Slip of the Pen

The comma is a punctuation mark, mistress of the period, slave of the semicolon. It separates ideas within the structure of a sentence; it’s a pause, a caesura. Or so the dictionary says.

The comma, like all symbols in the world, holds profound meaning for many people. Lawyers use it as a tool of mercy in their tortuous statements. The literati adore it, despise it — why, wasn’t, it, Jose, Garcia, Villa, himself, who, made, the, comma, famous? Optimists see the apostrophe as comma in transcendence; pessimists see the comma as apostrophe condemned to earthly life.

Me and Her hold the comma in reverence, too. We adore it, despise it, like we do with all our gods. Our ziggurat is the phone line, our ritual the conversation. Her comma is a brief moment of peace, a time to recollect thoughts scrambled by loud words and louder silence, an unspoken armistice.

My comma is an obstacle, a rage-inducing eternal pause, undoubtedly illogical — why, every sentence must end in a period, an exclamation, a question! I want to get my point across, clean up the mess, and settle the matter. My comma is my foe.

Differing opinions, comma deified, comma vilified. But one thing is certain — comma means one thing for both of us,

For the answer, click here.

Well, it just proves that blog indolence can be overcome by class requirements. For the month of January, we were required in our CW 198 class to publish 50 posts in a filtered blog. Hell, I’m way below that mark, but still, I got forced to blog more consistently.

Do drop by some of my friends’ filtered blogs: Ia’s Qwerky (notebook of the weirdest webapp names), Quel’s Pornographic Sofa (home of harmless fonts that don’t bite), and Jael’s Reductio ad Absurdum (man’s folly exposed through words).

Aside from physical features, there are eight essential traits I look for in a woman.

Looking for

Female Homo sapiens sapiens

Ingredients

I. Intelligence

It’s Eisenhower!
“No, it’s Napoleon,” she says
But Aristotle…

II. Humor

“Haha that’s funny!”
Sure it is. How about me?
“No!” And we both laugh

III. Understanding of Caesar

A supplication
For when the Corsarius fumes
Teardrops when he falls

IV. Height

Holding hands is good
But arm over her shoulders
Is a blessing, too

V. Fondness for Babytalk

Pru pru chipop. Plitch?
Mou? Maw maw…mou. Byay! Kuku
Tseepap! Puu. Mou. Puyt.

VI. Apologetic

It takes more courage
To say one word instead of three
Egotists, sorry

VII. Constructive Critic

Scribbled in green ink:
“Hm. Wrong parallelism.”
Fifth revision, then!

VIII. Adulthood

Some things can’t be said
But know that when boy meets girl
Humans multiply


Tita Bing of Warmstone tagged me to do this. The haikus aren’t required, I just spiced up the meme. Now let’s see, can Jonas, Claudzki, Gari, Hera, Quel, Sunset Eyes, Vaninski, and Yayam answer the call?

The basic rules: The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.Need to mention the sex of the target.Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged.If tagged the 2nd time, there’s no need to post again. Example here.

Thirty shirts and polos, five pairs of pants. They’re stashed unceremoniously into big plastic bags, to be taken by dad to the province, over the sea and the mountains, aboard the wind, soaring over birds and clouds alike.

Seems like a grand journey for little things disposed of without compassion, taken from my cabinet to be given to province folk. The moment the poor things were removed from their dark confines and tried on for the last time, only to be cast into the lot of undesirables, is a moment they could have exclaimed, “Oh, the injustice!”

Certainly, they have a case against me. For they were the clothes which people knew me for, the cover by which people judged the book. These were the clothes which absorbed the essence of their master and friend without a protest, even their fresh-from-the-store scent gave way to the odor of sweat, smog, and grime.

Some of them would be more vocal in crying foul than the others. They would be the two trusty pairs of cargo pants (my high school staples), the boastful ‘elephant’ pants of early college, and the humble olive-green polo I wore on my first day in the University.

For this felony I’ve committed, I can imagine hearing a few cries of joy, a few sighs of relief, coming from clothes who found themselves safely back within the cabinet — the faded, shrunken red pants I took to ABS-CBN for tapings and workshops, the innocent grade school intramurals shirt (which miraculously still fits me after eight years!), and, oddly enough, the orange-beige polo shirt I wore on the day my fairy tale with Her ended, a shirt I have no intention of wearing again.

Now, as I stare at the cabinet (slightly more roomy, bereft of a few years of life), I can picture other people gaily trying on the clothes, some branded, many bought from discount stores. Without doubt, the trusty cargo pants, boastful ‘elephants’, faded shirts, and rarely-used polos will be absorbing new essences, recording new memories, writing new histories.

Somehow, for a reason I can’t really fathom, I feel a little pang of loss. Not material, but of another form.

But then, c’est la vie — rediscover the old, dispose of the years, live the new.

[Note: This is for my CW 198 online writing exercise (a single event told through different POVs). Classmates, welcome to my blog. Blog friends, enjoy if you do read these fictional accounts. Some lines here are in my native language, Tagalog. Warning: Explicit language! Explicit-ness slightly toned down by explicit asterisks.]


When Jupiter Falls Four Times


I. The 130-Pound Runt

(Read this part first: the original Jupiter Falls.)


II. The FX Driver

This is not my lucky day.

Passengers are nowhere to be found. I get two, and one of them is a Sumo wrestler! Sheer misery. I think I’m going to mourn for a car tire later. Malulugi pa ata ako nito e!

Everything about this day is bad. From the MMDA buwayas to that disrespectful street vendor, everything! And see — look at the thunder and lightning. A storm’s coming. Have storm, have classes suspended. Have work suspended, too. Have earnings, not!

We pass by Sto. Domingo Church. My right hand leaves the steering wheel to touch my old crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. Lord, help me. I just want to have this day crossed off the calendar.

“Para!”

Ayos! My prayers have been answered. I slowly step on the brakes, and ease the FX onto the sidewalk. I eagerly whirl around to see the Sumo wrester finally get off!

But horror of horrors — it’s just the other passenger, the thin one who has been sitted beside Sumo all trip long. A disgusted look creases his face as he gets out of the taxi. I want to offer him my sympathies, but he slams the door before I’m able to. No worries, I’m not angry at the kid. But for Mr. Sumo here…

I fix an angry stare at him.

“Punyeta. Baket di na lang ikaw ang bumaba? Bakeeet?!”

Sumo snores.


III. The Fat Guy

Zzz.


IV. The Street Vendor

F*ck this world. If robbery wasn’t a crime, I’d have done it. If suicide wasn’t a sin, I’d have recommended it to Ipe and Johnno. (Useless tambays. At least I’m out here on the road from dusk ’til dawn.) Hell, you think I’d commit suicide? I won’t trade getting laid with the sampaguita girl for hell. Hell no! Heben na nga, magiging impyerno pa.

Speaking of the girl, here’s Inyang. “Hoy, ‘lika nga dito! Malapit nang mag stop light. Baka di ka makabenta nyan — kelangan ko pang bumili ng supot!” Why, you thought jologs didn’t use condoms? Sosi ata ‘to.

Awright, red light. The cars begin to pile up, heh, line up, I mean. Dammit, I love Quezon Av when it’s not movin’. Every single driver needs five of my precious rags. Keeps their cars sparklin’, keeps their manubelas steerin’, keeps their kambyos shiftin’. Now, if only they knew that. Discounted na nga e!

Inyang slithers to a Ford Expedition. As for me, this FX taxi looks good. F*ck, the driver’s even pulling out his cash. Jackpot!

I stick my handsome face on the window, and peer inside. Holi syet. That’s a thick wad he’s holding. All red paper bills! (Ipe told me it’s not red, but pink. To hell with him. Si Osmeña, pink? Ano sya, bading?)

I tap on the window. “Bosing, basahan! Piso tatlo,” I shout, heh, say. My eyes zip around the FX. Malay mo, may tsiks. But there’s none. The only sight worth noting is a baboy, heh, fat guy squashing a scrawny dude against the car door. But even then, it’s a ridiculous sight, not the sexy sight I was hoping to see.

Uh-huh. The driver’s still not paying attention to me. I give the window a sharp, heh, soft rap. “Bos, basahan! Murang mura lang!”

Aba aba aba, dedma pa rin ang loko. I give his window a furious rappity-rappity-tap-tap-tap. “Bos, basahan! Pampunas ng mukha mo!”

The driver suddenly jerks to action. I step back as he opens the window and shouts something to my face. Thunder masks his words, so I don’t hear him. But his angry face seems to be expecting something. I go, “Eh…”, accompanied with my charismatic smile.

And he goes KABOOM! He curses my mother (no harm there, I know she’s a b*tch), curses me, curses our whole lot of squatters, everyone! It’s actually funny, but I do skitter away when he begins to open the car door.

Just before the light turns green, I hear him shout, “Gago ka!” Then in a flash the cars are gone. “Gago ka din!” I shout after the dust and smoke.

F*ck. I hate it when Quezon Av gets movin’. No chance for money now.

I stare at the vacant road, interrupted when a lightning bolt streaks down from the skies. Weird color — gold? Gold lightning. Whoa.

I give the skies the dirty finger.

Gago! Magkakaron din ako nyan!