Stack Bananas: Realization

#mentionsomeoneyouareafraidoflosing was a hashtag that trended on Twitter a few months back. A similar one is trending as this is being written. It's impossible to miss a hashtag, especially when it's a whole sentence sticking out like a stop sign on the bottom right corner; encouraging people the world over to pause and think the same thought for a moment in time. I, being my journalist-to-be self, went the extra mile and checked it out. A lot plainly said "mom," "dad," "my brother," "friends," and other terms of endearment; some people however, went with "me." Back then, the first chapters of our thesis were underway so I didn't pay much attention. It's bound to change in a few hours anyway and even if I did tweet in, believe it or not, I wouldn't know who to put. There are so many people in my life. It would be unfair if I dropped everybody just to name one.

But lying awake past 3 am one night, I began to wonder that made those people tweet who they did. Is it because calling out someone over the internet is instant and easy? Or is it because of the ability to do it in public without a crowd to boo them? On to deeper speculations, is it because that someone sacrificed so much for them before they even knew what sacrifice meant? (As in the case of mothers). Or is it because they are just beginning to realize how their life is incomplete without a guidepost? (As in the case of fathers). My head was flushed with ideas; the current only stopping after I remembered a dream I had on the night of my birthday.

The dream was this: I and my sister were actors for GMA (a T.V. network in the Philippines). Our shoot just finished and after packing up, we proceeded to the ground floor and headed to the driveway. It was like an upward ramp from below the street that leads from the gate to the street. It was about 10 in the evening, and I was still wearing shades (you know, like the celebs do). I was busy with some friends when someone dressed like a nurse walked up behind me. She said something I couldn't remember, but it let me know something was wrong. She was hurrying back to where she came from and I ran along. We entered a wooden, middle-class house. That's where I saw what the commotion was about.

My mother was lying on a wooden bed. People were gathered around her. I walked toward the bed and saw a blood on the back of her head. "David," she called out, trying to open her eyes. I moved up to see how she is. The light hit her face just right for me to see what's wrong. Her eyes were light-blue in color and it's as if some oil solidified beneath her pupils. They were cloudy. "'Wag mong kalimutan 'yung kwan mo." She said calmly.

Right then I knew, she was dead behind the eyes.

Then the people around me started crying. I just stood frozen there, dumbfounded. I couldn't believe it. Up to her dying minute, she was still thinking about my needs; about what I want to get.

Flashbacks of how she lived her life through the eyes of her friends followed. All the memories I have of her shaking hands and spending time on the phone appeared one by one. It was then when I woke up.

And then I realized, all I am is nothing. The music I appreciate so much, is nothing. The games I play, are nothing. My social life, is nothing. All I've learned from "love," is nothing. My grades, they're nothing. All my heartaches, are nothing. My anxieties, are all about nothing. For 19 years, I've been living on the ocean floor of nothingness.

What only matters is how much of yourself you give to other people. That is love. Something I've plastered so deep behind walls. Depressing, isn't it?

Well, this 2013, I plan to take shape my heart rather than having it shape me. I'm turning a new leaf. I've made my bed but I'm not ready to lay just yet. It's crazy how many people live like me without realizing it. By the end of next year, I hope to become set a subtle example change.

Christmas Years

Christmas is the happy equivalent of Halloween. Children would gather on the streets with make-shift drums and tambourines, skipping around the neighborhood, singing as they go. The houses that you thought looked most boring, like the one the old widow lives in down the block? They're suddenly given new life and shine; sparkling lights colour the pavement in shades of green, yellow and red, your work-obsessed dad suddenly turns family-oriented, and you can't make a damn phone call to greet your better half a merry Christmas.

Personally, Christmas has always been an occasion I look forward to. Unwrapping gifts, not having a limit on how much soft drink I chug, and a whole bunch of relatives giving their commitments a pause to share dinner--puts together an unexplainable feeling of innocent happiness. It's incomparable. I'm not looking forward to getting drunk, getting high grades, exchanging phone numbers, or being somewhere my parents would never allow me into. Like I'm happy just because. Maybe it's what they call an "inner child," or the "Christmas spirit," acting up.

But as I moved through my final years of being a teenager, this "child" or "spirit," grew more and more silent. I don't feel it's even inside anymore today. The lights that I fancied so much to view 10-ish years ago, seem to glow a lot less. Noche buena now feels more like a regular diner, just with more ham. Going over to my relatives feels more like a chore than a happening. The zest I get after unwrapping a present seems to have grown 10-ish times shorter than way back--way back, I'd get stars in my eyes for weeks after getting something new. Now, it's just an "Oh. A school shirt." or an "I can't use this on a rainy day."

I've had an awesome year. So trying to explain the situation based on unsavory things that happened in the months (or days) behind would sound more like making up an excuse than providing a reason. Money is also not an issue. The only thing I can see different about me today is my age. So maybe, loosing interest in Christmas IS part of aging. Or of maturity or of thinking like a grown-up. It can't be nothing--it's like Christmas got well up in years and a part of me is on its twilight. This post coming in late is proof enough.

I just hope my enthusiasm doesn't end up, well, ending. Because that would probably mean I'm grown up and I'm just not there yet.

Dating for Dummies

Player, Casanova, Flirt--just three of the many namesakes I've been called throughout college. Swinger, tease, heartbreaker, gold-dig--the list goes on. Though I personally disagree with the idea of me being that good or wanting of women, I can't deny having a good share of experience in dating. "You don't get out much, do you?" is a strange question to me since being a stay-at-home, full fledged student isn't really my thing.

I've made a deal with Cat here to post some things I know about the dating game. Just the basics. So you could skip "learning from experience" the next time you deuce out. Before we begin, a small disclaimer: these are not tips on how to get a date. They're simple instructions to tell you what to do on one. However your future dates turn out after you read this is none of my business. So, are you ready? Let's have at it.

Dating. A simple meeting of two people, of two sets of eyes, of two sets of hands, and two sets of hopes: hopes of going home less of a stranger to their partners. For some, it's a walk in the park, for some, it's a stare down a loaded gun, and for some, well, a myth they only read in magazines. If you're part of the latter two, fear not; for here are easy to do things to rescue you out of awkward, sticky situations and into hearty, memorable Saturday nights.

1. Don't expect anything to come out of it. Wow. For real? You're starting with that? Well, yes I am. I want to first introduce what a date really is: 90% small talk and 10% emotion. Don't expect to thoroughly know someone through dates. Remember that when your out with your partner, both of you are on your best behaviors. Each of you want the best possible image on each others mind. So it's best you play along, not dragging it down with anything too serious. Dating at best is practically just drawing the starting lines; never base a serious relationship on someone you just knew through dates. Follow this tip if you don't want to end up wondering how the hell you ended up in a sob relationship.

2. Put a fork in your throat. No, really. Stick one in there. Unless you can afford more food, slow down, Hon. It's okay to eat a lot on a date but if you're out in a fastfood or in a restaurant somewhere, it'll pack quite a punch on your wallet (not to mention your diet). The put a fork in your throat rule also applies to speech. Show some class. Don't cuss around like some ex-convict.

3. Don't think he or she is out of your league. When the person you like agrees to go out with you, it's only human to think, "Oh gosh, what am I gonna wear?", "What am I gonna say?", "What food does he like?", "Does my voice sound annoying?", "Would she stone me to death if I bring up sex?" and thoughts similar to them. But take a breather, and slow down. Newbies tend to overthink so much, they miss the obvious thing: Your date has already agreed to go out with you! Meaning he or she is interested in what you have to offer. That puts you in his or her league. Take it easy. It's a date. Not a swim down the Amazon.

4. Update yourself with current events. Let's go back to rule #1. Dating is 90% small talk. Don't expect your date to talk about childhood memories and his/her grandpa's hypoglycemic index right away. Talk about simple things that spark interest in people. Like sports, music, X Factor, and Mila Kunis. If you live like a secluded hermit, don't expect anyone to take up much time talking to you.

5. Work on your social skills. Acquaintances, online friends, real life friends, best friends, and relationships--these are what I call "social levels". In rule #4, I didn't mean sitting in front of the TV or Youtube the internet with a notepad in hand. I meant going to games with friends. Seeing movies with friends. Even just malling with them is good exercise, though I recommend concerts and parties. The more friends you have, the bigger your life gets and the more interesting you'll be. If you're not interested in people and sharing connections, then why are you even dating? Make new friends and new acquaintances; use them for advice, for gossip, for drinks, for a place to crash, for some coke to snort, for whatever! This is very important in dating. No matter how many tips you read in Maxim or on the net, nothing compares to being a natural with people and knowing you friends have your back along the way.

6. Do not talk about an ex. If you have the slightest hint of common sense, you'd know this shouldn't even be here. The past is called "the past" for a reason: so you don't bring it into the present. Nobody, and I mean nobody wants to hear about the bittersweet tragedy of your former flame. If your date asks questions about your past relationship(s), it only means you have not followed rule #5 and he or she is just hanging on to a thin thread of conversation. (Don't worry. The past is bound to come up sometime later, in your 4th or 5th date with the same person. It takes a certain amount of comfort to ask about it. That's why this topic is so common among best friends.)

7. Skip things that require heavy mental. If you're going to talk about the disagreement of science and religion, foreign exchange rates, the correspondence of the Dow Jones and Nasdaq highs and lows to the Philippine Stock Index, the discovery Higgs Bossom particle or the arguments of metaphysical procreation, please forget about dating and save the other person the torture.

8. Find strength in numbers. Is it your first time to go out on a date? Do you feel those jitters turning to butterflies in your stomach? It's okay. We've all been there. Unless you're a socialite, going on your 1st to your 5th date will feel like a drag. An explanation is, you and your partner are basically two people out on their own with poor communications skills (especially if you're in adolescence.) So what do you do? Pray for the dead air to pass? Wait for absolution? Hell, no. Go out on group dates! In Japan they're called "goukon," a meet-up of two to four dating couples. Your companions will act like training wheels and before you know it, you're comfortable going out with just the two of you. It'll bury the dead air and make the date feel awkward... minus the "kw," plus an ing suffix.

So, that's it folks. I couldn't think of any more. Remember the rule of thumb in all social interactions: your objective is to enjoy and that's all there is to it. Sit back and have a good time. Good luck!

Three (Part Two)

I believe that the scariest place on Earth, is your imagination. Much of the supernatural stuff we see on TV and in books leave the ultimate decision--to believe or not--to the audience; to us. Since it's Halloween, that time of the year "paranormal experts" take advantage of our kindergarten fears, I'll give you three scary things that might actually be true.

1. Backmasking.

Would you believe that your idol up in lights, rocking it out center stage, might have actually written what he was singing with the devil holding his other hand? "Backmasking" is just a fancy term for playing a track in reverse. Have you ever owned a cassette or a Walkman? When a song is in fast forward, it sounds chipmunked, right?  Since backmasking is usually done with the track slowed down (so the listener could make sense of the syllables in reverse), it comes out slow and deep; like a funeral march. Partnered with Satanic lyrics, listening to a backmasked song is sure to chill your  eardrums.

Here is a harmless case of backmasking.

Missy Elliot is a hip-hop legend. Forget about Nicki, this girl is a natural. Listen closely to the chorus. After "I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it" are a couple of lines that sound like "It's yer from the nepa vanette"--It's actually "I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it."--backwards.

Now here is a classic case of backmasking.

Led Zeppelin was to rock, what Missy Elliot is to hip-hop: a legend. In fact, some time in the 70's, they were dubbed as the "Biggest band in the world." Selling tens of millions of albums worldwide, they had enough money for a private jet! They rented whole sections of high-class hotels which they (most of the time) trashed. In 2009, a sum 20 million requests for a reunion show was counted online, placing the band in the Guinness Book of World Records for the "Highest Demand for Tickets for One Music Concert." This track is from an album that sold 32 million copies worldwide. There are also messages like what you'll read, in songs of The Beatles and many other bands.

Anyway, here it goes.

When played normally, you'd hear:

“If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now

It’s just a spring clean for the May queen
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There’s still time to change the road you’re on”

But backmasked, it goes like:

“Oh here’s to my sweet Satan.

The one whose little path would make me sad, whose power is Satan.
He will give those with him 666.
There was a little tool shed where he made us suffer, sad Satan."

If you really like to hear the backmasked version, it isn't hard to find on the net. The band and their label denied intentionally putting it there with a statement: “Our turntables only play in one direction--forwards.” 

One Satanic line maybe a coincidence. But two? Three? You be the judge.

2. "Based on a true story."

Horror movies that claim they're "based on a true story," are dime-a-dozen. In fact, the phrase has become so cliche that if anybody in the industry uses it for advertising, their work is automatically  ripped as a loose and exaggerated account of some events that actually happened and some events that didn't. It's like having a Kardashian publicity.

But some movies broke the mold--and did so without exaggeration. These particular flicks brought the audience a true, hidden sense of reality absent in today's X Factor and Big Brother.

That's Ed Gein. He inspired movies: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Silence of the Lambs, Psycho, Deranged, and In The Light of The Moon. Far as murderers go, he's one of the most famous in history. He was born in 1906 and only had his mother take care of him. Their relationship was (theatrically) portrayed in Psycho. They lived like hermits: like they were the only people in the world. After her death in 1945, he began to withdraw himself from everyone. Little was known of him until he allegedly exhumed corpses from a local cemetery in 1957 and was suspected in connection of the disappearance of a local store owner. The police later got a search warrant for his home.

Upon entering Ed's house, they walked into a horrifying scene. They found nine masks made of human skin, human skin covering several chair seats, a belt made of female nipples, two decapitated heads, and several female heads with the tops sawed off.  Ed wore these masks made of skin to pretend he was a female, thus was born Psycho and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Here's another "true story."

What you see here, is the house featured in the movie: The Haunting in Connecticut. A family, the Snedekers moved in it to live closer to a health center, where a member was being treated for cancer. The family later claimed that it was plagued by some kind of demonic presence. Mortuary equipment was discovered in the basement, and it was later found that the house had been a funeral home. Carmen, the mother, described the demons: "One of the demons was very thin, with high cheekbones, long black hair and pitch black eyes. Another had white hair and eyes, wore a pinstriped tuxedo, and his feet were constantly in motion.^" 

The house was later examined. According to a write-up in 2009 by NBC, the morticians that worked in the mortuary were allegedly involved in necromancy and/or necrophilia with the corpses, and the room where the two youngest children stayed was previously the show room for caskets; down the hall was where bodies were prepared for viewing. Lorraine Warren later stated that, "In the master bedroom, there was a trap door where the coffins were brought up, and during the night, you would hear that chain hoist, as if a coffin were being brought up. But when Ed went to check he found two women down there dancing around in circles and singing; when he walked towards them, they disappeared." In response to the film, Lorraine said that the actual case was "much, much scarier than any movie could ever be," and that the film was "very, very loosely based" on their investigation of the house. (Source: Wikipedia)

The Exorcist (see Roland Doe), and The Exorcism of Emily Rose, (see Anneliese Michel), are also based on true stories. Those two are the scariest movies of all time in my opinion.

3. "Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, Brother John? Brother John?"

Do you know of sleep paralysis? I do. That state, when your mind is awake but you can't move a muscle. It feels like being strapped to a brick in the middle of the ocean. The more you panic, the more you couldn't move. It feels like something heavy is pressing down on the body. Moving your toes would feel like lifting sacks of cement. Hearing also becomes impaired; you won't be able to hear anything but some recurring, wave-like bass pulses that sound like they come from inside your ear: much like what you hear when you're yawning.

Vivid, isn't it? Well for years, I thought I was alone in this experience. Little did I know, it has been around since the ancient times. Guy de Maupassant even mentioned it in his novel, The Horla.

What I described above is nothing compared to what's likely to happen.

"The Old Hag" phenomenon, unlike the apparition of a white lady or a vampire, is recounted the same from culture to culture and country to country. Dr. David Hufford, Professor Emeritus of Humanities and Psychiatry at the Penn State College of Medicine, conducted a research on what the people of Newfoundland called "The Old Hag." He divided experiencing her presence in four parts: awakening;  hearing and/or seeing something come into the room and approach the bed; being pressed on the chest or strangled; and being unable to move or cry out. It sounds pretty much like the Succubus.

Below is an account of a friend of a man named William James. 

"It was about September of 1884 …. Suddenly I felt something come into the room and stay close to my bed. It remained only a minute or two. I did not recognize it by any ordinary sense, and yet there was a horrible ‘sensation’ connected with it. It stirred something more at the roots of my being than any ordinary perception. The feeling had something of the quality of a very large tearing vital pain spreading chiefly over the chest, but within the organism — and yet the feeling was not pain so much as abhorrence. At all events, something was present with me, and I knew its presence far more surely than I had ever known the presence of any fleshly living creature. I was conscious of its departure as of its coming; an almost instantaneously swift going through the door, and the ‘horrible sensation’ disappeared."

Scientists say that it's just the body going from the dream state to wake state that causes sleep paralysis. I sure hope they're right.

Three

Halloween is tonight. Gather 'round.

1. Sanskrit for "Nobody."

On a Sunday, about 30+ years ago (I forgot what month), our church was celebrating it's 50th founding anniversary. Our Sundays have always been divided into three separate services, but that one was different. All the community was there: ushers, deacons, pastors, elders, and of course, our loyal followers who stayed in the spirit all throughout the afternoon. It's safe to estimate more than 300 people came; it was a merrymaking to remember. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner was served. Happy hymns (as opposed to the solemn ones that lull me to sleep every Sunday), were heard in the halls. The elders claimed a more fruitful future for the church. The finger foods were fresh 'til dusk.

Later in the evening, the chatter was dying down and the pastors gathered everyone in the chapel to close the ceremony. As they were closing in prayer, they heard a distant thud. Like a wooden plank hitting the mezzanine roof (which was also made of wood). Everyone's head was bowed and the prayer was not over. Hoping to not break the silent and solemn atmosphere, everyone didn't mind it.

And "Amen,"--the prayer was over. People shook hands and composed themselves to go home. The chatter grew once again as everyone walked toward the chapel door which was opened as wide as it could. Everyone was about to head out when they noticed a crowd gathered on the street. Some of us were curious. They joined in and tried to make it to the front. It seemed like everyone had a hunch so they tried to see what it was all about. But even before they could eavesdrop on the crowd, an ambulance came. Apparently, it was an accident and someone's been hurt. Rescuers pulled out a stretcher and hurried to the middle. After a minute or so, they lifted the person off the ground. They pushed the stretcher into the ambulance and closed the door. Some of our members in the outer circle of the crowd caught a glimpse of who it was. They said it was Andrea, the rumored town witch.

A while later, our members have already gone on their way home. But the crowd was still there. It was only when the police arrived that they dispersed. The men with  "FORENSICS" jackets drew how Andrea laid down with chalk. Slowly, it became clear she was dead. It looked like something was beside where she laid; like a stone or a hole on the ground. At least that was what it looked like in the dark. But the moon rose higher and (barely) illuminated some kind of black mark, like a hexagram. A forensics guy put a tag with a "3" next to it, then photographed it.

Two months later, Andrea's case was close to becoming shelved. A policeman who was also a member of our church, solicited a little help from our elders and gave a them a picture the forensics took that night.

They were dumbfounded upon seeing the it. They knew deep down they recognize it, they just couldn't tell what. They didn't know what was in the picture, but it was familiar.  So they took it in and studied it... for more than 30 years.

The photograph was of a black formation on the ground. Back then, roads were not paved in concrete and were sandy. It looked like Andrea drew it as she laid dying, with her own blood--and the sand gave it a deep brown-black color. She drew a symbol which was found to be in Vedan Sanskrit:  a circle with 3 lines intersecting inside it. It was deciphered it to be a hunting symbol meaning "Nobody," or "nobody in." Sanskrit was used by the refined and the rulers of the ancient Hindu world. It Vedan Sanskrit is used today and you were a governor, you have the symbol etched on a tree after your people hunts in a certain part of a forest, telling freelance hunters that there is "No body in here," so they could give that part of the forest a chance to replenish.

Apparently, Andrea wrote it on the ground to note, that there was nobody in the car that hit her.

2. "Knock Knock."

About 5 years ago, my Aunt contacted a rare disease similar to goiter. A part of her neck swelled up to a size where you could cup the lump with your hand. But it didn't happen overnight. Weeks before the swell appeared, she was repeatedly coming down with fluctuating fevers and headaches. So, on a cold midnight of All Hallow's Eve, we decided to draw a pentagram on the ground to contact another realm so the spirits could end her misery once and for all.

Kidding. Her family actually got her checked out. They went, if I remember correctly, to a well-known hospital in Manila: The Chinese General Hospital. She went under a lot of tests and procedures in there. Weeks passed, and the next I heard about Aunt Amber was her transfer to the UST Hospital, located inside the UST campus in España. Back then, I was a real (and tortured) fan of horror pocketbooks so I've heard stories about the place. Also, the fact that UST is somewhat the oldest university in Asia, surviving the Japanese and American war, didn't help me clear my head. But these thoughts came to a halt when mom got off the phone with another Aunt; she said Aunt Amber will be going under a biopsy (meaning she's suspected of cancer). Then another couple of weeks later, the suspicion proved true. Aunt Amber had Hodgkin's Disease; a rare cancer of the lymph nodes. She was confined in the hospital for chemotherapy and other tests.

One day, my mom told us Aunt Amber isn't doing very well and we should pay her a visit. Other than missing my late afternoon cartoons, I had nothing against it. So, one rainy afternoon, we madeour way to the hospital. We boarded a cab to get  there. My head was filled with ghoulish and scary on our drive around the campus. The buildings were obviously old; most of them were not painted. Their designs featured a lot of steeples and arches. And man, stained glass windows on a sunless dusk are downright creepy.

We got off the cab five minutes later--in front of an unpainted building with scaffolding on the front. There was also a prominent "Watch out! Falling debris!" sign. It looked unfinished. I stepped on the sidewalk and followed my family as they hurried to the covered entrance. As the doors closed behind us, I felt realized how eerie the place was. Unlike the usual bustle in hospitals: you know, residents and nurses walking room to room and the like--it was silent in this one. It seemed like all I could hear were our own footsteps and the coins jiggling in my pocket. A minute later, we approached a receptionist's desk. 

"Amber Smith's room, please." asked my mom calmly. It was cold and getting colder. 

"4W09, ma'am." My Aunt's room was in the 4th floor. 

So, we boarded the elevator. We went down a couple of hallways to her private room. It was filled with get well soon letters and postcards, helping me forget about the deathlike hospital air.

"Kumusta ka na? (How have you been?)" 

"Anong sabi ng mga doktor? (What did the doctors say?)" 

"Kumusta ang mga bata? (How are the kids taking it?)" Mom really seemed to miss Aunt Amber. 

"Ang pangit ng pagkain dito. (The food here is terrible)" she answered back with a giggle. 

It was a private room with just two windows and a door; there was a couch left of the bed. Other than the desk next to the bed and the dextrose, the only things inside was a crucifix on the wall and one fluorescent lamp. Kind of bleak to be honest but, Mom and Aunt were chatting and laughing warmly, not minding how things looked.

But the weather wasn't getting better. I looked out the window and no cars were in sight. Only thing I could see through the rain was the creepy chapel with the stained glass windows I was talking about. Mom, knowing how easily España floods, said we would probably stay the night. It was way past visiting hours anyway so I think the crew understood her decision. After all, we weren't the only visitors stuck there. Dad came in with a folding couch (which unfortunately, did not fit through the door), and spare blankets. Mom made coffee and the room smelled of the stuff. A couple of hours later, 11:30 to be exact, was the hospital's "lights out" time. The PA system echoed across the halls.

"Please turn off your lights and remain in your rooms. Residents are on patrol and will check your rooms regularly. In case of an emergency, please press the red button on the bed's headboard and a nurse will attend to you shortly." 

Mom decided I should watch over Aunt Amber (by the way, I have the worst case of insomnia on the planet). Dad, mom, and my sister are to sleep in a room mom rented next to us. It was past midnight so I didn't really have the time to object.

Sifting through a stack of comics and magazines, I braved the first hours if the night. I was on my third volume of Batman (and was sinking into a Gotham-induced depression), when I heard a faint knock on the door.

*Knock, knock.*

"It's the resident, Dave. Let's hope it's a she and she's sexy." I thought to myself.

The gentle, feminine way the fingers tapped the door had me hoping I could glance at something pretty. But looking through the fish-eye, I saw no one. It was pitch-black. Just the darkness staring back. I opened the door and there was still nobody there. Feeling a bit disappointed, I shrugged it off and laid back on the couch. With a single glance, I found where I left on Batman. (Boy, I'm such a good reader.)

"Guns! Razors! Knives!! Play with me!" says the hysterical Joker. Batman stared back, clutching something left of his belt. "If it were you and me, we knock, knock."

"What?" I thought. 

"Knock, knock, knock." I awoke from my daydream to a knock on the door. 

"Just when it was getting good." I murmured. 

So, I walked toward the door and hastily opened it. Again, there was no one there. I was starting to get annoyed. After quickly closing it shut, I threw myself back on the couch. 

"It's my sister. Who else could it be? A resident can't be that trippy. Hah! She won't get the best of me! Let's see her try." I thought to myself grinning.

I was forming a plan to startle her the next time she knocks. So, looking around the room, I saw this medical device on top of the desk. It's the one with this... thing you put on your ring finger and beeps out your heart rate; it goes beeeeeeep when it does not detect any (possibly meaning you're a zombie). I... didn't know if I shouldn't play with it. It must be worth a ton of money. So, I crept back to the couch empty handed, continuing Batman to chase away my annoyance. But after an hour, there was still no knocking. 

"Maybe she's finally asleep." I said to Joker's face as I finished the volume. 

Since I was still not sleepy, I began reading another volume. That was when I slowly began falling asleep.

"Knock, knock, knock." I woke up with the comic on my face. 

"AH!" First thing I saw was the enraged Two-Face staring back. 

I put the comic down, and with my heart still beating a hundred miles a minute, I looked at the door angrily. 

"What do you want from me?!" I murmured. 

But after realizing I was scared silly by a comic book, appealed to my anger: "Okay, okay. Calm yourself, Dave. She isn't getting the best of you tonight." I turned on the heart rate monitor and put the thing on my finger.

"Beep... beep... beep..."  I carried it near the door.

"Knock, knock, knock." 

"Damn, she's persistent." I whispered to myself. 

I waited for the next batch of knocks--and they came: "Knock, knock, knock." 

So, I pulled the thing off my finger and "beeeeeeep," went the monitor. I put my ear on the door, hoping to hear hurried footsteps and a "Nurse! Nurse! My Aunt! MY AUNT!"--but I didn't hear anything. I pressed my ear harder against it... still nothing.

About another minute passed and my neck was getting tired when... "knock, knock, knock"--damn it, that was right against my ear!

"No way. There is no way she could've figured me out." I thought.

Frustrated, I put heart rate monitor back on the desk. Then I leaped back on the couch saying "Fuck you, I'm not opening that." inwardly. But the knocking continued--and it was growing louder. 

"Knock, knock, knock."" "Knock, KNOCK, KNOCK!!" 

I covered my ears but about 5 minutes later, it was getting unbearable. It sounded like someone trying bust down the door! I looked at my Aunt who still fast asleep. How in the world could she not hear that ruckus?!

I walked to the door enraged. It couldn't be my sister. She wouldn't do this. I looked through the fish-eye and (surprise) there was still no one there. I held the knob and breathed deeply. "Whoever you are, I'm gonna knock you the fuck out."--that was me talking to the door.

I turned the knob and pulled it with all I could give. The door banged against the wall--but alas: there was still no one there. I sighed and composed myself; I said to the dark corridor in front of me, "Whoever you are--Irene--please, I'd really appreciate some sleep."

I was about to close the door--when to my surprise, I heard a faint knocking. "Knock, knock, knock..." 

I felt the doorknob vibrate in my hands. I looked around. There was no one in front of me and no one behind. I stood there frozen with fear. I was growing goosebumps all over my arms. 

"Knock... knock... knock..." It knocked again! This time with more force but slowly--as if knowing I was right there, holding the door!

After gathering up my wits, I managed to closed the door before it knocked again. (It actually didn't. Those were the last knocks I heard that night.) But what made my hair stand on end was what I saw after I turned back: The crucifix was upside-down. I know it isn't much of a scary sight, but it was then I knew--something else was in the room with us. And it went in when I opened the door.

I snuggled up with Aunt Amber and spent the whole night awake, hoping whatever it was wouldn't bug me anymore. 

We went home the next morning. I didn't tell anyone about what happened except my best friend, who told me it could be what she called a "Soul-sucker," (or Death itself) trying to drain what's left of Aunt Amber's spiritual energy. She said my energy could have blocked it from taking Aunt Amber herself. A friend from UST said that it could be a soldier's lost soul as the site where the hospital is built was a former garrison.

To this day, I still don't know who to believe in. I don't even know if I should believe myself whenever I recount the experience. But somewhere in my mind, is the memory of what happened--and how undeniable it was.

3. Good Evening, Father.

When I was a kid, I was a real fan of Halloween. It was quite an occasion back in my province. People would dress up as different creatures without looking slutty; they go out to really put on a scare, not for a change of profile pictures. Back then, horror movies were good not because of special effects or gore, but because of a good story line. Halloween was real. My grandparents team up to spread (even more) urban legends to us kids to make sure we make home early. While I don't really approve of their methods, I particularly remember listening to this one story about the aswang--a mysterious lady fading into the night as a demon, taking kids who are still out late and feeding on them. Mom told me about the aswang once abducting a kid from our village so graphically, I was downright scared to stay out after dusk. Of course, I told my playmates about it and (thank goodness), they were scared, too.

One Halloween, a feast--or as we Filipinos coin it, a pista was held in our town. Banderitas were hung across the streets and we kids were allowed to take a shot of wine or two. Karaoke machines blared kundimans and Aerosmith songs from house to house. Figuring we wouldn't get any sleep that night, mom allowed us to stay out late. But remembering her old aswang story, we were careful not to go past midnight. Besides, what kind of mysterious demon-lady would choose to appear in the middle of a drunk town, right? The tanods and kagawads are all out on patrol. 

Shrugging off our worries, we faded into the crowd; carefully steering our way from house to house and only eating little from each host who gladly welcomed us so we get a taste of all the treats everyone has to offer. We went by Aling Nena's, Manang Lucing's, Manong Tanoc's, Aling Bora's... but we could only eat (and drink) so much. The townsfolk (merry and albeit drunk) just never tire of karaoke and we needed some peace and quiet. So, after we were filled, we headed for the church. Some of my playmates had the mind to go home, so we let them. My best friend Berto was the only one left for company. He, too, was drunk and I thought we could get some sleep in the church pews. So we walked church-ward trying not to trip over our own legs. The road (which back then was unpaved and unlit), set an eerie atmosphere. Berto shared his corny ghost stories so we wouldn't mind how dizzy we felt. He was babbling something about a creature called the tikbalang when I looked around and noticed: the trees beside the road are getting dense. If I were a first timer in those parts, I'd daydream about being in The Jungle Book. I've completely forgotten about the aswang! Anyway, after what seemed like forever, we finally reached the church.

Hoping to find Father Aman there, we went in without knocking. We stepped on stage and behind the pulpit, we screamed. 

"Father Amaaaaaan!" Our drunken, high-pitched voices echoed across the dark chapel. 

"Father Amaaaaaan!" 

Looks like he's not here. We looked at each other and laughed at ourselves. What were we thinking, screaming in an empty chapel? We must be losing our heads. Anyway, remembering why I decided to take Berto there in the first place, I suggested he get some sleep on a pew. Strangely, he took my advice and laid down without complain. Man, he must be really drunk. So, I just sat there, standing watch as he slept.

A while later, I was falling asleep, too. When suddenly, he sat up in a quick jolt and grabbed my arm. It felt like he was going to rip off my sleeve!

"Ano ba?! (What the?!)" I said in surprise. 

I was met with silence. 

"Gurg..." sounds like he was trying to talk to me. 

"Ano? (What?)" I replied. 

Suddenly, he stood up and pulled me as he race walked down the aisle. His head was down and he was walking in one direction. It became clear all the sudden: he wanted to throw up. The bathroom was all the way to the back of the church though. Berto's throat already got the best of him in the hall.

"Urrrrgh." "Urrrrgh..." He went, bent over. I patted his back just like any good friend would do to a friend who doesn't know his limits. After fits of (gross sounding) contractions, it looked like he was out of stuff to expel. Not to mention, his junk was all over the hallway! He leaned on the wall, slowly sliding down to the floor. 

"Ano, pre, okay ka lang? (Dude, are you okay?)" I asked. He was breathing slow and deep.

"Huling inom mo na 'yan! Ha ha ha! (That's the last time you drink!)" 

"Gurg..." he responded. That familiar sound... he's got more in him! This time, it was I who grabbed his arm and dragged him out to the boys' room. We arrived just in time.

"Urgh. Urrrrgh." Again he spilled, barely missing the toilet seat.

After I made sure he was good to go, we decided to leave. We stepped outside the comfort room and composed ourselves. There shouldn't be any vomit on our clothes or our parents would know we drank too much. It was then when the church bells rang.

"Bong, bong, bong..." It sounded... unusual. Painfully unusual. It had this deep, dark undertone to it. 

"Bong... bong... bong..." It continued. This time, slower. 

It had gone beyond unusual--it was getting scary. All my mother's tales about the aswang and some other monsters have crept their way back into my head. Listening to the bells, I felt an urge below...

"Berto, maghintay ka dito, a. Iihi lang ako. (Berto, wait here. I have to pee.)"  

"H-hindi! Sasama 'ko. (No! I'll come with you)." he said. 

So, I got back to the boys' room and did my business. Berto stood beside the whole time; it was kinda awkward. When I was done, I had the good sense to tidy up the cubicle. Finally, we made our way out of the bathroom. It had only one door--or should I say door frame. There was no door. You could see the outside. I saw a figure closing in from a distance... a veiled, wide, and tall figure. At first, I thought it was an aswang. But as it walked closer, I realized it was Father Aman! How in the world am I to explain the mess in the hallway?!

I hurried to the door, but unfortunately, it was there we came across each other. 

"Good evening, Father!" I greeted him, trying not to sound obvious. I

 didn't look up (he was 6 foot something); instead, I went out as he entered. My chest bumped against his abdomen, shortening any confrontation the might happen (a long one would seem awkward with both of us leaning against each other). Finally, I was out of the bathroom and he was inside. What a relief. I looked around and realized Berto was nowhere to be found! Where is he?! Did the aswang take him?!

I ran as quick as I could to go home. I was still pink from being drunk, but I didn't care if my parents found out; not anymore. I ran for my life! I didn't care if I trip. Who knows what that demented lady did to Berto?! I could be next!

I jumped over our wooden fence, rushing with all my might to get to the doorway. Good thing the door was open; I barged in and tried the fridge for water (the room with the door leading outside was our kitchen). All the lights were out and it was really quiet. Mom and Dad must've already hit the sack. I tried to tip-toe to the living room, but it was very hard to balance. I guess I swung my arm in the wrong direction and spilled some water on the kitchen floor. I felt it splash on my toes. So, I put my glass down on the table and fetched a rug from the counter. As I bent down to wipe the floor, I heard a sound. It was like someone whimpering. I looked under the table and was dumbfounded at what I saw. It was Berto! He was lying under the table, curled up in fear. He was crying and breathing heavily. "Berto?!" I pulled him out. He looked even paler in the moonlight.

 "Anong nangyari sa 'yo?! (What happened to you?!)" 

"S-si F-f..." he struggled to speak.

 "Ano? (What?)" I asked. 

"S-si... Si Father Aman..." 

"Ano? Ano?" 

"W-wala... Walang ulo! (He's headless!)" 

My hair stood on end. "S-si Father Aman?"

I got goosebumps all over my arms. I couldn't answer. I just stared at him, frozen and growing pale.

The next Sunday, I couldn't go to church. But my family forced me enough to come along. I saw Father Aman there. Apart from a slight increase in attendance, there was nothing new. I even asked Father if he went to the church that night. 

"Hindi, nasa Rome ako last month pa. Hindi ka nagsisimba, ha. Hindi 'yan maganda. (No, in fact I was in Rome since last month. You have missing church a lot. That isn't good.)"--I was scolded in return. 

Whoever it was I came across that night remains a mystery. I've never heard the bells ring that way again, too, and I'm thankful for it.

I as Double Dutch

Today, I heard a close friend say I'm bipolar. Upon hearing the statement, I had no definite response. I couldn't refute or all the more support it. But if anything, take note that this post is purely out of my utter conversational narcissism. Still reading? No? How 'bout now? Well, you were warned.

"Napaka-bipolar mo. ([Dave,] you are so bipolar)." in verbatim--sent me down a spiral of trying to see beneath who's looking back in the mirror. First realization was, I was indeed after all self-conscious. So I guess I could throw the Dave so confident he's brain dead self-view out the van window. What makes me seem bipolar? Is it me walking around in lavish clothes yet spending like a cheapskate? Is it the me who sits sheepishly in church yet is somewhat a sex symbol (literally), in the secular world? Maybe it's the me who smiles and jives with people I barely know, but gets soggy dramatic in my blogs and poems. See a quality emerging here? If Paradox walked around in high spirits and unkept hair its name would be Dave.

Looking back at the minutes my girlfriend and I ate pizza in an ice cream shop today, and again looking back at my superhuman, ego-boosting ability to relate things completely foreign to one another, I began correlating (a remnant of the horror Statistics brought upon me last night), people to pizza. I am composed of different pieces and layers that make my flavor, appearance and quality different than yours. But where's the fun in knowing how much salt, pepperoni, or cheese is in me? Should I alter my ingredients to suit someone else's taste? Should I conform after some standard? (A good example being: A real man treats his girl like a queen.) I think not. Good gracious! Pardon me if how I treat my girl isn't a mixture of raging hormones and teenage feminist propagandas. 

Bottom line--my friend's statement was positive criticism. Unlike pizza, I am not a chorus of tang, zing, sweetener and dairy. In a given situation, I'm a stanza of simple components--mallows, cocoa and frozen cream--all neutral flavors, producing one concentrated quality. I put out one pure, simple aura, yet am made up of ingredients that paradox each other. Maybe I come on too strong on one flavor and too weak in another, making my friend only taste one at a time and one at another time. That's it. Bipolarity.

Humanity is the superior of all creatures on (and under) the face the Earth. With systems more complicated in detail than a Windows 98 crash report, it's only cliche that we have a hard time understanding ourselves. So if personality does affect where you end up in life, next time you go to a fortune-teller or a know-it-all friend who claims a good perspective of where you'll be in the next 5 years, surprise them with a question: "What do you see strong in yourself that reflects what's strong in me?" Flavors only jive with another they're in harmony with. So, if he or she senses something about you, you must have some kind of similarity, right? You'll have a chance to turn away from what he/she is going to say, plus you'll sound convolutedly philosophical. Win-win!

Love and Coloring The Void

Suppose I had a friend named Anderson; a take-it-head-on kind of girl. Tough, strong-willed, somewhat masculine, yet forgiving and soft at the core. Nobody dares mess with her and lives to tell the tale (or so she told me). Safety nets are pathetic; perfection is all she aims for. Her direction in life is unquestionable. If life is a beach, she's bound to make quite a mark in the sand. I've come to know her for quite some time now. Those little, clockwise circles her pupils run when she gets annoyed, those snarky comments she takes back with a laugh, her awkward tendency to have her hair cut even shorter under stress, and her fucked up crushes over older men just because they're articulate; binging on food and what not over them... how long has it been, Andy? A couple of years? Maybe three? I'm not one to mind dates seriously; you know that, don't ya? In knowing a person, I have found time to be irrelevant.

Suppose a stranger shows up one day; one quick to build rapport, one who's charming, energetic, and heavily emotional. The weather should be a fitting image of her. Like the clouds, she's sometimes stretched out and secure, but some other times hiding behind mountains, as if brewing up a storm. When she's second of the two, it rains down destruction by form of words. A thousand volts, striking in the most unlikely places. Disintegrating all in their path--relentless, unstoppable. But every so often, a rainbow stretches its arms out to the sky, reminding how strong a soul stayed from the downpour. There is only little I know about the weather. Like a man confused, it does what it pleases or conforms to whatever stage in cycle it's in. I'll dare not form an opinion about the weather or her. But for the mean time, I'll call her Blush.

These two characters are now in love. Andy's first fall. A bittersweet surprise it is.

If there is anything constant in the universe (aside the eternal existence of irritating paradoxes), it's change. But Andy's recent changes have been poetic. She no longer cares that much about grades anymore, let alone schoolwork. She's been carefree, putting her well-formed image towards her parents on the line for secret dates and hangouts. She spends a lot of money all the sudden for comfort food. But she's now sweeter and positive. She gives hugs for free which were slaps and pinches before, she smiles at the simplest act of kindness which were before met by a that-ain't-good-enough face, and the way she takes leadership is the type that haves you liking to join her group, not the commanding, I'll-think-twice-before-getting-involved-in-this-one type we all know abounds everywhere today. In the direction things were going, I was all for the relationship--that was until last Thursday. Andy was acting kind of funny; smiling teary-eyed and whimsical like she's in high school. I was on a laptop when she came over and lowered her head for a hug. Then I heard her sobbing in my arms. Silently at first, then it slowly grew audible. Right that instant, I know our friends are already against Blush. Thinking back, she was quite the toughie. No trace of unguarded emotion is found in her. Now, she's in tears. Forcing herself to breath on my shoulders. "Just what has Blush done to this girl? What brought her to this?" I thought. Not more than 10 minutes later, she was back working things out for Blush over the phone. Andy twice asked me for advice, I joked my way out of it. My friends are still asking about my opinion on Blush and yes, I am still joking to an exit. 

"Love moron-izes people," I once heard a friend say. I beg to differ. I think, there are no universal truths when it comes to people. We are all different. That's why unity is such a struggle to achieve. Love, like rum and tonic, affect different kinds of people in different ways. But I've observed that its most common effect is instilling a deep sense of caution. Love is more than pain's neighbor; they live together. It's a fact; we all know that. Andy has just learned one of her first lessons. And believe me, it's bound to get worse. Before she knows it, she'll have to hang her pillow out to dry of tears. She'll feel abandoned, empty, distressed, uncertain, terrified, and heartbroken to an unimaginable degree sometime in the future. Andy, I sure hope you braced yourself. Nobody leaves unscathed.

 "Boy, what a pessimist."--was that you I overheard?  You have it all wrong. Andy needs to feel all these so she knows what to avoid doing in her next relationship (or in this one for that matter). They would also teach her the kind of lovers to blow off and accept. Think of these emotions as lessons. Painful, heavy, and difficult lessons you won't find in a textbook anywhere. Lessons you can't learn with your head. So as for Andy and Blush, I'm in support of their relationship. What more can Andy ask for? She has Blush to teach her the lessons of the real-world and she loves her more than anything. Not to mention Blush sorta has deep pockets too. Hah! More goodies for us friends. Seriously though. I hope Andy doesn't let Blush make her hard and numb. Pain can either act like a fire that purifies you like gold or turns you to embers like firewood. That's why love brings out the best or the worst in people (besides that inner poet in you.)

I see love as a rebirth into an alternate dimension which always existed, it's just we were absent to it; It's kind of like The Matrix. We love, we hurt, then we come to understand. It's experience acting like a crayon; Coloring the void, allowing us to make ourselves. It is, after all, the best of teachers. And after this experience, it's likely Andy would find most of her friends nodding their heads to an I told you so. But as for me, I'd congratulate her for making it through.

On "Cybercrime."

"Cybercrime,"--the way I understood it--is defamation or verbal harassment done on the net. It's actually just provisions or some legal branches included in Republic Act No. 10175 or the Cybercrime Prevention Act that some are so outraged about. To be legally imposed the day after tomorrow, it's bound to heavily affect us netizens. No wonder it's all the hype online. As of today, the proposition has garnered heavy criticism and was already petitioned against, seven times. Some say it assails the purpose of Article 3 sec. 4 of the national constitution, which says a law could never be implemented if it alters a person's freedom of speech in any way.

Is passing the Cybercrime Prevention Act and its provisions healthy for the people? Does it not violate what the forefathers of our democracy fought for? Is this the government's way of putting the internet under their wing? Let's take a closer look, shall we.

The Filipino youth's concept of the Freedom of Speech is basically being able to say whatever you want to whoever you want. This concept is primitive. See, once upon a time when Filipinos lived in little communities among the mountains and were generally good natured, written laws were not a necessity, let alone provisions for freedom. But along came the Spaniards, the Japanese, and the Americans with all their religions, technologies and what not. Society changed. Drastically. Norms were not what they were anymore. Today, people spread rumors about you losing your virginity just because the boys at school seem to take a liking to you. People pick on you for being famous, for being overweight, for your political point of view, for your social class, for your surname, even for singing with auto-tune.

I think the internet is more like a new, virtual world that lawmakers are often ignorant about. Taking a peek back at the CJ Corona trial, I'm surprised how Former Supreme Court Chief Justice Cuevas and even the senate president was a little dumbfounded as to what they would call a Powerpoint presentation, on record. I think that to the internet, our legal structures and laws are obsolete and often do not apply. You can find everything online except rules and forms of government. The Cybercrime Law to me is just the law manifesting itself onto the internet; our world of absolute freedom, where we can bash hipsters for knowing what's cool before we do, where we can use gay people for cannon fodder, where we can download movies that take millions of dollars to make for free, where actions are virtual yet they count in the real world.  

Why such a negative perspective, Dave? Well, with the exception of the To Write Love On Her Arms movement (which I doubt you know about), what good does a third world citizen do on his/her spare time on the net? I think you know where I'm going with this. I am pro-cybercrime law. I am also pro-SOPA, though it's been postponed time and time again by the US government. Go ahead, hate all you want. But even with the Cybercrime Act and SOPA in effect, we are all entitled to our own opinions, are we not? This is mine: As true as the internet is an alternate, virtual universe, is the need to have a set of rules in it. No freedom is absolute, as it can be abused in all its forms. To fellow netizens, it's time we act civilized. Contrary to popular belief, the internet is not supposed to be a place of anarchy and thievery. Time to grow up. Pay for what you use, have a sense of etiquette, and make your criticisms constructive.

Charisma-ish

I know of a creature, (let's call her Charisma), who made a habit out of ending her posts with songs she could relate to. This one's a classic example. Try spending five days with her and five nights with her blog. It's like touching both sides of the moon. Anyway, I opened up to her today. For what felt like the first time, I told someone else about a personal dilemma. Thinking back, it seemed awkward but I'm gonna make like Charisma and post a song later.

My relationship almost came to an end last night.

"Realizations." When my partner makes this a part of her sentence, her scribble, or her train of thought, my thoughts drop a little. Random thoughts that course through the air and into her head--that's how she defines it. I, for one, prefer a different definition. I think her definition isn't a definition at all. There's something going on beneath the surface here. And whatever that is has got to stop. Our relationship, as I narrated to Charisma's shortening attention span, is like a rope we both keep a hold of. These realizations act like an invisible rat: gnawing at what's left of our connection while keeping us unaware of its presence. This isn't the first time it happened, and I... only hope it'll be the last. We made a pact, that when these "realizations," pay her another visit, it's the last one I'll witness. You don't understand. They make her a different person.

We agreed to give us one last shot. I get a little nervous thinking about it, but as we all know, relationships have their highs and lows... and their beginnings and ends as well. Many could be quite poetic about them, but before I wet your screen with melodrama (like what status updates on Facebook seem to be fond of doing), here's the song I was going on about.

Kamikazee ft. Kyla - Huling Sayaw

This song is in Filipino, so to my foreign audience if there be any, it speaks of a failed affair (in a very alt-rock way.) "Huling Sayaw," means "last dance."

"Ito na ang ating huling sandali. Hindi na tayo magkakamali. Kasi wala ng bukas. Sulitin natin, ito na ang wakas. Kailangan na yata nating umuwi..."

Dave's Top Picks: The Jump

This post is about another, lesser-known trademark of mine--my weird taste in music. I once heard my girlfriend say my head has a music library in it. When a friend knows the lyrics to a song but has forgotten the title, I'm the one to turn to. I think music takes up a big part of why I smile a lot. If you're heartbroken, happy, angry, or numb, and are living under a form of government that bans LSD and ganja, what do you turn to? Music. "You know that's right."

I'm a big fan of raves, concerts, and nightlife. Music is my way of cheating consciousness. I once read about freedom being an illusion in all its forms. I say, no. Everything has a price, yes, and limitation, and order, but inside your head nothing restricts you. Your only limit is what you know; what you can imagine. It might be wasteful thinking half the time, but the most absolute freedom exists there. 

Sadly though, my mp3 player went missing last week and I've been struggling day after day without music since. Do I make it sound harsh? Good. Now you know the gravity between me and the form of art. Looking at my blog, I was surprised I have not once posted about music. Well now I'm telling you: this won't be the first time.

In honor of my lost mp3 player, forever lost, I've created (drum roll) Dave's Top Picks! Every now and then (code for whenever I feel like it), I'll be posting the chosen few among my 16 gigabyte and growing song + album collection. Tunes will be classified by genre, ranked according to how good I think they sound, and posted with their description and the reason they made the list. Quick reminder: notice the "I think," in "how good I think they sound?" Music you're likely to come across in my blog is rated according to how good they fit my taste. Take a little tour around Youtube, what do you find? More artistry in comments about which singer sings better, which band plays harder, which rapper's got more swag, even which religion to believe in, than in the music videos and the songs themselves. If any song I post offends your gender, your race, your atheism, religion, drug habit, or love life, please exit. We all have different tastes: my music doesn't have to melt in your mouth.

So, this it. Strap on your wet suit. It's you and me about to fall into the ocean of sub-genres, bass lines and record labels. Ready to jump?

Stack Bananas

*Click, click.*

...

(Inaudible noise).

...

*Click, click*
...

*Click click*

A: So, Dave...

D: ...

A: Good to see you back, son. It's been a while since our last session so... tell me what's been going going.

D: A lot.

A: Care to talk about it?

D: Well, I'm good, you know. Same old, same old.

A: I see you're still hesitating to open up. We've talked about this. Come on. Nothing bad is going to happen.

D: Yesterday, Gab, my classmate, loaded me up with things to do for a production.

A: Go on.

D: She's executive producer and I showed interest in being an anchorman so she assigned me to be one. But I know a few tricks our crew can use behind the backdrop. I offered to do some technical chores as well; like making the logos, sound effects, stuff like that.

A: There we go. Was opening up a little, difficult?

D: Not really.

A: Then keep going, son.

D: So I was at school and my friends, well most of them, had plans after class. Gab said I should go home right away to start working. Instead, I stopped by Cubao again to stroll around aimlessly.

A: Dave, I think it's best you stop associating negative reasons for things you do on your own.

D: I'm not. Really. I don't know why I end up going there now and then. I heard on TV that walking around a mall seeing all you want to buy releases dopamine, a bodily chemical that makes you feel good. It's the only rational explanation so far.

A: Well... what do you do? I mean, what do you think of when you're in there? How do you feel?

D: Normally, I think of all sorts of things. From why people wear the clothes they do, the way they do--to daydreaming about being a rich million-dollar-a-single rock star. Speaking of what people wear, I put together a few ideas in my last visit.

A:  Yeah? Like what?

D: See, I'm planning to buy new shoes. My old ones look totaled though they still wear good on dry ground. I walked around Gateway looking for a decent pair, then I noticed how different people have different tastes in footwear and clothes in general. Then I concluded that how people dress, is a pale reflection of their personality. I have a classmate, Daphney, who wears flip-flops and plain shirts to school on most days. Both explain her personality in ridiculously expressive ways. She's what I call an alpha-female. Her flip-flops signal that she isn't afraid to get noticed and be out in the open. Her plain shirt suggests she doesn't care in general how people receive her, thus, shirts and blouses on the grotesque, Rajo Laurel side of fashion doesn't appeal much to her. On the opposite end, I have a classmate, Jason, who fashionistas from head to foot on most days. He's quite the introvert; a silent personality who keeps himself, to himself. With limited socialization, it's basic he grows sensitive to the little he gets. His Chucks, neatly tied and spotless, say how vulnerable he is to social weather; How it is important that people have a good mental picture of him. His traits and Dapney's complement each other. They don't collide. So, it's no surprise they grew close as friends over the past few years.

A: Whoa. I should take you as my therapist. Kidding. Ha ha.

D: Way to unwind, huh. Well, if what I said appears on some runway, next-top-model show, I don't want my name mentioned.

A: I don't think anyone takes you seriously enough to... believe you.

D: What do you mean no one--

A: It's--

*Click, click*

...

*Click, click*

D: --and that isn't all there is.

A: Why such a negative opinion about people?

D: It isn't negative, I just don't think reality is stable. But that's my--

*Click, click*

...

*Click, click*

...

D: Yesterday, I saw my classmate, Kent, drawing a bomb with a flame beside it. They were miniature and they both have faces so you'd know they were asleep. The lesson was boring and I wasn't taking in anything so I decided draw with him.

A: Okay?

D: He drew the bomb leaning against the flame. Its fuse lit up all the sudden and everything became panicky. I told Kent I'd draw the ending and he let me. So I drew the bomb's fuse growing shorter but instead of screaming for help or alarm, I made it sneeze facing the flame. The its fuse died down, but there was nothing left of the flame but a few embers and the shoes I drew to visualize it as a character. Finally, the fuse lit up again and the bomb panicked once more--that was my ending.

A: That wasn't an ending. It sounds like a brain dead suicide bomber meeting a potato.

D: Well, it wasn't meant to be the next comic hit.

A: All right. How is it relevant to our topic?

D: Little did I know, the bomb and the flame would be me and Kent in a little bit.

A: It was catchy though.

D: I found words written on another piece of paper, behind the one I was drawing in.

A: And?

D: I thought it was scratch for some article he was working on, but I wanted to read it anyway. Turns out it was a poem. Upon seeing the sight of me reading it, Kent went frantic. He reached and grabbed for the paper almost desperately, enough to let me know something was up. I let him have it. I managed to read only the first two lines.

D: He went back to his chair with a peculiar expression in his face. I've seen it only once before.

A: And that time was?

D: Another classmate, Charisma, was digging Youtube for disgusting clips from Saw and Texas Chainsaw Massacre to piss me off. Kent was watching, too. A few minutes later, Kent headed to the boy's room for a change of clothes. He went back pale, shaken and drained, carrying the expression I'm talking about.

A:  What happened to him?

D: He said he was too disgusted. But I thought otherwise. Maybe his blood pressure dropped or his heart palpitated somewhat. Maybe it was indigestion.

A: So his expression was of alarm--not of anger?

D: I don't know, man. But it reminds me... of a rabbit running from a bald eagle. I once had a pet rabbit and that's exactly how it looked when it was scared.

A: What do you think caused this reaction?

D: Again, man. Again,  I don't know. Maybe he was trying to keep the poem from being read. He later said that he has a side he doesn't want discovered. Well, he's 18 and a private citizen. I let him be.

A: And this little incident affected how you see people? Aw, come on, Dave. You're being too malleable.

D: What do you mean I'm too malleable? Have you seen how I've been with my parents?

A: Why do you take malleability as a negative point? I think it's just a branch of insecurity.

D: What does my sense of security have to do with this? We weren't talking about me in the first place. Shit.

A: Easy. Maybe if you cut down on that shit word. You know, that's--that's a bad--

D: I'm not attacking you...

A: I didn't say you are. It's just--I just think--

D: ...you piece of shit.

A: All right. Okay. Last time we--

D: I heard somewhere that we are all just watching one another from their little boxes, from our little boxes. I recognized it as true. We all have a side unknown to everyone. It's up to nobody but to us to face ourselves at night; to recognize whose reflection it is looking back in the mirror. This world is a cold place, but then again, it's just how we see it. If you were to let all your negativity out in the open, who in their right mind would want to hang around you? We're all just actors. Earth is our stage, the sun our spotlight, the moon our symbol object, and the mountains to measure how high we're willing to take things. What do you think I write poems for?

A: For artistry. You--

D: Because telling anyone how you feel is a fucking waste of time. Well, mostly.

A: Now I can see the influ--

D: Yeah, this isn't me talking.

A: Phew. I'm glad.

D: ...

A: So, she was telling me you went touring...

*Click, click*

...

*Click, click*

A: Dave, I think it's better you do away with your ideas. They can be negative and destructive at times. They don't work in the real world anyway. You're just crazing up. Enough stacking bananas.

...

(Inaudible noise)


D: I... why confine my...


(Inaudible noise)

...

*Click, click*

To Live In A Rainbow Or To Fall In The Grey

We are all born to yearn, to want, to need, to love. Many times I've found my mind asking itself what the point is in all this. The world is how we see it and yes, it's oftentimes a dark place. No wonder some people consider it hell. I've reached a point once, that even the blood from the wounds I didn't even see, found a way to bleed. But that's a whole other story. I've noticed a trend forming on my friends' blogs: they've all posted their life's bucket lists or to put it in verbatim, "The Things I Want to Do Before I Die."

My religion taught me that our bodies are but temporary vessels for our souls. That we are just pilgrims making our way through. I can't fathom where the curse of humanity is in that. Is it in our bodies that crave for fleshly, earthly, even lustful things; Or in our souls, in the incessant ringing conscience that hold us down when we are about to give in; So it can save itself from hell or non-attainment of Nirvana? Maybe it's the contradiction between the two, no? They lock us all in a paradox. Anyway, there is no point in talking about humanity in general. All men are created equal, yet we are all unique (alas, another paradox). With all the beliefs and agnosticism in circles out there, what you believe can easily be found in the agree-to-disagree basket.

So what am I to do with the remainder of my days? Listing them down in a blog seems shallow, disappointing even, should I look back at it from the not-so-distant future.

I want 'ol Dave to grow in creativity. I want him to think out the box but with a catch: I want his box to be so big that it encompasses those of most people. So, when he thinks out of it, his ideas become remarkable. Like those of Steve Jobs' or Adam Young's. Today, he studies Journalism (speaking of which, a midterm exam is up tomorrow and he has still not done any sort of reading. Stubborn kid). There's hardly any room for creativity.

I want to live in a rainbow. To appreciate the colors, to mingle among them and be reminded of how far I am from whence I was on the ground. But I guess, as the age-old saying goes, you can't have everything you want. I am falling in the grey. Yes, it's opposite of standing in black or white, but sure as hell, it is no place to find contentment. Neutrality? What do you make of that? A view of the positive and the negative with nothing to stand for.

I have, honestly, no idea as to how I'll expand my horizons. How does one become creative? What goal, right? Well, we all live life to the fullest in our own ways. This is mine.

On Animals

(From 8/19/12)

 

Today, I alighted a jeep going home from church. My feet hit the ground and I turned my away as I and my sister made way for the sidewalk. She was going on about buying something from the grocery before heading home; I didn't care about it. I was trying to recognize the wet, jelly-like thing I felt on my foot. I looked down and saw it was, indeed, animal shit. Running over my slipper, reaching even between my toes. I walked home limping, and dodging glances. Good call, anonymous pet owner! You just ruined half my day!

This isn't first it happened time this week. The other day, on my way to school, I boarded a jeepney. I was about to sit when I looked down... to find almost half my pants stained with the same thing. I arrived 20 minutes late and a temp professor was already in, tending to our group meetings. Still, I strolled in without bother, pulled myself an empty chair, removed my shoes and went straight to the bathroom without so much as a "pardon me". I had to wash it with my bare hands. How I did it in detail? Yeah, I'd be glad to share that personally, sicko.

So what, am I going blind? Are my reflexes failing? Is my sense of cautiousness starting to droop? I'm 18, fit as a bull, and I don't think so. My opinion, is household animals here in the Philippines are fucking out of control. 300,000 people are bitten every year, 67 lives on average are claimed by rabies every three months, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who found his foot in a pile of shit today. I mean, come on. This is Metro Manila! A bustling city with 20 million inhabitants; a number bound to again leap up by the next 10 years! What place do animals have among us? The irresponsible outnumber those who answer for their pets: A sign that our country is yet to face more underdevelopment. If you walk down Times Square in New York or Shinjuku in Tokyo, and find a single stray dog, I'd be happy to change what I think. If you ride a scooter through Seoul, or even Kuala Lumpur, and find a cat gnawing something under a parked car, I'd have you to mentor my opinion.

Your transformational perspective could kiss my ass, or better yet, my if-I-ever-assume-office political will. Filipinos will never learn to be responsible (settle down, I'm talking about the majority). If I become a senator in this lifetime, you could kiss your dog that loiters and shits around the neighborhood goodbye. I'll make it a point to license owning animals. I don't care about your freedom to own a pet, I don't want to come home with a shoe drenched in shit when the road gets a little dark, or my unmindful toddler's leg bitten in the future.

The license would require a citizen to prove he/she can confine an animal within his/her property. It would also entail the need to prove that he/she can take care of her pet's waste and needs, so there would be no more throwing of shit wrapped in last week's paper to the empty yard next to you. I would also exterminate stray domestic cats and dogs (or asong kalye and pusang kalye, Aspins and Pusakals as we call it here), humanely. Owner-less aspins and pusakals mind you, are street vagrants in animal form. Except they are more common and they can dump and pee on national monuments without the act being a crime. They can also kill with rabies or give you mange (or both) with impunity.

Many, I'm sure, will frown upon it. Pfft. To hell I care. It's a far-fetched scenario anyway. But, you know, I think that if we are to progress as a nation, we should take care of little things first before handling the big ones. A lot of people are so wrapped up in GDPs, Forex, national growth indexes and reproductive health bill opinions, and here I am, connecting stray animals to national progress because of what happened this morning. Ha ha.

Disorganized

I can't think of anything to write. Kind of ironic considering how talkative I am. But that isn't exactly anyone's fault, is it? No. It's mine.

In a hotel last week, I shook hands with yet another experienced journalist. Can't exactly recall his name, but it's something close to Luis Castillo or so I think. He said that to be a good journalist, one must continuously read. In verbatim, he said it like "Tandaan niyo 'to, para maging magaling na journalist... Tandaan niyo 'to and someday you will thank me. To be a good journalist, you must read and read and read and read and read." Yup, he said it with matching hand signals to emphasize. I guess you are only as good a journalist as you are a good reader, but again, like all thoughts that cause the receding of my self-confidence, that's subject to change. You need to be a good observer, too. You need to be objective, accurate, charismatic, straight to the point, and the list goes on. Who knew it'd be this much fuss to be a writer? If my neighbor saw a meteorite pummel down the opposing house and wrote about it, does that make him a journalist? I guess not. But if he has a degree in journalism, does that make him one? Maybe no, maybe so. If he has an agency that puts him on an editor's leash, does that make him one? I guess it does! I'm not belittling journalists, I just may not know what makes them a cut above the rest. The Information Technology people know how to create programs in codes and numerals that half the time change the way we live. We now have iPads and phones named after fruits. The guys over at the Engineering building graduate with what it takes to build common houses to skyscrapers. Thanks to them, people don't mold walls and roofs barehanded with clay. The guys at fine arts master human expression. Without them, we are all walking machines without identity. But what does a journalist do that leaves a mark on the world? Is our greatest purpose confined to writing war journals and insider scandals? Is it talking about issues that lead society down a dark path? Is it to cater to the people for market? Is it to cater to the government for propaganda? Is it to cater to our own? The last one seems an inviting option, but we already have Jersey Shore and Teen Mom for it (pfft, shit). Someone enlighten me...

The read and read and read advice is one I'll probably remember for a while. I have not actually read a book yet. You know, under my own will, as a pastime, without an authority requiring me to do it? I know of many people that form love affairs with such objects, these books. I know of people, too, that hate reading some (namely Twilight) like they hate themselves, as if they're off to better its story. I can read well. Fact, I've always joined reading comprehension contests way back; not to brag. 

We all have those friends who walk in dreams and are willfully absent to the present. I, on the other hand, have no trouble dealing with reality. (Well, almost). Dreams are just too easy.

I don't want to turn into one of those people who prefer locking themselves up in solitude to camp on other people's printed daydreams. You know, those people who are awkward in parties, who occasionally drift off in the middle of a conversation, who dream of being a literary being... Newsflash! Don't date a writer. Unless you're prepared to put up with a weird eyeglass-wielding introvert, down on a road to poverty the rest of your life. It's a shot in the dark they make it into today's competitive market. And creative writing is such a make it or break it kind of field...

Heading back to the read and read and read advice, I've just noticed how reading has its edge. People whom I've known to be bookworms normally have the best vocabularies. They also have the brightest ideas though most don't really apply in reality. They also write more, let's say, better than most people who post all they want in the internet. Perhaps reading is habit-forming, so yes, I'll start but only to continue in moderation. Haha. Man, I made such a great deal out of this. I better pick up a book.