Sometimes, when both body and mind would not budge to get you going, due to fatigue or sheer laziness, it helps when you take a leisure surfing in the net and stumble on good reads (not specifically fiction or heavy essays) and feel a spark in your mind pondering again like a well-oiled thinking machine.
With the stultifying effect of summer that pulls you into languor, and you are woozy with the heat, it's almost insurmountable not to succumb to its effect. Your brain motor stops to work and you are helpless like an inebriated man who could easily find comfort on the gutter just to have a rest.
For a while, I felt just exactly like this. Dunno if its fatigue, with all that efforts to be creatively productive and my head heavy raking my brain for that so-called "good writing" lessons I learned from experience and also from the barrage of taking notes on new writing tips, my body just gave in. I could not go on further. The load was too much for me.
So, probably I copped-out by taking my time, a breather that lasted for couple or several days just letting things settle first in my head before continuing. I wantonly wasted my time in front of the tube, channel surfing since I could barely stand the programs that almost always gave me garbage. Or merely drinking coffee and smoking consecutive cigarettes, staring in the street to while time, until I feel nausea and on the brink of throwing up.
Then, came the leisure electronic walk in the net. I mentioned above that stumbling on a good read, didn't I? Yes, that exactly what happened. Little did I know that a simple good read brought back the energy that I needed just to go on writing.
I may be still tired, yet my cerebral capacity to think has been recharged. I look around in the street, at the children playing, the mothers chatting for the latest gossips, and the rest of other activities going on, and I can see them clearer now.
And somehow, as I sit in front of my monitor, I can pound the keyboards again with relative confidence with something sensible to say.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Summer Siesta
It is usually this time, after having lunch, when stupor and the gravity of the bed, or cot, or the humble sofa for that matter, the greatest. After starting the day loitering in the net, checking some mails and online friends, straying from blogsites of other bloggers, and doing some scribblings for a story, the call for a break seems reasonable.
But these days, it is not only the after-effect langour caused by lunch begging me for a siesta. It is the heat of summer March. (As I write this, the electric fan is trained at me, to prevent me from sweating too much.) I never felt this weather hotter than before.
Before Holy Week came, it had rained and the sky overcast, that I thought this summer would be different, as if were June because of the weather. But no. In the middle of the holiday, the sun scourged the earth furiously. Philippine summer has indeed formally already arrived, and I'm sweating most of the time. Plus, the attempt to circumvent siesta by drinking a mug of coffee aggravated the heat I am experiencing.
But these days, it is not only the after-effect langour caused by lunch begging me for a siesta. It is the heat of summer March. (As I write this, the electric fan is trained at me, to prevent me from sweating too much.) I never felt this weather hotter than before.
Before Holy Week came, it had rained and the sky overcast, that I thought this summer would be different, as if were June because of the weather. But no. In the middle of the holiday, the sun scourged the earth furiously. Philippine summer has indeed formally already arrived, and I'm sweating most of the time. Plus, the attempt to circumvent siesta by drinking a mug of coffee aggravated the heat I am experiencing.
Vigilante: Anatomy of Infinite Worlds
They have been going on like this for several hours now; he in mad pursuit of the other man who leads him circling around the city, into the intricacies of rush-hour long traffic along the boulevard, blaring horns, shimmying motor cars, sweating passengers waiting for the vehicles to move on, and ubiquitous carbon monoxide fumes, in a melange under a sunless, overcast sky; to the dreariness and filth along the road beneath the LRT tracks, to the maze-like streets of the Manila Metropolis. Everything is a damned vicious cycle of frustrated pursuit. Whenever he would run at an accelerated speed good enough to collar the other man, the latter showing slowness in its pace, when opportunity just stares at him in the face, when an outstretched hands could grab the other man by the shoulder, pull him to a stop, or thrust him, aikido style, the other man's momentum flinging himself to stumble, it is just then that there happens an automatic reversal in their speed, inversely proportionate; as his speed plummets the other man gains speed. It is as if everything were scripted, controlled, written and directed by an invisible hand, and the specter probably could be hidding somewhere behind the mass of gray clouds above. A couple of times he has lost sight of the other man, and each time he would dart, a great jump, onto corrugated iron roofs of houses and top decks of high-rise buildings, reconnoitering under the bleary, dim sky, always spotting the other man far ahead, towering a hundred feet over miniature houses and streets. The moment he spots the other man, the moment all the houses and buildings start to swell centrifugally, the center as the other man, hiding him again from his view. But by then, he knows where the other man is, and on again the damned pursuit. Now the other man has led him to a dimly lighted asphalted street, barren of cars and plying jeepneys, empty and sparse with people. Along the sidestreet, between thick columns bordering the pavement, an old, white-haired Chinese businessman stands before what looks like his two sons, pulling down the metal shutters of their cheap recording store. The old man turns around and gives him a death-like stare, mocking and sarcastic. Night and darkness has enveloped the city; the sky's hue pitch black. The other man has slipped to one of the narrow alleys leading to a wet and dry market and he spontaneously follows. Inside, where most of the stalls are closed, he catches a glimpse of the other man veering toward one fo the narrow aisles. With the space gap between him and the other man, the other man could have had managed to get away and escape his sight, totally leaving him, but why was the othe man still there, as if goosing him to follow him, as if the other man, though running away, were making sure he does not lose sight of him, cajolling and directing. With his service .45 caliber pistol cocked now, he sprints along the market aisles carpeted by mud to where the other man has run. He ends up at the back entrance of the market, opening to a cramped, crowded squatter residential area, where loiterers, children, men and women squatted on gutters and huddled in groups. The other man is nowhere in sight. He scans the direction the other could follow but there is no trace where he could have gone. There is a wake in front of him and the brass-colored coffin lies in the middle of the narrow street. A yellow-green canvas perched on top to cover it from a soft evening drizzle. He slowly strides toward the coffin, as if magnetized by it. He peers cautiously at the coffin. His balls tightens, his prostate aches in pain, as he sees himself, or what could be his clone, lying prostrate in it; pale, mouth agape, showing a stiff tongue and has the smell of.... Death....
to be continued....
Note: So here it is the intro for my short fiction Vigilante.
to be continued....
Note: So here it is the intro for my short fiction Vigilante.
Some Concerns
I'm not really sure if it's definite, but I was told that there is already a buyer for this pc. So, any day starting from now, there is a queasy feeling in my stomach that I will not have a pc for a long while. Posting in this blog will sparse, if not rare. But my main concern is how would I continue writing those stories that I have been doing lately. That must be where the blow of lacking a pc would hit me hard. Anyway, as there hover an invisible counter on this blogger's head tic tac toeing into a metaphorical countdown as to when the pc I'm using will be gone, I hope this is not yet the last post before the long silence.
Going to the stories that I have been writing, I'm stuck writing The Second Flash of Blankness. After having done several revisions for the partial draft and reading it the day after, I said to myself: What the fuck have I written! The prose is obviously neat, in a way, but drat! what's the point of the story and there is hardly any movement by the protagonist, even the plot is so flat any amateur reader would notice the linear style that I have done on it. And in the first place, the look of the story, of how it is written now, is not the vision that I had when I first thought of writing the story. The geography of the story is far from where I would have had wanted it to be.
I wanted the story to be like one-act-play where the actions and the message or the crux of the story will happen in just one sweep, no straying and procrastinating as it unfolds the meat of my thoughts.
But, probably, I just come short of delivering it right.
Regarding an old short story (Vigilante: Anatomy of Infinite Worlds) that I intend to submit to a prospective online publisher, I have done a good light revision on the intro. Though, it is still a long way to go before I can really have a good copy of it since what I have in hand is a 1997 draft, something that made me almost insane because I have another better written draft written in 1992 and I was trying to rummage for it in my old files but to no avail. So, bearing with the fact that this '97 draft is all that is left of that story, I have to retrace that path I did on the other draft.
And all these efforts will be put on hold due to the plans to sell the pc I'm using. Ah, gonna post the intro for Vigilante so the readers will have a good idea of what it is all about.
Going to the stories that I have been writing, I'm stuck writing The Second Flash of Blankness. After having done several revisions for the partial draft and reading it the day after, I said to myself: What the fuck have I written! The prose is obviously neat, in a way, but drat! what's the point of the story and there is hardly any movement by the protagonist, even the plot is so flat any amateur reader would notice the linear style that I have done on it. And in the first place, the look of the story, of how it is written now, is not the vision that I had when I first thought of writing the story. The geography of the story is far from where I would have had wanted it to be.
I wanted the story to be like one-act-play where the actions and the message or the crux of the story will happen in just one sweep, no straying and procrastinating as it unfolds the meat of my thoughts.
But, probably, I just come short of delivering it right.
Regarding an old short story (Vigilante: Anatomy of Infinite Worlds) that I intend to submit to a prospective online publisher, I have done a good light revision on the intro. Though, it is still a long way to go before I can really have a good copy of it since what I have in hand is a 1997 draft, something that made me almost insane because I have another better written draft written in 1992 and I was trying to rummage for it in my old files but to no avail. So, bearing with the fact that this '97 draft is all that is left of that story, I have to retrace that path I did on the other draft.
And all these efforts will be put on hold due to the plans to sell the pc I'm using. Ah, gonna post the intro for Vigilante so the readers will have a good idea of what it is all about.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Notes
I've finally collected myself. Been trying to sleep the whole day but the heat of March had kept me sweating, and I dont know if I was able to sleep while lying on the sofa for couple of hours.
I am stucked with the short fiction I'm working on now, though an encouraging prospect for submission of another story is at hand. I had a short story written a couple of years ago but the electronic copy I had was hacked from my computer. In desperate attempt to find a hard copy, I rummaged into my old files like a man whose life depended on it. And, it almost made me insane to find a draft written way back '97. I thought, I have to retrace the steps I made on that story.
Anyway, sometimes it pays a good dividend in being nosy and sleuthing on the archives of bloggers to find valuable information that can benefit me. :)
I am stucked with the short fiction I'm working on now, though an encouraging prospect for submission of another story is at hand. I had a short story written a couple of years ago but the electronic copy I had was hacked from my computer. In desperate attempt to find a hard copy, I rummaged into my old files like a man whose life depended on it. And, it almost made me insane to find a draft written way back '97. I thought, I have to retrace the steps I made on that story.
Anyway, sometimes it pays a good dividend in being nosy and sleuthing on the archives of bloggers to find valuable information that can benefit me. :)
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Tidbits of Thoughts
As I ponder about the journey I am taking in on developing my story-telling skills, I cannot argue the benefits given by the research on how to deliver, rather I would say, how to write better. There has been for the last several days loads of tips on writing well. And, it is no doubt, brought a lot of insight on the craft.
Yet, as barrage of these writing tips flood into my thoughts, dissecting my writing prowess to an extent, formulating on the way on how to say what I want to say in my writings, my question now is whether are these pointers directing me toward a style that does not echo my true voice?
If I've written something standing on the foundation of these 'better writing' style or delivery, could I have not been true to myself?
I used to, and I am still, measure a good writing from the books that I have read. The focus alone is on the context of pure tone, cadence, and natural voice of the writer. Now, with the advent of these dissection tools, the simple question for example of whether to use long sentences over the more recommended short ones, is being debated, an issue that I find superficial. It is my reason that it is on the discretion of the writer to see what fits his style and if needed in his narrative or story telling to give a better impact on the reader.
Ah, gonna talk about it when everything has settled in my head.
Yet, as barrage of these writing tips flood into my thoughts, dissecting my writing prowess to an extent, formulating on the way on how to say what I want to say in my writings, my question now is whether are these pointers directing me toward a style that does not echo my true voice?
If I've written something standing on the foundation of these 'better writing' style or delivery, could I have not been true to myself?
I used to, and I am still, measure a good writing from the books that I have read. The focus alone is on the context of pure tone, cadence, and natural voice of the writer. Now, with the advent of these dissection tools, the simple question for example of whether to use long sentences over the more recommended short ones, is being debated, an issue that I find superficial. It is my reason that it is on the discretion of the writer to see what fits his style and if needed in his narrative or story telling to give a better impact on the reader.
Ah, gonna talk about it when everything has settled in my head.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Short Story in Progress III (partial draft revised)
It must be the proximity of their place to the business district, and the sea, a kilometer away to the West with some portions reclaimed, never reached them with its smell of brine, that the young people there would engage in regular reunions; former classmates in school in which one of them, amid the stultifying work in cramped office spaces -- articificial auspicious places that suggest nothing but an outlook for the future -- would think first on contacting his contemporaries and those few who had migrated to other cities for arrangements. If someone would take notes on what usually takes place during these get-togethers, he would notice that they begin with superficial details concerning their advancing careers, and when everybody have slackened off due to the languor brought by consumed calderata and pancit bihon, when what is left are wine and bottles of beer, they exchange tidbits of a shared past too much to their own pleasure.
One of the young people who subscribed to this was Jose Centeno, an abled man with no practical worries to make him look older than his age, and reunions for him were welcome rituals, perhaps to compensate for the slow ripple of his social life. And, perhaps too, for the simple reason of reliving the past.
"Carmelita dropped by this afternoon," said Dominic Crisante, cousin and constant classmate in school.
"What's her concern," Jose replied.
"The usual. And probably in a resort this time."
"We could try La Union."
"Yeah, never been there. Anyway, she has told the others about it already."
"What did they say?"
"It's fine with them. They already set a date when to talk about the details."
This prospect ran in the head of Jose as he combed the tuft of hair in his forehead with callous fingers. He was halfway done recording on the computer the birth and death certificates of the population of Hawaii, circa 40, from a roll of microfilm. The idea had taken much of his thoughts, and already he tasted in his mouth an urge for a smoke . He stood up. For a moment, surveyed the rows of computers around him and listened to the perpetual clatter of keyboards being pounded at an average speed of 45 word per minute. He walked past the working area, out into the corridor and veered for the comfort room. He found that several of his officemates were already there, cigarette smoke hovered in the air like a morning fog, slow moving while being sucked by the exhaust fan. He relieved himself on the urinal, then got a cigarette in his back pocket and lit it. His officemates were entertaining themselves with juvenile imagination of having a hot chick for a wife.
"Wouldn't it be great to have a wife like that?" said one.
"Sure it is," Jose joined in and added, "Just don't leave the country for you'll writhe in bed anxious that she is making out with other men."
"That must be hell," replied by another.
When Jose returned to his seat, he checked whether he had had recorded the certificate seen in his viewer, and verifying that it had been, resumed encoding the next data. For hours, he was deep in repetitious process of typing names, dates and causes of deaths.
Doing this job for a long time, Jose had marveled at the idea that this hynotizing task, bringing the sensation of the brain being massaged, makes one dumb. And already he feared he was starting to be one. Few more years on the job and probably he could degenerate into a moron, he thought.
He was rehearsing this wisdom when a flash struck him, like an apparition that swept by without portents. Actually, the flash was not a blinding light of illumination, rather, a blurred glimpse of a remote past.
It was a casual conversation with former classmates as they stood on the bridge near another classmate's home, a time prior to their discovery of holding formal reunions. He had mentioned to one of them a case of mischief several of them did during one of their school days. But the quick response was: "Sorry, but I don't remember it." The reply baffled him. He could have had retorted by saying: "Of course you remember it", and offered further elaboration to construct a detailed past. But the conversation was a merry one, straying to other topics, that to delve on an uncertain past was uncalled for and unnecessary. Thus the realization that he alone remembered it hung in the air; a benign terror that eventually dived in the depths of the sea and stayed there slumbering for a long time.
"Common." It was his seatmate nudging him. Jose snapped out of his reverie. Everybody around had started to stand up. Almost everybody were rushing toward the counter to pass the unfinished recorded microfilms. He pulled the microfilm in one sweep from the machine, put the film inside the brown envelope and stood up. The next shift, crowding along the corridor and spilling over already at the door, their heads peeking, was about to enter the working area any minute now.
He chose a seat by the window. When the conductor issued him his ticket, he crumpled it into a ball with his fingers, rolling it until the sweat in his fingers rubbed on it. Humid air slapped his face as the bus sped along the highway and his vision barraged by the lush of billboard ads' neon lights.
The issue could be treated as a simple case of lapsed in memory, he thought. But he felt otherwise. He tried to find a resolve to this anomaly, taking the stance of a homespun philosopher to regain his peace, anchoring his deductions on the events in the present times.
Jose focused his thoughts on the case of his officemates. They would remember years later the habit of sneaking out to smoke in the comfort room during this stint in their job. The repeated shirking would etch a strong impression in their memories that it would be certain that, if the situation calls for it -- when an early evening chat with their aging wives begs for a casual sharing of anecdotes or when their children have grown up and on their first job and need stories to teach them about work-place scenarios -- Jose's officemates would be able to remember and tell about it. And, probably, with a hint of pride for their laid-back coolness.
He continued with this line of reasoning, rolling the ticket in his fingers tighter now. What if three of them, instead of sneaking out to smoke in the restroom, decide to proceed downstairs, go out and eat at the open-air eatery beside the building which was not their usual wont. On their way back to work, they encounter a ragged old man begging for loose change. One of them, out of naughtiness and for the purpose of having a good laugh, gives the beggar an antiquated coin that would be without use for the old man. They would go back then to their work guffawing. Decades later, when fate have separated them, either to pursue other jobs or migrate in other cities, two of them chance to cross their paths in the street. As an old acquaintance and to say something special, the first one would suggest about that afternoon with the old man. But the other would deny that he was with him in that situation. He remembers they usually smoked in the restroom, yes. But about the case regarding the old man? No, he does not remember it. The one who opened up the subject would be left dumbfounded, but goes on, desperate, narrating this time the details of the encounter. The other says: "I still don't remember it."
The one with keen recollection, to his dismay, discovers that he alone the keeper of what was once, and holds on on something that is slipping into non-existence.
Jose felt a discomfort in his guts.
The conductor hollered: "Evangelista! Evangelista!"
He alighted the bus, the gravity's pull heavier than usual. He strode for the jeepney terminal, which was two blocks away, and still rolling the ticket in his fingers. At the sight of the terminal, he flicked the ticket onto the pavement. It settled on the slow stream along the gutter. As the ticket drifted down the sewer, he took one last look at it like a prayer of farewell for an intimate transient companion. He heard the barker yelled for the last seat in the jeepney. He ambled faster and hopped in.
to be continued......
One of the young people who subscribed to this was Jose Centeno, an abled man with no practical worries to make him look older than his age, and reunions for him were welcome rituals, perhaps to compensate for the slow ripple of his social life. And, perhaps too, for the simple reason of reliving the past.
"Carmelita dropped by this afternoon," said Dominic Crisante, cousin and constant classmate in school.
"What's her concern," Jose replied.
"The usual. And probably in a resort this time."
"We could try La Union."
"Yeah, never been there. Anyway, she has told the others about it already."
"What did they say?"
"It's fine with them. They already set a date when to talk about the details."
This prospect ran in the head of Jose as he combed the tuft of hair in his forehead with callous fingers. He was halfway done recording on the computer the birth and death certificates of the population of Hawaii, circa 40, from a roll of microfilm. The idea had taken much of his thoughts, and already he tasted in his mouth an urge for a smoke . He stood up. For a moment, surveyed the rows of computers around him and listened to the perpetual clatter of keyboards being pounded at an average speed of 45 word per minute. He walked past the working area, out into the corridor and veered for the comfort room. He found that several of his officemates were already there, cigarette smoke hovered in the air like a morning fog, slow moving while being sucked by the exhaust fan. He relieved himself on the urinal, then got a cigarette in his back pocket and lit it. His officemates were entertaining themselves with juvenile imagination of having a hot chick for a wife.
"Wouldn't it be great to have a wife like that?" said one.
"Sure it is," Jose joined in and added, "Just don't leave the country for you'll writhe in bed anxious that she is making out with other men."
"That must be hell," replied by another.
When Jose returned to his seat, he checked whether he had had recorded the certificate seen in his viewer, and verifying that it had been, resumed encoding the next data. For hours, he was deep in repetitious process of typing names, dates and causes of deaths.
Doing this job for a long time, Jose had marveled at the idea that this hynotizing task, bringing the sensation of the brain being massaged, makes one dumb. And already he feared he was starting to be one. Few more years on the job and probably he could degenerate into a moron, he thought.
He was rehearsing this wisdom when a flash struck him, like an apparition that swept by without portents. Actually, the flash was not a blinding light of illumination, rather, a blurred glimpse of a remote past.
It was a casual conversation with former classmates as they stood on the bridge near another classmate's home, a time prior to their discovery of holding formal reunions. He had mentioned to one of them a case of mischief several of them did during one of their school days. But the quick response was: "Sorry, but I don't remember it." The reply baffled him. He could have had retorted by saying: "Of course you remember it", and offered further elaboration to construct a detailed past. But the conversation was a merry one, straying to other topics, that to delve on an uncertain past was uncalled for and unnecessary. Thus the realization that he alone remembered it hung in the air; a benign terror that eventually dived in the depths of the sea and stayed there slumbering for a long time.
"Common." It was his seatmate nudging him. Jose snapped out of his reverie. Everybody around had started to stand up. Almost everybody were rushing toward the counter to pass the unfinished recorded microfilms. He pulled the microfilm in one sweep from the machine, put the film inside the brown envelope and stood up. The next shift, crowding along the corridor and spilling over already at the door, their heads peeking, was about to enter the working area any minute now.
He chose a seat by the window. When the conductor issued him his ticket, he crumpled it into a ball with his fingers, rolling it until the sweat in his fingers rubbed on it. Humid air slapped his face as the bus sped along the highway and his vision barraged by the lush of billboard ads' neon lights.
The issue could be treated as a simple case of lapsed in memory, he thought. But he felt otherwise. He tried to find a resolve to this anomaly, taking the stance of a homespun philosopher to regain his peace, anchoring his deductions on the events in the present times.
Jose focused his thoughts on the case of his officemates. They would remember years later the habit of sneaking out to smoke in the comfort room during this stint in their job. The repeated shirking would etch a strong impression in their memories that it would be certain that, if the situation calls for it -- when an early evening chat with their aging wives begs for a casual sharing of anecdotes or when their children have grown up and on their first job and need stories to teach them about work-place scenarios -- Jose's officemates would be able to remember and tell about it. And, probably, with a hint of pride for their laid-back coolness.
He continued with this line of reasoning, rolling the ticket in his fingers tighter now. What if three of them, instead of sneaking out to smoke in the restroom, decide to proceed downstairs, go out and eat at the open-air eatery beside the building which was not their usual wont. On their way back to work, they encounter a ragged old man begging for loose change. One of them, out of naughtiness and for the purpose of having a good laugh, gives the beggar an antiquated coin that would be without use for the old man. They would go back then to their work guffawing. Decades later, when fate have separated them, either to pursue other jobs or migrate in other cities, two of them chance to cross their paths in the street. As an old acquaintance and to say something special, the first one would suggest about that afternoon with the old man. But the other would deny that he was with him in that situation. He remembers they usually smoked in the restroom, yes. But about the case regarding the old man? No, he does not remember it. The one who opened up the subject would be left dumbfounded, but goes on, desperate, narrating this time the details of the encounter. The other says: "I still don't remember it."
The one with keen recollection, to his dismay, discovers that he alone the keeper of what was once, and holds on on something that is slipping into non-existence.
Jose felt a discomfort in his guts.
The conductor hollered: "Evangelista! Evangelista!"
He alighted the bus, the gravity's pull heavier than usual. He strode for the jeepney terminal, which was two blocks away, and still rolling the ticket in his fingers. At the sight of the terminal, he flicked the ticket onto the pavement. It settled on the slow stream along the gutter. As the ticket drifted down the sewer, he took one last look at it like a prayer of farewell for an intimate transient companion. He heard the barker yelled for the last seat in the jeepney. He ambled faster and hopped in.
to be continued......
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Short Story in Progress II (draft-revised)
It must be the proximity of their place to the business district, and the sea, a kilometer away to the West with some portions reclaimed, never reached them with its smell of brine, that the young people there would engage in regular reunions; former classmates in school in which one of them, amid the stultifying work in cramped office spaces -- articificial auspicious places that suggest nothing but an outlook for the future -- would think first on contacting his contemporaries and those few who had migrated to other cities for arrangements. If someone would take notes on what usually takes place during these get-togethers, he would notice that they begin with superficial details concerning their advancing careers. And when everybody have slackened off due to the languor brought by plates of calderata and pancit bihon, and when what is left are wine and bottles of beer, they exchange tidbits of a shared past too much for their pleasure.
One of the young people who subscribed to this was Jose Centeno, an abled man with no practical worries to make him look older than his age, and reunions for him were welcome rituals, perhaps to compensate for the slow ripple of his social life.
"Carmelita dropped by this afternoon," said Dominic Crisante, cousin and constant classmate in school.
"What's her concern," Jose replied.
"The usual. And probably would be in a resort this time."
"We could try La Union."
"Yeah, never been there. Anyway, she has told the others about it."
"What did they say?"
"It's fine with them. They even had set a date when to talk about the details."
This prospect ran like an excited cat in the head of Jose as he combed the tuft of hair in his forehead with callous fingers. He was halfway done recording on the computer the birth and death certificates of the population of Hawaii, circa 40, from a roll of microfilm. The idea had taken much of his thoughts, and already he tasted in his mouth an urge for a smoke . He stood up. He stretched his limbs, and, for a moment, surveyed the rows of computers around him and listened to the perpetual clatter of keyboards being pounded at an average speed of 45 word per minute. He walked out past the working area and headed for the comfort room. He found that several of his officemates were already there, cigarette smoke hovered in the air like a morning fog, slow moving while being sucked by the exhaust fan. He relieved himself on the urinal, then got a cigarette in his back pocket and lit it. His officemates were entertaining themselves with juvenile imagination of having a hot chick for a wife.
"Wouldn't it be great to have a wife like that?" said one.
"Sure it is," Jose joined in. "Just don't leave the country for you'll writhe in your bed anxious that she is making out with other men."
"Ho, ho, ho! That must be like hell," one replied.
When Jose returned to his seat, he checked whether he had had recorded the certificate seen in his viewer, and verifying that it had been, resumed encoding the next data. For hours, he was deep in repetitious process of typing names, dates and causes of deaths. Doing this job for a long time, Jose marveled at the idea that this hynotizing task, which one's brain felt being massaged, makes one dumb. And already he was starting to consider himself as one. Few more years on the job and probably he could degenerate into a moron.
Then a flash struck him as he went on to the next data, like an apparition that sweeps by without portents. Actually, the flash was not a blinding light of illumination, rather a blurred glimpse of a remote past.
It was the time before they discovered the pleasure of holding formal reunions. It was a casual conversation with former classmates as they stood on the bridge near another classmate's home. He had mentioned to one of them a case of mischief several of them did during one of their school days. But the quick response was: "Sorry, but I don't remember it." The reply baffled him. He could have had retorted by saying: "Of course you remember it", and offered further elaboration to construct a detailed past. But the conversation was a merry one, straying to other topics, that to delve on an uncertain past was uncalled for and unnecessary. Thus the realization that he alone remembered it hung in the air; an unseen benign terror that dived in the depths of his soul and stayed there slumbering for a long time.
"Common." It was his seatmate nudging him. Jose snapped out of his reverie. Everybody around had started to stand up. A bustle of workers rushed toward the counter to pass the unfinished recorded microfilms. He pulled the microfilm in one sweep from the machine, put the film inside the brown envelope and stood up. The next shift that was now crowding along the corridor and spilling over already on the door, their heads peeking, and was about to enter the working area any minute now.
He chose a seat by the window. When the conductor issued him his ticket, he crumpled it into a ball with his fingers, rolling it until the sweat in his fingers rubbed on it. Humid air slapped his face as the bus sped along the highway and his vision barraged by the lush of billboard ads' neon lights.
The issue could be treated as a simple case of forgetfulness, he thought. But he felt otherwise. He was bothered, and at this juncture could be concluded as unhappy and had been robbed of his peace. He tried to find a resolve to this anomaly, taking the stance of a homespun philosopher, anchoring his deductions in the events in contemporary times.
Jose focused on the case of his officemates. They would remember years later the habit of sneaking out to smoke in the comfort room during this stint in their job. The repeated shirking would etch a strong impression in their memories that it would be certain that, if the situation calls for it -- when an early evening chat with their aging wives begs for a casual sharing of anecdotes or when their children have grown up and on their first job and need stories to teach them about work-place scenarios -- Jose's officemates would be able to remember and tell about it. And, probably, with a hint of pride for their laid-back coolness.
But what if three of them, instead of sneaking out to smoke in the restroom, decide to proceed downstairs, go out and eat at the open-air eatery beside the building which was not their usual wont. On their way back to work, they encounter a ragged old man begging for loose change. One of them, out of naughtiness and for the purpose of having a good laugh, gives the beggar an antiquated coin that would be without use for the old man. They would go back to their work guffawing.
Decades later, when fate have separated them, either to pursue other jobs or migrate in other cities, two of them chance to cross their paths in the street. As an old acquaintance and to say something special, the first one would suggest about that afternoon with the old man. But the other, surprised, would deny that he was with him in that situation.
He remembers they usually smoked in the restroom, yes. But about the case regarding the old man? No, he does not remember it. The one who opened up the subject would be left dumbfounded, but goes on narrating about their wild imagination of having a chick for a wife.
The former says: "I don't remember it, too."
The one with keen recollection, to his dismay, discovers that he alone the keeper of what was once, and holds on on something that is slipping into non-existence.
"Yes, the keeper," thought Jose.
The conductor hollered: "Evangelista! Evangelista!"
Jose alighted the bus feeling the gravity's pull heavier than usual. He strode for the jeepney terminal, which was two blocks away, and still rolling the ticket in his fingers. At the sight of the terminal, he flicked the ticket onto the pavement. It settled on the slow stream along the gutter. As the ticket drifted down the sewer, he took one last look at it like a prayer of farewell for an intimate transient companion. He heard the barker yelled for the last seat in the jeepney. He ambled faster and hopped in.
to be continued......
To the readers: The above partial draft is a revision of a story in progress this blogger posted previously. Still, feel free to bludgeon this blogger by comments, criticisms or questions on whether the piece above is readable, clear, and resembles an expertise in the art of story telling. The rest of the draft is still being written.
One of the young people who subscribed to this was Jose Centeno, an abled man with no practical worries to make him look older than his age, and reunions for him were welcome rituals, perhaps to compensate for the slow ripple of his social life.
"Carmelita dropped by this afternoon," said Dominic Crisante, cousin and constant classmate in school.
"What's her concern," Jose replied.
"The usual. And probably would be in a resort this time."
"We could try La Union."
"Yeah, never been there. Anyway, she has told the others about it."
"What did they say?"
"It's fine with them. They even had set a date when to talk about the details."
This prospect ran like an excited cat in the head of Jose as he combed the tuft of hair in his forehead with callous fingers. He was halfway done recording on the computer the birth and death certificates of the population of Hawaii, circa 40, from a roll of microfilm. The idea had taken much of his thoughts, and already he tasted in his mouth an urge for a smoke . He stood up. He stretched his limbs, and, for a moment, surveyed the rows of computers around him and listened to the perpetual clatter of keyboards being pounded at an average speed of 45 word per minute. He walked out past the working area and headed for the comfort room. He found that several of his officemates were already there, cigarette smoke hovered in the air like a morning fog, slow moving while being sucked by the exhaust fan. He relieved himself on the urinal, then got a cigarette in his back pocket and lit it. His officemates were entertaining themselves with juvenile imagination of having a hot chick for a wife.
"Wouldn't it be great to have a wife like that?" said one.
"Sure it is," Jose joined in. "Just don't leave the country for you'll writhe in your bed anxious that she is making out with other men."
"Ho, ho, ho! That must be like hell," one replied.
When Jose returned to his seat, he checked whether he had had recorded the certificate seen in his viewer, and verifying that it had been, resumed encoding the next data. For hours, he was deep in repetitious process of typing names, dates and causes of deaths. Doing this job for a long time, Jose marveled at the idea that this hynotizing task, which one's brain felt being massaged, makes one dumb. And already he was starting to consider himself as one. Few more years on the job and probably he could degenerate into a moron.
Then a flash struck him as he went on to the next data, like an apparition that sweeps by without portents. Actually, the flash was not a blinding light of illumination, rather a blurred glimpse of a remote past.
It was the time before they discovered the pleasure of holding formal reunions. It was a casual conversation with former classmates as they stood on the bridge near another classmate's home. He had mentioned to one of them a case of mischief several of them did during one of their school days. But the quick response was: "Sorry, but I don't remember it." The reply baffled him. He could have had retorted by saying: "Of course you remember it", and offered further elaboration to construct a detailed past. But the conversation was a merry one, straying to other topics, that to delve on an uncertain past was uncalled for and unnecessary. Thus the realization that he alone remembered it hung in the air; an unseen benign terror that dived in the depths of his soul and stayed there slumbering for a long time.
"Common." It was his seatmate nudging him. Jose snapped out of his reverie. Everybody around had started to stand up. A bustle of workers rushed toward the counter to pass the unfinished recorded microfilms. He pulled the microfilm in one sweep from the machine, put the film inside the brown envelope and stood up. The next shift that was now crowding along the corridor and spilling over already on the door, their heads peeking, and was about to enter the working area any minute now.
He chose a seat by the window. When the conductor issued him his ticket, he crumpled it into a ball with his fingers, rolling it until the sweat in his fingers rubbed on it. Humid air slapped his face as the bus sped along the highway and his vision barraged by the lush of billboard ads' neon lights.
The issue could be treated as a simple case of forgetfulness, he thought. But he felt otherwise. He was bothered, and at this juncture could be concluded as unhappy and had been robbed of his peace. He tried to find a resolve to this anomaly, taking the stance of a homespun philosopher, anchoring his deductions in the events in contemporary times.
Jose focused on the case of his officemates. They would remember years later the habit of sneaking out to smoke in the comfort room during this stint in their job. The repeated shirking would etch a strong impression in their memories that it would be certain that, if the situation calls for it -- when an early evening chat with their aging wives begs for a casual sharing of anecdotes or when their children have grown up and on their first job and need stories to teach them about work-place scenarios -- Jose's officemates would be able to remember and tell about it. And, probably, with a hint of pride for their laid-back coolness.
But what if three of them, instead of sneaking out to smoke in the restroom, decide to proceed downstairs, go out and eat at the open-air eatery beside the building which was not their usual wont. On their way back to work, they encounter a ragged old man begging for loose change. One of them, out of naughtiness and for the purpose of having a good laugh, gives the beggar an antiquated coin that would be without use for the old man. They would go back to their work guffawing.
Decades later, when fate have separated them, either to pursue other jobs or migrate in other cities, two of them chance to cross their paths in the street. As an old acquaintance and to say something special, the first one would suggest about that afternoon with the old man. But the other, surprised, would deny that he was with him in that situation.
He remembers they usually smoked in the restroom, yes. But about the case regarding the old man? No, he does not remember it. The one who opened up the subject would be left dumbfounded, but goes on narrating about their wild imagination of having a chick for a wife.
The former says: "I don't remember it, too."
The one with keen recollection, to his dismay, discovers that he alone the keeper of what was once, and holds on on something that is slipping into non-existence.
"Yes, the keeper," thought Jose.
The conductor hollered: "Evangelista! Evangelista!"
Jose alighted the bus feeling the gravity's pull heavier than usual. He strode for the jeepney terminal, which was two blocks away, and still rolling the ticket in his fingers. At the sight of the terminal, he flicked the ticket onto the pavement. It settled on the slow stream along the gutter. As the ticket drifted down the sewer, he took one last look at it like a prayer of farewell for an intimate transient companion. He heard the barker yelled for the last seat in the jeepney. He ambled faster and hopped in.
to be continued......
To the readers: The above partial draft is a revision of a story in progress this blogger posted previously. Still, feel free to bludgeon this blogger by comments, criticisms or questions on whether the piece above is readable, clear, and resembles an expertise in the art of story telling. The rest of the draft is still being written.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Short Story in Progress I (draft) First Flash of Blankness
It must be because of the proximity of their place to the business district and the sea, kilometer away to the West with some portions reclaimed, never reached them with its smell of brine, that the young people there would engage in regular reunions, former classmates in school in which one of them, amid the humdrum of routinary work in cramped office spaces, would think first on contacting the others and those few who had migrated to other cities for arrangements. If someone would take notes on what usually do they talk about during these get-togethers, he would notice that they delve on superficial details concerning their advancing careers, and, when everybody have slackened off due to the languor of consumed calderata and pancit bihon, when what left in their hands are wine and beers, they mainly savor the pleasure of repeated exchange of tidbits of a shared past.
One of the young people who subscribed to this was Jose Centeno, an abled man with no practical worries to make him look older than his age, and reunions for him were welcome rituals by which he used as an instrument to navigate how far, or how near, he had sailed from his boyhood, and also to compensate for the slow ripple of his social life. This year, the news about an upcoming affair came to him through his cousin, Dominic Crisante, constant classmate in school, who relayed to him that Carmelita Alonzo had dropped by at their compound, and brooched the idea for another get-together. Dominic had told him that she had had visited the others as well and a tentative date had ben set on when they would discuss the details.
This prospect ran like an excited cat in the head of Jose as he combed the tuft of hair in his forehead with callous fingers, halfway done recording on the computer the birth and death certificates of the population of Hawaii, circa 40, from a roll of microfilm. The thought took a toll on him and he felt an urge to refresh himself that he stood up, stretched his numbing limbs, and surveyed for a moment the rows of computers around him, listening to the perpetual clatter of keyboards being pounded relentlessly at an average speed of 45 word per minute, before he walked past the working area, straight for the comfort room. He found that several of his officemates were there already, cigarette smoke hovered in the air like a morning fog slowly dispersing and being sucked by the exhaust fan. He relieved himself on the urinal, then fished for a cigarette in his back pocket and lit it. His officemates were entertaining themselves with wild juvenile imagination of having a hot chick for a wife. "That would be good," Jose joined in, "just don't go abroad for you'll writhe anxiously in your bed that she is making out with other men." "That must be like hell," one replied.
When Jose returned to his seat, he checked whether he had had recorded the certificate seen in his viewer, and verifying that it had been, resumed encoding the next data. Engulfed for hours in the repetitious process of typing names, dates and causes of deaths, hynotizing task in which his brain felt the sensation of being massaged to an extent of getting dumb, when, brought probably by the wisp of air from the air-condition that whirred in the background, a flash struck him. His excitement about his previous preoccupation was replaced with transparent urgent concern. It was a casual conversation with former classmates as they stood on the bridge near another classmate's home, time before they discovered the pleasure of holding formal reunions. He mentioned to one of them a case of mischief they had done, with accomplices, during one of their school days. But the quick response was: "Sorry, but I don't remember it." The reply baffled him, quietly exasperated by unseen benign terror. He could have had retorted by saying: "Of course you remember it", and offered further elaboration to construct a detailed past, but the conversation was a merry one, straying spontaneously into other topics, that to delve on an uncertain past was uncalled for and unnecessary. Thus the realization that he alone remembered it hung in the air, had dived in the subterraneans of his soul and stayed there for a long time in slumber, but resurfaced only now.
"Common." A seatmate. Jose snapped out of his reverie. Everybody around had started to stand up, bustling, rushing toward the counter to pass the unfinished recorded microfilms. He pulled the microfilm in one sweep from the machine, put the film inside the brown envelope and stood up. The next shift, crowding in the corridor and spilling over already on the door, was about to enter the working area any minute now.
He chose a seat by the window. When the conductor issued him his ticket, he unconsciously crumpled it into a ball with his fingers, rolling it until the sweat in his fingers rubbed on it. Humid air slapped his face as the bus speeded along the highway. The lush of billboard ads' lights preoccupied his vision but they did not register in his thoughts, since it stubbbornly dwelled on the issue which to some would be treated by casual attention as a simple case of forgetfulness. But Jose felt otherwise. He was bothered. He tried to find a resolve to this, taking as a reference point the events in contemporary times, raking his soul like a philosopher searching for explanation on everything by sheer logic and reason. Jose took the case of his officemates. They would remember years later the habit of sneaking out to smoke in the comfort room during this stint in their job. Then repeated shirking would etch a strong impression in their memories that it would be certain that, if the situation called for it -- when an early evening chat with their aging wives begged for casual exchange of anecdotes or when their children had grown up and would be on their first job and needed stories to teach them about work-place scenarios -- Jose's officemates would be able to remember and tell about it. But what if three of them, instead of sneaking out to smoke in the restroom, decide to proceed downstairs, go out and eat at the open-air eatery beside the building. Then on their way back to work, encounter a ragged old man begging for loose change. One of them, out of naughtiness and for the purpose of having a good laugh, gives the beggar an antiquated coin that would be without use for the old man and then they go back to their work guffawing. Decades later, when fate have separated them, either to pursue other jobs or migrate in other cities, two of them chance to cross their paths in the street. As an old acquaintance and for the purpose of saying something special to share, the first one would suggest about that afternoon with the old man. But the other, surprised, would deny he was with him in that situation. He remembers they usually smoked in the restroom, yes. But about the case regarding the old man? No, he does not remember it. The one who opened up the subject would be left dumbfounded. He alone the keeper of what was once.
The conductor hollered: "Evangelista! Evangelista!"
Jose alighted the bus feeling the gravity's pull heavier than usual. He strode for the jeepney terminal, which was two blocks away, and still rolling the ticket in his fingers. At the sight of the terminal, he flicked the ticket onto the pavement, settled on the slow stream along the gutter, then, as the ticket drifted into the sewer, he took one last look at it and bid it with a fool's farewell by murmuring: "I'm the only one who remember you." He heard the backer yelled for the last seat in the jeepney, he ambled faster and hopped in in inside.
to be continued......
To the readers: Feel free to bludgeon this blogger by comments, criticisms or questions on whether the piece above is readable, clear, and resembles any tinge of rhythmn in his narration, for the writer himself sees a blurred picture of what the hell he has written so far. Don't ask what the point of the story is, it will be delivered in the second installment, where the Second Flash will happen, as soon as he has collected his wits.
One of the young people who subscribed to this was Jose Centeno, an abled man with no practical worries to make him look older than his age, and reunions for him were welcome rituals by which he used as an instrument to navigate how far, or how near, he had sailed from his boyhood, and also to compensate for the slow ripple of his social life. This year, the news about an upcoming affair came to him through his cousin, Dominic Crisante, constant classmate in school, who relayed to him that Carmelita Alonzo had dropped by at their compound, and brooched the idea for another get-together. Dominic had told him that she had had visited the others as well and a tentative date had ben set on when they would discuss the details.
This prospect ran like an excited cat in the head of Jose as he combed the tuft of hair in his forehead with callous fingers, halfway done recording on the computer the birth and death certificates of the population of Hawaii, circa 40, from a roll of microfilm. The thought took a toll on him and he felt an urge to refresh himself that he stood up, stretched his numbing limbs, and surveyed for a moment the rows of computers around him, listening to the perpetual clatter of keyboards being pounded relentlessly at an average speed of 45 word per minute, before he walked past the working area, straight for the comfort room. He found that several of his officemates were there already, cigarette smoke hovered in the air like a morning fog slowly dispersing and being sucked by the exhaust fan. He relieved himself on the urinal, then fished for a cigarette in his back pocket and lit it. His officemates were entertaining themselves with wild juvenile imagination of having a hot chick for a wife. "That would be good," Jose joined in, "just don't go abroad for you'll writhe anxiously in your bed that she is making out with other men." "That must be like hell," one replied.
When Jose returned to his seat, he checked whether he had had recorded the certificate seen in his viewer, and verifying that it had been, resumed encoding the next data. Engulfed for hours in the repetitious process of typing names, dates and causes of deaths, hynotizing task in which his brain felt the sensation of being massaged to an extent of getting dumb, when, brought probably by the wisp of air from the air-condition that whirred in the background, a flash struck him. His excitement about his previous preoccupation was replaced with transparent urgent concern. It was a casual conversation with former classmates as they stood on the bridge near another classmate's home, time before they discovered the pleasure of holding formal reunions. He mentioned to one of them a case of mischief they had done, with accomplices, during one of their school days. But the quick response was: "Sorry, but I don't remember it." The reply baffled him, quietly exasperated by unseen benign terror. He could have had retorted by saying: "Of course you remember it", and offered further elaboration to construct a detailed past, but the conversation was a merry one, straying spontaneously into other topics, that to delve on an uncertain past was uncalled for and unnecessary. Thus the realization that he alone remembered it hung in the air, had dived in the subterraneans of his soul and stayed there for a long time in slumber, but resurfaced only now.
"Common." A seatmate. Jose snapped out of his reverie. Everybody around had started to stand up, bustling, rushing toward the counter to pass the unfinished recorded microfilms. He pulled the microfilm in one sweep from the machine, put the film inside the brown envelope and stood up. The next shift, crowding in the corridor and spilling over already on the door, was about to enter the working area any minute now.
He chose a seat by the window. When the conductor issued him his ticket, he unconsciously crumpled it into a ball with his fingers, rolling it until the sweat in his fingers rubbed on it. Humid air slapped his face as the bus speeded along the highway. The lush of billboard ads' lights preoccupied his vision but they did not register in his thoughts, since it stubbbornly dwelled on the issue which to some would be treated by casual attention as a simple case of forgetfulness. But Jose felt otherwise. He was bothered. He tried to find a resolve to this, taking as a reference point the events in contemporary times, raking his soul like a philosopher searching for explanation on everything by sheer logic and reason. Jose took the case of his officemates. They would remember years later the habit of sneaking out to smoke in the comfort room during this stint in their job. Then repeated shirking would etch a strong impression in their memories that it would be certain that, if the situation called for it -- when an early evening chat with their aging wives begged for casual exchange of anecdotes or when their children had grown up and would be on their first job and needed stories to teach them about work-place scenarios -- Jose's officemates would be able to remember and tell about it. But what if three of them, instead of sneaking out to smoke in the restroom, decide to proceed downstairs, go out and eat at the open-air eatery beside the building. Then on their way back to work, encounter a ragged old man begging for loose change. One of them, out of naughtiness and for the purpose of having a good laugh, gives the beggar an antiquated coin that would be without use for the old man and then they go back to their work guffawing. Decades later, when fate have separated them, either to pursue other jobs or migrate in other cities, two of them chance to cross their paths in the street. As an old acquaintance and for the purpose of saying something special to share, the first one would suggest about that afternoon with the old man. But the other, surprised, would deny he was with him in that situation. He remembers they usually smoked in the restroom, yes. But about the case regarding the old man? No, he does not remember it. The one who opened up the subject would be left dumbfounded. He alone the keeper of what was once.
The conductor hollered: "Evangelista! Evangelista!"
Jose alighted the bus feeling the gravity's pull heavier than usual. He strode for the jeepney terminal, which was two blocks away, and still rolling the ticket in his fingers. At the sight of the terminal, he flicked the ticket onto the pavement, settled on the slow stream along the gutter, then, as the ticket drifted into the sewer, he took one last look at it and bid it with a fool's farewell by murmuring: "I'm the only one who remember you." He heard the backer yelled for the last seat in the jeepney, he ambled faster and hopped in in inside.
to be continued......
To the readers: Feel free to bludgeon this blogger by comments, criticisms or questions on whether the piece above is readable, clear, and resembles any tinge of rhythmn in his narration, for the writer himself sees a blurred picture of what the hell he has written so far. Don't ask what the point of the story is, it will be delivered in the second installment, where the Second Flash will happen, as soon as he has collected his wits.
Morning Page
Begin. Quarter to six. Pondering on whether to run as I woke up seeing that it was half an hour past five in the morning and the dreams I had still clear in my head; I was with Yani, cousin and brother during my early philosophising about life which we talked over bottles of Tanduay -- when it was the only liquor we could afford then -- and the blare of rock and roll sounds of Juan Dela Cruz, with our only pulutan Litson Manok, courtesy of another cousin, Vic, who owned a variety store. In the dream, backtracking a decade and finding myself in his modest school and crossing path with him along the corridors, it was said that he is also reading the same books that I read and plan to read; Nietze (sorry forgot the spelling), Pynchon was it? Some Hemingway? But the crux of the story of the dream is that even though I got to infiltrate a good university, and this cousin even was going in a so-so small college, we have the same access to those good books I considered I had the monopoly and fortunate to read. The dreams relays that it is not really where you study but on how you grab the opportunity on gaining knowledge and the patience to be profound that matters. Damn, still dreaming about school and student days when it doesn't matter now. Everything about books, and another chance to have a go on earning a decent grade and passing those examination which when I was a student I did not give a damn, just going to school to hang out with my friends, talk and yak about books which we read in the Humanity section of our library, which later on the university would housed in a huge building where reading got to be more interesting, where Carlos Fuentes, Hemingway, Jorge Borges, Gabo, had been perpetual companions, devouring as fast as possible before I leave the university as many books that I could read, dreaming of the gargantuan task of reading every dusty more-than-a-decade books cramped in those steel bookshelves, trying to get my head drawling English like a white man, though know at the back of my head, as I plodded on, that I would get there sooner or later, a decade probably... Been trying to collect myself to write something about the days that have past, during when there was a lull in posting something for this blog. Short of getting myself tied to a post just to prevent myself from yakking anything or writing for that matter anything that has nothing to do with the work that I was doing right now. Telling myself to get rid the unnecessary and focus on the priority task before succumbing to the pleasure of doing something that is easy and being done for so long knowing it would get me nowhere near the destination I had set for myself... Stop for several minutes yakking and speed-typing since people in the house said whatever I was doing was not really in a hurry or I could do later it and would I just give my time to their domestic plaints. Me, blood rushing to the head, pissed and grumbling and grumpy, checked what was the problem; the washing machine was again, as it rinsed the laundry, moving on its feet. Had to insert cardboard to keep it still. When it was done, got to smoke outside, and getting pissed off once again when the last remaining stick I got was lacerated just near the filter that I could not puff the right dose of nicotine to keep me breathing again and start something in my head running...screeeeech! a grinding halt. Stop.
Friday, March 18, 2005
A Short Action Scene
This happened about a couple of months ago. My buddies and I talked about the details of the story over bottles of Red Horse as it was the latest distraction from an otherwise ordinary days in the subdivision.
Jonas got involved again in trouble. Now for the readers to have an idea who Jonas is, he is a burly tough guy who seems will never get thin from all the speed he peddles around even if he used them all and stayed awake for months. As a backgrounder, he sneaked out of the jail a week before his release and been involved in gun running. He tried once to snatch the shotgun of the young guard we have here in the subdivision, though when he had grabbed it and was about to pull the trigger to blast the poor guard, the latter, by training or pure instinct, held the shotgun just in the right place so Jonas could not squeeze the trigger. That saved our street being splattered with blood.
The trouble happened one afternoon. Jonas was having a drink with some of the men here under the trees beside the basketball court. Another version said that he was not. He just tried to pacify the inebriated arguing parties when his good intention brought him in the middle of the ruckus. There was an argument. Julius ran in his billiard hall to get his samurai, knowing a fight would ensue. Cielo right-hooked Jonas who deftly parried it. Dante aka Tenga followed up with a straight punch that landed straight at Jonas face. Julius, back, ran towards Jonas and whacked him twice with his samurai that only bounced. Jonas, slightly shakened, stepped back, stooping and got his short knife behind him, tucked under his jeans. His Danao-made caliber .38 dropped on the ground in the process. Jonas swung his knife in an upward curve at Dante who, upon seeing the glint of the blade, jumped to turn around and avoid the thrust. Jonas got him in the buttocks. Cielo picked the gun, hopped a couple of meters away and pulled the trigger at Jonas. The sonofabitch Danao-made gun just clicked. Jonas stood still without any intention of scrambling for safety. Cielo pulled the trigger twice. It fired but it did not hit Jonas. Julius, Cielo and Dante aka Tenga, with bleeding butt, scampered away then. Jonas too ran out of the scene.
One of my buddies said as we talked about it: "Me agimat ata yun, 'tol."
"Swete lang yun," another said. "Kabado kasi si Cielo."
Then somebody blurted: "Putang-inang mga tao yan! Araw-araw magkakasama, sila-sila pa magpapatayan."
Jonas got involved again in trouble. Now for the readers to have an idea who Jonas is, he is a burly tough guy who seems will never get thin from all the speed he peddles around even if he used them all and stayed awake for months. As a backgrounder, he sneaked out of the jail a week before his release and been involved in gun running. He tried once to snatch the shotgun of the young guard we have here in the subdivision, though when he had grabbed it and was about to pull the trigger to blast the poor guard, the latter, by training or pure instinct, held the shotgun just in the right place so Jonas could not squeeze the trigger. That saved our street being splattered with blood.
The trouble happened one afternoon. Jonas was having a drink with some of the men here under the trees beside the basketball court. Another version said that he was not. He just tried to pacify the inebriated arguing parties when his good intention brought him in the middle of the ruckus. There was an argument. Julius ran in his billiard hall to get his samurai, knowing a fight would ensue. Cielo right-hooked Jonas who deftly parried it. Dante aka Tenga followed up with a straight punch that landed straight at Jonas face. Julius, back, ran towards Jonas and whacked him twice with his samurai that only bounced. Jonas, slightly shakened, stepped back, stooping and got his short knife behind him, tucked under his jeans. His Danao-made caliber .38 dropped on the ground in the process. Jonas swung his knife in an upward curve at Dante who, upon seeing the glint of the blade, jumped to turn around and avoid the thrust. Jonas got him in the buttocks. Cielo picked the gun, hopped a couple of meters away and pulled the trigger at Jonas. The sonofabitch Danao-made gun just clicked. Jonas stood still without any intention of scrambling for safety. Cielo pulled the trigger twice. It fired but it did not hit Jonas. Julius, Cielo and Dante aka Tenga, with bleeding butt, scampered away then. Jonas too ran out of the scene.
One of my buddies said as we talked about it: "Me agimat ata yun, 'tol."
"Swete lang yun," another said. "Kabado kasi si Cielo."
Then somebody blurted: "Putang-inang mga tao yan! Araw-araw magkakasama, sila-sila pa magpapatayan."
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Not in Shape
Am not in top shape. Probably I have had too many, or too little, strong beer last night. Or probably I succumbed too easily at the sign of a coming headache that I went back to sleep early this morning that waking up, I already have a headache.
There was nothing to write then at the beginning. I just slacked off. But when ideas for essays -- sentences came rushing forth like F1 on the race track of my mind -- I copped out by going back to bed.
Now, my head throbs in pain. Woozy that even a dose of mug of coffee and consecutive cigarettes could not add an ounce of energy in my head to get to work. Worse, the cigarettes intensify the pain in my head.
I plan to get on writing the story which is halfway done for its first draft. But could not. This is the hard part when you have focused too much on practice-writing , like doing journals and essays, that when it is time for the real work, you realize there's still no replacement for actual story writing. So attempting to write one now is like chipping a boulder with a concrete nail.
The halfway-done draft of my story lies beside the paper I'm writing on right now. It is begging for a lot of rewriting and polishing.
But what can I do? I would squint and close my eyes just to write this piece.
Note: After hours of tossing on the sofa tortured by a headache, I took a paracetamol. That did the magic. I guess, I never learned to take the short-cuts when it is necessary. Back into shape.
There was nothing to write then at the beginning. I just slacked off. But when ideas for essays -- sentences came rushing forth like F1 on the race track of my mind -- I copped out by going back to bed.
Now, my head throbs in pain. Woozy that even a dose of mug of coffee and consecutive cigarettes could not add an ounce of energy in my head to get to work. Worse, the cigarettes intensify the pain in my head.
I plan to get on writing the story which is halfway done for its first draft. But could not. This is the hard part when you have focused too much on practice-writing , like doing journals and essays, that when it is time for the real work, you realize there's still no replacement for actual story writing. So attempting to write one now is like chipping a boulder with a concrete nail.
The halfway-done draft of my story lies beside the paper I'm writing on right now. It is begging for a lot of rewriting and polishing.
But what can I do? I would squint and close my eyes just to write this piece.
Note: After hours of tossing on the sofa tortured by a headache, I took a paracetamol. That did the magic. I guess, I never learned to take the short-cuts when it is necessary. Back into shape.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Evening Page
There is really nothing in my mind right now of what to write about. I've just installed XP on the computer, a barrowed CPU from my sister-in-law, and just glad to be back again, having an Internet connection and the chance to check my mails and visit my blogsite and those of my favorites as well. Well, what could I say but I'm still elated that, finally, I'm using a computer that does not hang after several minutes and that tiring and frustrating booting off and on of the pc is over -- I hope. I should have had written an essay this afternoon but I chose to let myself get bruised instead by continuing to write a story that for sometime had been in my mind and part of it written already, though crudely written, of course, since I just realize now that I should have had paid more attention and effort on constructing stories not on practice writing like keeping a journal. Now, old and a decade has past since I said I wanted to be a writer, I'm still learning the basic of story telling. It's very difficult to get the cadence and flow of a story teller, that's what I discovered lately. I haven't developed that skill and somehow, forgot to. But the session this afternoon took a turn when I started feeling the language and the flow and texture of the text. Though I know when I try to look at it tomorrow, I will find it so badly written that I still have to rewrite it fifty more times. Guess, that's all folks. End of yakking.
Friday, March 11, 2005
The Greatest War Photographer: Robert Capa
Sometimes it pays when you succumb to pass time in front of the idiot box. It has been long since I ceased to be fascinated by what I see on TV. Rare do I find something worthy to watch. And that rate times came when I chanced a channel featuring a documentary that, at the beginning, I barely make out what it was all about from the black and white photos and old films of what could be the 30's Europe being shown. The narrator, to add, shifted too much from one personality to the other. Then one statement struck me, a sign of riveting biography about to unfold.
The narrator, quoting what was in the mind of the subject: "I look at the shoes of people. From the shoes they wear, I discover that you can tell whether they are poor or not. And from then on, I always look at people's shoes."
I knew quickly that I have stumbled on a gem in the quagmire of crap cable TV throws relentlessly on TV audience. The statement tells of a young mind with keen eyes in perceiving the world around him; a precocious sensibility that foretells significant participation in the turmoils that would happen during his lifetime.
The young mind belonged to Robert Capa, who would grow up to be the world's greatest war photographer. By the young age of 32, he had made his name a legend already. His works and exploits envied and admired by his peers and contemporaries.
He never avoided the most hostile atmosphere to take pictures of what could be the test of man's spirit to survive, where life and death hangs in the balance, a test of bravery and spirit paid by life with almost certainty. In fact, he embraced it.
Robert Capa captured in his rolls of precious negative films, about 70,000 shots, his coverage of the Spanish War, the Second World War, the landings of the Allied forces on the shores of Normandy -- where he was the lone photographer included in the first wave of attack --, the liberation of Paris, and several wars.
Part of the package of these successful exploits to record in photos an aggravated and hostile and bloody environment of wars, where his life tittered every second on the thin line of being hit by a bullet just like the soldiers he covered, was fame. Robert Capa was a big shot. He hobnobbed with some of the famous and genius minds of his era: Hemingway, John Steinbeck and Pablo Picasso to name a few.
He also never ran out of lovers. His biggest romance was his involvement with one of the beholder of the prettiest face in world, Academy-winning actress Ingrid Bergman. This man was blessed just to be involve with a goddess such as her.
What fascinated me most in the life of this Hungarian-born photographer was his extreme dedication to his craft. And he proved this, tragically, to his own demise.
For him, another coverage of a war is not merely a call of duty. It is, in his words, "pleasure to do the work."
This person did not rest on his past achievements. Would not want to. He could have had chosen to play safe when he had reached a status already revered by his contemporaries. He could have had enjoyed the safety of taking pictures of everyday people, something that he also loved doing. He could have stayed away from the the perils of covering wars.
But this man stuck his neck out, played again with Death, when he accepted another assignment to cover the Vietnam War. There, he took his last click of his shutter. He died when he stepped on a landmine. Death, finally, caught up with him.
The story of the life of Robert Capa, in time of Love and War, enriches a man's spirit. It teaches passion and ethics of doing one's work with the sheer determination to deliver. Even if it meant to pay it with your life. And Robert Capa paid it with his. But what is more dignified life than doing the thing that you love to the end.
I watched the biography for couple of hours, and, indeed, it was a gem.
The narrator, quoting what was in the mind of the subject: "I look at the shoes of people. From the shoes they wear, I discover that you can tell whether they are poor or not. And from then on, I always look at people's shoes."
I knew quickly that I have stumbled on a gem in the quagmire of crap cable TV throws relentlessly on TV audience. The statement tells of a young mind with keen eyes in perceiving the world around him; a precocious sensibility that foretells significant participation in the turmoils that would happen during his lifetime.
The young mind belonged to Robert Capa, who would grow up to be the world's greatest war photographer. By the young age of 32, he had made his name a legend already. His works and exploits envied and admired by his peers and contemporaries.
He never avoided the most hostile atmosphere to take pictures of what could be the test of man's spirit to survive, where life and death hangs in the balance, a test of bravery and spirit paid by life with almost certainty. In fact, he embraced it.
Robert Capa captured in his rolls of precious negative films, about 70,000 shots, his coverage of the Spanish War, the Second World War, the landings of the Allied forces on the shores of Normandy -- where he was the lone photographer included in the first wave of attack --, the liberation of Paris, and several wars.
Part of the package of these successful exploits to record in photos an aggravated and hostile and bloody environment of wars, where his life tittered every second on the thin line of being hit by a bullet just like the soldiers he covered, was fame. Robert Capa was a big shot. He hobnobbed with some of the famous and genius minds of his era: Hemingway, John Steinbeck and Pablo Picasso to name a few.
He also never ran out of lovers. His biggest romance was his involvement with one of the beholder of the prettiest face in world, Academy-winning actress Ingrid Bergman. This man was blessed just to be involve with a goddess such as her.
What fascinated me most in the life of this Hungarian-born photographer was his extreme dedication to his craft. And he proved this, tragically, to his own demise.
For him, another coverage of a war is not merely a call of duty. It is, in his words, "pleasure to do the work."
This person did not rest on his past achievements. Would not want to. He could have had chosen to play safe when he had reached a status already revered by his contemporaries. He could have had enjoyed the safety of taking pictures of everyday people, something that he also loved doing. He could have stayed away from the the perils of covering wars.
But this man stuck his neck out, played again with Death, when he accepted another assignment to cover the Vietnam War. There, he took his last click of his shutter. He died when he stepped on a landmine. Death, finally, caught up with him.
The story of the life of Robert Capa, in time of Love and War, enriches a man's spirit. It teaches passion and ethics of doing one's work with the sheer determination to deliver. Even if it meant to pay it with your life. And Robert Capa paid it with his. But what is more dignified life than doing the thing that you love to the end.
I watched the biography for couple of hours, and, indeed, it was a gem.
Monday, March 07, 2005
The Attack
As far as I can recall these weird attacks go way back in the early 90's. I once had an entry in my lost/hacked journal tackling about it in not more than 400 words. Pondering about it now, as I write this post, it has been, after all, a decade already and the attacks seem like a long-running horror series, with one theme and storyline, and without an end in sight as the fear it gives me lessen to a degree.
The attack has been a sporadic companion in my pre-sleeping hours. From the countless of times that the experience has pulled me to plunge into the abyss, I have already noticed determinants when the attack would surely visit me the moment my head hit the pillow; when tired and tried to stay awake pass the typical hours when I usually hit the sack, and second when I have had slumbered too much during the day.
But then, sometimes, it comes without portents. It suddenly catches you unprepared, an invisible monster has trapped you between its paws, and is about to swallow you whole.
Lying on the bed, drifting into sleep, when one is having a stream-of-consciousness thoughts paving the way into an entry into the subconscious, the attack snaps out my control on my motor skills. This is the time when my body literally falls asleep, but leaving my consciousness intact. It's staying in the void between wakefulness and dreaming.
The silence whirr of the electric fan becomes a thunderous din. Proportional to the amplification of silence, my heart beats faster in panic. A horrible sense of vulnerability engulfs me. Stray evil spirit in the air can swiftly fly into me and I cannot defend myself. Sometimes, I imagined Beelzebub popping out in the darkness of my room, towering before me.
It is during this time that I try to move my limbs to wake up. But without success. Though I learned through time that I need to relax myself before I could do that.
I have told my buddies about this and their united diagnosis to my experience is bangungot or nightmares. They may have a point there considering that I have a penchant to sleep after having a meal. They say I probably no longer pray and have lost my faith. They too may have a point there since I would casually tell people that I don't have a religion. But this does not mean that I don't have a god. I still pray to the One above. It is just that I don't subscribe to what the different churches around me say about what God wants me to think about Him.
But this simple diagnosis cannot explain everything. If that is bangungot, why in the hell I'm still alive today? And bangungot happens when you're in the middle of your dreams. This one happens just when I knock on the door of Dreamland. The only problem is that my body sleeps first before my consciousness.
Could have I entered the "worlds within the world before us" as Carlos Castaneda quoted don Juan Matus, a Yaqui indian sorcerer. And have done that without the influence of peyote?
During those attacks, I could feel strong cosmic winds. It's frightening. But lately, the intensity of the fear is no longer that severe.
Does the decade of sporadic attacks is meant to teach me something? What if I control my fear? Relax and open my eyes to the mysterious vista that would have an apparition before me. Then, later on, try to sit, then stand up, and then probably fly into the space and experience getting tossed by the strong current of cosmic winds. That would be an experience.
But right now, the attacks just became pesky pre-sleep conditon that make me transfer to the living room to get a better sleep.
The attack has been a sporadic companion in my pre-sleeping hours. From the countless of times that the experience has pulled me to plunge into the abyss, I have already noticed determinants when the attack would surely visit me the moment my head hit the pillow; when tired and tried to stay awake pass the typical hours when I usually hit the sack, and second when I have had slumbered too much during the day.
But then, sometimes, it comes without portents. It suddenly catches you unprepared, an invisible monster has trapped you between its paws, and is about to swallow you whole.
Lying on the bed, drifting into sleep, when one is having a stream-of-consciousness thoughts paving the way into an entry into the subconscious, the attack snaps out my control on my motor skills. This is the time when my body literally falls asleep, but leaving my consciousness intact. It's staying in the void between wakefulness and dreaming.
The silence whirr of the electric fan becomes a thunderous din. Proportional to the amplification of silence, my heart beats faster in panic. A horrible sense of vulnerability engulfs me. Stray evil spirit in the air can swiftly fly into me and I cannot defend myself. Sometimes, I imagined Beelzebub popping out in the darkness of my room, towering before me.
It is during this time that I try to move my limbs to wake up. But without success. Though I learned through time that I need to relax myself before I could do that.
I have told my buddies about this and their united diagnosis to my experience is bangungot or nightmares. They may have a point there considering that I have a penchant to sleep after having a meal. They say I probably no longer pray and have lost my faith. They too may have a point there since I would casually tell people that I don't have a religion. But this does not mean that I don't have a god. I still pray to the One above. It is just that I don't subscribe to what the different churches around me say about what God wants me to think about Him.
But this simple diagnosis cannot explain everything. If that is bangungot, why in the hell I'm still alive today? And bangungot happens when you're in the middle of your dreams. This one happens just when I knock on the door of Dreamland. The only problem is that my body sleeps first before my consciousness.
Could have I entered the "worlds within the world before us" as Carlos Castaneda quoted don Juan Matus, a Yaqui indian sorcerer. And have done that without the influence of peyote?
During those attacks, I could feel strong cosmic winds. It's frightening. But lately, the intensity of the fear is no longer that severe.
Does the decade of sporadic attacks is meant to teach me something? What if I control my fear? Relax and open my eyes to the mysterious vista that would have an apparition before me. Then, later on, try to sit, then stand up, and then probably fly into the space and experience getting tossed by the strong current of cosmic winds. That would be an experience.
But right now, the attacks just became pesky pre-sleep conditon that make me transfer to the living room to get a better sleep.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
What's Wrong with the Computer?!
It came without portents. The new nirvana I found in my net experience had turned into agony when my monitor suddenly flickered; the blue screen signaled a VXD error. Though not new to this computer error since I had encountered it several times in the past but not without an easy solution like a simple restart, this innocuous computer glitch metamorphosed into a phantom dragon, in need to be slaught.
It breathed out fire. It saw havoc in my PC's circuitry when a friend, a computer technician and whom I sought help for a reliable cd-rom at that time, treated the error as a sign that my computer needed a new installation of an operation system.
I, confident that my friend's technical expertise was better compared with mine, just sat behind the scene and watched as my harddisk undergo formatting for the setting up of a new OS.
And there began the end of my long romance with my computer. The birth of the ghost dragon in the guise of VXD error. After the formatting, my computer was never the same again. It was as if it turned into a scrap hardware, useless.
Strategies to revive it came with taking from the slots the modem, sound and USB cards; even one of the memory cards was removed to an extent. This was to help the easy setup of the OS with the only basic hardware intact to avoid complex errors as my friend told me.
Yet, the process resulted without success. We attempted repeatedly to install an OS, which typically gives a positive outcome on the first try, byt the pesky VXD errors had hounded us like a sniffing dog. It did not help that great amount of time had been consumed just to do it.
What do we have to do? The exercise had led us to a dead-end. What options do we still have in our arsenal of computer repair know-how? We have run out of ideas already. Our heads throbbed in painful brainstorming to resolve the case. A slew of vexing errors had barraged us:VXD, VMM VFAT and fatal exceptions errors. What is wrong with the computer?!
In the world of computer hardware/software repair, malfunctioning components are thrown away and replaced by new ones. But where would we start?
In the end, I had to solve the problem alone. With the patience of a mule plodding on a muddy field, I did my share of useless attempts for a successful OS setup. Though, it paid a minimum dividend later on.
As of this writing, there is already an OS, Windows 98, installed in my computer. Of course, not without encountering the errors mentioned above.
The dragon that needs to be beheaded, unfortunately, still breathes out fierce burning fire in the circuitry of my computer. The PC would function normally for two to three minutes, then without warning, comes to a screetching halt.
Then comes the realization that my net journey would have to come in an agonizing halt, too.
To the tech savvy readers out there who happens to read this post, can someone tell me what these VXD errors are all about?
For the meantime, I have to force myself from running amuck due to extreme annoyance as I find a way out out of this computer glitch.
Note: This should have been posted last February 25th for an obvious reason. My computer now runs in XP and so far, as I have encoded this, there is no glitch yet that has pestered me anew. But things are still under observation.
It breathed out fire. It saw havoc in my PC's circuitry when a friend, a computer technician and whom I sought help for a reliable cd-rom at that time, treated the error as a sign that my computer needed a new installation of an operation system.
I, confident that my friend's technical expertise was better compared with mine, just sat behind the scene and watched as my harddisk undergo formatting for the setting up of a new OS.
And there began the end of my long romance with my computer. The birth of the ghost dragon in the guise of VXD error. After the formatting, my computer was never the same again. It was as if it turned into a scrap hardware, useless.
Strategies to revive it came with taking from the slots the modem, sound and USB cards; even one of the memory cards was removed to an extent. This was to help the easy setup of the OS with the only basic hardware intact to avoid complex errors as my friend told me.
Yet, the process resulted without success. We attempted repeatedly to install an OS, which typically gives a positive outcome on the first try, byt the pesky VXD errors had hounded us like a sniffing dog. It did not help that great amount of time had been consumed just to do it.
What do we have to do? The exercise had led us to a dead-end. What options do we still have in our arsenal of computer repair know-how? We have run out of ideas already. Our heads throbbed in painful brainstorming to resolve the case. A slew of vexing errors had barraged us:VXD, VMM VFAT and fatal exceptions errors. What is wrong with the computer?!
In the world of computer hardware/software repair, malfunctioning components are thrown away and replaced by new ones. But where would we start?
In the end, I had to solve the problem alone. With the patience of a mule plodding on a muddy field, I did my share of useless attempts for a successful OS setup. Though, it paid a minimum dividend later on.
As of this writing, there is already an OS, Windows 98, installed in my computer. Of course, not without encountering the errors mentioned above.
The dragon that needs to be beheaded, unfortunately, still breathes out fierce burning fire in the circuitry of my computer. The PC would function normally for two to three minutes, then without warning, comes to a screetching halt.
Then comes the realization that my net journey would have to come in an agonizing halt, too.
To the tech savvy readers out there who happens to read this post, can someone tell me what these VXD errors are all about?
For the meantime, I have to force myself from running amuck due to extreme annoyance as I find a way out out of this computer glitch.
Note: This should have been posted last February 25th for an obvious reason. My computer now runs in XP and so far, as I have encoded this, there is no glitch yet that has pestered me anew. But things are still under observation.
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