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.