom one would have great hopes in. An all-time achiever, a music prodigy, a good-looking fellow with that certain James Dean swagger. He had deep, brown eyes that used to know how to smile genuinely. He had fair complexion, long hair, long limbs and his arms were filled with visible green veins that branched out into many directions, like they were intentionally drawn to form this beautiful green procession of cords and threads. He was the kind whom one would expect to live fully and die young only because he was too beautiful to grow old. In fact, he’d always wanted to die at 27, just like all the rockstars he’d wished to become.

He was born on July 4, 1979—a Martial Law baby. He came from a small, conservative Catholic family whose only concern was to be good Filipino citizens. Mr. Fontanilla never got himself involved in politics. Actually, he didn’t like talking about it at all, unless it had something to do with religion, in which case he passionately spoke up for the Church—“Like any good Christian would,” he’d say. Mrs. Fontanilla hardly talked about anything and Gretchen, his younger sister, only liked talking about books. Hans was the odd ball in the family, the sore thumb, the black sheep, so they say. He was Plato’s philosopher who got out of the cave. If it weren’t for one huge mistake, he would not have been banished from the Fontanilla household for as long as he lived. And he lived ever so briefly.

When he lived, though, he lived like there was no tomorrow. He was the guy who did not hesitate to have fun. In fact, “too much fun” was not in his vocabulary. When he began grade school, he already knew how to play several pieces with his first guitar. Fresh into high school, and he got to join a band with a bunch of college dudes. He was into guitar as he was into singing as well as drums, a bit of the violin, and the piano was his plaything. He also got into painting after he was made to leave the family. In fact, he painted a whole series of portraits of Gretchen and sold them all just to get by. Whenever his buyers asked him who the girl was, he’d answer “No one.” And his chest throbbed like hell every time he said that.

Hans didn’t like forgetting. He made music to remember, he painted to remember, he smoked and drank to remember, he got high to remember—until the memories didn’t hurt. But there was always something about Gretchen that killed him slowly. No matter how much he played or sang, no matter how much he drew or smoked or drank, no matter how many sniffs he took, Gretchen haunted him like a ghost. In the same way, he was a ghost to Gretchen, too. They were brother and sister but theirs was a love story that neither began or ended only because it shouldn’t.

Hans lived life on the edge. He tried to go as far as he could but his wallet would only take him as far as the country’s capital. His dream was to go to the Himalayas and never come back. He heard he’d find heaven there somewhere, the kind that would still take him in, despite what he did. And so, he worked hard to get to those mountains, the “top of the world,” never really admitting that he worked hard to return for Gretchen. But every time this came to him, he’d always shrug it off like it was somebody else’s idea that wasn’t supposed to intrude upon his own thoughts in the first place. In short, Hans lived a life of lies and ghosts. His friends were his music, his art, his drugs, the women who never really roused in him what it was like to love. And he died at 27, just like how he’d always wanted. He had a drug overdose that he knew he’d never regret because twenty fours before he succumbed to his demons, he saw an angel in the nearby coffee shop. She wasn’t wearing her ponytail anymore but she still had a book with her as she read Paulo Coelho’s “Veronika Decides to Die” on that particular afternoon. And she didn’t notice the man with the long hair and beard across the room who was watching her read the book until the very last page, until she got up and left a P20-tip on the table, until she walked out the doors and faced the late sunshine during that last orange dusk. Hans painted the girl who was reading, right before he killed himself and he called the portrait, “Gretchen.”

Kuya

The family never really spoke about it. We weren’t supposed to. It’s been ten years now but there really is no mention about him, like he didn’t exist. It happened only once. And after that, it didn’t happen at all.

Kuya Hans had everything going for him. At seven, he could already play “Blackbird” on his guitar. Papa taught him that because he was such a Beatles fan but even he could attest that Kuya Hans could play the instrument better than he ever could. At 13, he was already doing the rhythms for Jailhouse Funk, a band that was initially formed by some college boys in our subdivision and they all called him Sly. But he wasn’t just good at playing strings. I told him once that their vocalist, Kuya Jeremy, was no match to his voice at all. No, Kuya Hans sang like Ely Buendia—high pitch, suave, no fuss, no frills—I loved it when he sang. I haven’t heard him sing in ages, he hasn’t been home since it happened (although nothing really happened). I wish I can hear him sing again (what I’d give to hear him sing again).

I am four years his junior. He’s always been the talented, outgoing, handsome and lanky young man in the family while I was the shy, little girl in a ponytail who didn’t talk much except if it was about books. My classmates used to call me all kinds of names: dork, bookworm, nerd, librarian, hootie (I’d glasses), and other really mean stuff but Kuya Hans would come to my rescue. “Run while you still can, you rascals,” he’d bellow but in a strange, cool and calm way—as if he were God summoning the dawn of light or something, except that he had that devil-may-care kind of stare (those eyes, those deep, brown eyes that weren’t anything like mine)—and all the bullies would leave, never to trouble me with their labels again. That’s my brother (I shiver at the word), that’s my Kuya (that, too). My hero.

Mama and Papa raised us to fear God, to always stay on the right track, to never stray. It wasn’t like the loving, fluffy kind of parenting we got from them. It was more of them laying out the path before us without ever really presenting any other paths in the first place. There was one right kind of living and that was it. We weren’t the sort who talked a lot over meals as I’ve noticed my friends’ families who did (and I wonder whether they also have secrets of their own). They always told Kuya Hans and me to love each other but they never really brought us together that much. I already had my own room since I was seven or so and he went out on trips with Papa and I’d have to stay home with Mama all the time. “You can’t join us camping out there, Gretch. It’s no place for pretty little girls like you,” Kuya Hans would tell me, caressing my cheeks, perhaps trying to comfort me. It did comfort me, except that it comforted me to an extent that it also left me a tingling feeling that was supposed to bother me. And yet, it didn’t.

For many years, that was how Kuya Hans and I would be like. Siblings, but not really. We lived in the same house but there was this wall between us, like it should be there for us to establish respect for each other or something, and he’d earn my respect. Of course, he did. Kuya Hans earned my admiration in every way (in every way). Mama and Papa were incredibly proud of him. I still am.

I was 16 and he was almost 20. He was home from college then (I remember how much I missed him every time he went to university and how excited and nervous I was when he was back for vacation). He grew his hair up to his shoulders. Mama and Papa disapproved of it (I thought it was quite becoming). I was pretty grown up, too. My period began three summers ago and the changes were already surfacing (I bet he noticed when I caught him staring one time with those deep, brown eyes of his). We were supposed to clear out my room because he was going to use up some space for his college stuff that didn’t fit in his room anymore. I remember it was a really hot Sunday afternoon and we thought Mama and Papa were taking their siesta. It happened in my room. It only happened once. And after that, it’s like it never happened at all. He never existed.

The Field Trip (fiction)

"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you…."
- Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

The Field Trip

“U redi?”


Chris was in his dorm room and had been staring at the same text message for about three hours now. The same question—his life in a question. His life in dull pixel in a dusty Nokia screen. His life in two words that aren’t even words to begin with. “Am I ready?” It was hard to tell. But what the hell, he was going. Damn sure he was. Ready or not, loaded or not. He was going.


The instructions were clear: a text would be sent at half-past ten at night, right after a late dinner—“and make sure you get yourselves a heavy one, the heaviest you’ll have, in fact. Consider it your last supper.” Laughter rippled among the students as Tina, their “tour guide,” oriented them on the “field trip.” The nervous kind of laughter hidden under the guise of a young, restless sort of brave front or the young, restless sort of bravery hidden under the guise of nervous laughter—whichever anyone preferred to see it. By 11, everyone was to confirm thru text if he/she was ready so Tina would know just how many vehicles they’d need. Right after texting, they were to dispose of their sim cards—“Be sure to throw anything that can be associated with this trip! Or with this organization even. Remember your loved ones, but don’t bring them anywhere with you.” By 12 midnight, everyone would have to make his/her way to the university grounds (because the university was the safest take-off point). That was where all of them would meet, where they’d find out who was going or who backed out. Next destination? The mountains, or the forests, or the fields—wherever the roads would take them.


Chris’ Nanay knew a bit about the field trip. Aling Celia sent him only a hundred pesos for the outing in addition to his allowance that week since he told her that it didn’t cost much.


“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice’s excitement ringing on the phone. She was always thrilled to hear about her only son’s “adventures” in the city. After all, Chris was the only one among the family to have made it as far as college—the country’s premier university at that.
“Just up north, Nay, not too far,” answered Chris, stopping his voice from breaking for they were in fact going down south and it was anything but “not too far.” They talked casually and briefly, just like any other conversation they had on the cellphone. She mentioned the neighbor’s pig pen and how it stank up the whole barangay, how his 62-year old Tatay, Mang Mike, had gone home drunk at 3 am again—“he probably feels as if he’s 30! Por santo!” She even teased him about Joy’s dropping by their house the other day. “She asked when you’re coming home,” Aling Celia giggled like a teenage schoolgirl. Chris loved that giggle. He was already missing it even then.


“Hala sige, at ako’y mauubusan na ng load. ‘Nak, ingat na lang ha (Alright then, I might run out of load. Take care, Son),” Aling Celia said before she hung up. And Chris savored that “Ingat” for he never knew what it meant until this field trip, until he and his mother talked for the last time.


Right after that conversation, he did feel like crying. But he didn’t. Tears would not make things any easier. Not tears, not blood, nothing. He got out his navy blue Hawk knapsack and fixed the zipper that would not close when it had to close and would not open when you pulled it open. He prepared the usual necessities: three sets of clean underwear, three shirts (two were of white cotton and one was red), a pair of cropped denim pants, his Colgate toothbrush, a bar of Safeguard, a sachet of Rexona for men, a sachet of Clear for men, and another sachet of Kraft Cheez Whiz Pimiento Flavor (he’d have to make do without the bread). He looked down at his feet, his worn-out leather sandals, and decided that he wouldn't need any socks for those. He’d have to leave his tattered sneakers behind because they might be too heavy. He then secured all these things in the bag’s main compartment and opened another compartment—this time, smaller—where he put in his copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. Kuya Rod, the reason he’d be part of this excursion, gave it to him a year ago. He was a like a brother to Chris. He would’ve joined him in this trip if he hadn’t gotten his girlfriend pregnant two months ago. “I know it’s wrong but there are things that just matter more than your country. Fight on my behalf, bro,” he said to Chris when they last spoke.


Chris noticed that there was still enough space for his stuff so he went to his study table and surveyed whatever else he could bring with him. He gave their family picture a quick gaze and turned it facedown on the table. The photo was taken by the front gate of their house in the province a good five years ago on his first day in high school. For a moment, he wanted to bring with him his Tatay’s toothless grin, his Nanay’s wrinkles around her deep-seated eyes, and his own bouncy, black hair that could’ve made it to a Vaseline shampoo commercial (he now has limp, long hair that he fixed with a tight rubber band), his innocence—or naivete, whatever it was—radiating through that crisp, white polo shirt. But he knew it’d be easier if he left the image of yesteryears behind. It’d have to haunt him later.


He continued packing: his red face towel, the handkerchief with the initials COM—short for Christopher Olivier Martinez—personally embroidered by Aling Celia (he was fine with souvenirs that did not have any of his loved ones’ images in them), the little postcard of Pablo Picasso’s Garçon à la pipe (Boy with a Pipe) on which Joy signed, “To my own Picasso, I’ll be waiting” and which had given him one of the greatest joys in his, so far, brief yet not so uneventful,18-year old life. He also put in his pirated copy of My Fair Lady which reminded him of his own mother, she being a flower vendor when she first met Mang Mike (it was also Aling Celia’s all-time favorite movie). He secured a Batman mug—which he’d owned since he was five—by wrapping it up in two pages ripped from the latest copy of the university’s campus publication. His packing was then cut short by a sudden crowing of roosters. It was his phone’s alarm tone and it was already 11 pm. He switched off the alarm clock and opened his inbox. There it was again in its misspelled, pixel mockery: “U redi?”


Chris pressed on the keys rather automatically. “You bet” was all that he could say. That was his answer. His life in two words. Then, he pressed “Send,” afterwhich he switched his phone off and took out his sim card (he’d have to throw it someplace else). He looked at his navy blue Hawk knapsack—it was either half-full or half-empty. It didn’t matter. He was going.

Meet. April. (fiction)

Introductions. All things begin in introductions. Usually. And because I do not feel extra-deviant today, I am starting with one. My subject will now walk into the room and stand in front of you, clueless about this whole writing exercise. Clueless about writing, in fact. She thinks writing is for the indolent and prefers running around kicking balls. She’s a soccer varsity player—“Football” as the Limeys call it, “Kickball” as I call it.

She trains every day and runs the length of the football field before six and after five, every drop of her sweat being a taste of her own life. During matches, she makes Beckham look even more gay. And instead of yelling, “Goal!” she grins, baring her teeth, and screams at the top of her lungs, “That’s soccer for you, suckers!” before spitting something on the ground: the gum that she never spits out until game’s over and that has already been chewed mercilessly, now tasteless and grimy after an entire two hours—or even more—of kicking, bruising, falling facedown on the mud, standing and kicking again, taking advantage of the legality of causing injuries in the game, spilling out the nastiest profanities, rejoicing in the moniker that the football folks have baptized her with: “El Diablo.” Rough and hard. That’s how she plays her game.

At present, however, there seems to be not a trace of that “El Diablo” anywhere. Her hair, cropped like a little boy’s, is neatly combed in place, her plain white tee under her orange polo shirt is immaculate, her khaki shorts look ironed—oh, but then again, her Nike Total Shift 90s are as filthy as hell. When asked about her name, she speaks in her deep voice—an “affected habitual pitch” that she has struggled to master all these years, an achievement that echoes far from her real optimum pitch—“It’s April. Er, full name?” She clears her throat before coughing out a hasty “April Rose Marie Mauricio.” Of course, a name that long can’t be too hasty for anyone to miss without trying hard not to snigger. It’s really not such a bad name. It is a common girl’s name and apparently, that is the problem.

“Uh-huh, it’s a girl’s name,” April mutters inside her head after the dreaded full-name introduction. Why can’t she be like Madonna? Nah, fuck Madonna, why not Seal? And why the hell not Prince? She runs her hand through her hair before she takes her seat across yours, pulling up her shorts so her knees can breathe. “I should’ve brought some gum,” she wishes silently, thinking that that might make her look cooler, more “astig.”

Obviously, one’s IQ may be determined by making him/her guess which month April was born in. Her second name, however, does not say anything about her. Her parents, Lyn and Johnny, only thought that a flower would be a cute name for a little girl. The “Marie,” on the other hand, says everything about her nationality. It appears that Filipinos have this undying love affair with naming girls “Maria.” Most Filipinas have it preceding Spanish ancient-sounding names like Rosario and Josefina, or long names after flowers such as Magnolia and Rosalinda. Sometimes it’s spelled out while other times, it’s plainly “Ma” with the dot. Some parents like the English version, “Mary,” while some feel extra-Francaise come Baptism Day and name their daughters “Marie.” In April’s case, Lyn and Johnny seem to have gone through the latter. And April never really forgave them for it.

“April” is already a bad enough name. If she was named “Georgina,” she could’ve lived with “George,” not “Ape.” If she was “Roseanne Joy”—like her teammate is—she could’ve gotten away with “R. J.,” and not “A. R. M.” But since her three names happen to be her names and hers alone, she has since decided to make do with “April” because she’d rather die than be called “Rose” and she’s always hated how Lyn calls her “Marrrrrrrr-eeeeeeeeeeee!” when her daughter has done something worth reprimanding. “April” is already a bad enough name, but not too bad.

There are only two things that she cannot seem to live with, though: her breasts and her vagina. She hates the bra but she needs the support since she’s a 36 (whispers “C” to avoid April from hearing). She couldn’t care less about the right fit of underwear while the other girls go crazy over sizes and external clothing, perhaps willing enough to not wear anything underneath than go to hell because of committing the ultimate fashion sin: showing “panty lines”. She doesn’t like having to sit in order to pee, although she hasn’t got much choice, really. She detests having to wash with icky liquid from pink bottles that say “Your partner’s best friend” instead of merely using soap. And she totally abhors hassling over changing napkins for that “monthly thing” (she doesn’t like saying “period” or “menstruation,” either).

Ask her if she hates girls and she’ll answer, “Naw, not at all.” Well, at least not all of them. April has fallen in love once. Her name was Emily. Emily was her former roommate in Waling waling Women’s Residence Hall. Some mouths in the dorm would even spread rumors about Emily and “April Boy.”

Mouth #1: I once knocked on their door and I thought it was okay so I opened it, and they were sleeping snugly beside each other—and there were three vacant beds ha!

Mouth #2: That’s nothing, I saw them kissing at the lobby once, (whispers) and I swear there was a lot of tongue.”

Mouth #3: No kidding, I bet they even take a bath together!”

And the tongues wagged on and on and on, while the two happily breezed through their little affair hidden under the monikers, “roommates,” “friends,” and “fellow girls” even. The dorm manager, who was a gossip herself, eventually found out about this little secret, and by next semester, took off April Rose Marie off Waling waling, and transferred her to another women’s dormitory with another flower’s name—Gumamela. The distance broke her heart and Emily, last she heard, is now going out with another varsity player from the swimming team and his name is Lee. As I drawl on about this, April has that far-off look, her face expressionless, before she fixes her composure and mentally wishes that she was chewing gum instead. “What the fuck am I doing here?” she asks herself.

Conclusions. Things like this have to have endings. Perhaps we’ll meet April again in a longer story, something that exceeds two pages and 1 213 words. Should it be a love story about Emily (Aw c’mon! Not another one!)? Or her being queen/king of the football field (Nah, I’m bad at sports!)? Or something like a coming-of-age story about being lesbian (Too clichéd!)? Or how much she hates having a vagina and does everything in her capacity to get rid of the damned pussy?? Now, there’s promise in that! Meanwhile, I’ll leave this one hanging. Thank you, April. You may now go ahead to your kickball practice.

She runs her hand through her hair and pulls her shorts up again, stands, and never looks back, muttering under her breath, It’s soccer, suckers.