Slip of the Pen

As much as writers are fond of making up excuses not to write, they’re equally adept at finding ways to write and things to write about. Heck, they can even write something about nothingness. One can even say, Never underestimate the output of an inspired writer hurtling down the Creativity Autobahn.

But sometimes, they have to let their pens lie fallow, to leave the ink that is their lifeblood unused in the bottles of their own make-believe worlds. They have to let the emotions well inside, not allowing anything to leak out to a world alien to their own. They must allow the wounds to sting a little bit more, the stress to become a little bit more stressful, the troubles a little bit more troublesome. Don’t write! is the mantra to follow.

They thus (un)willingly defeat, for a moment, the purpose of writing — to express one’s self, to provide an outlet for sick dreams and magnificent nightmares.

But in the end, when these writers decide to pick up their pens and start writing again, you’ll know one of two things has happened: (1) They have survived the pain, the stress, and everything between heaven and hell (well, not everything) bereft of their most powerful weapon — the pen — and pulled through relying only on their own naked selves; or (2) they couldn’t handle the pressure of the overflowing ink, and have let it all spill out.

Item one or item two, it doesn’t matter. One only needs to know that Don’t write! is synonymous with another mantra.

Know thyself.


[Now you know why the Corsarius' pen was inkless for two weeks.]

Some writers use printer ink instead. If you are in need of ink for your printer, find the best prices for printer ink cartridges and toner cartridges at Clickinks.com.

I was disgusted by my writing. The words didn’t flow freely, the hand didn’t move an inch, and the mind had the creativity of a cadaver’s.

So I left my ‘writing mode’ — sitting in front of the PC, fingers poised above the keyboard, eyes staring at the blank digital paper flashed on the monitor — and went down to the living room.

By chance, a big-time, Las Vegas boxing match was playing on TV. The bout was furious and vicious. Oddly enough, I somehow imagined myself as a boxer pummeling his opponent. My foe was a collection of papers bunched together in the shape of man; credit my deprived my mind for that. He trash-talked me with phrases, “Write something, you fool!” or “CW 10! CW 10!” (I had a not-so-pleasant experience in my Creative Writing class, or CW10, last summer). I retaliated with a mighty arsenal of Pacquiao moves: left-hook, right-hook, uppercut, straight punch. Bam-bam-BAM!

Weird? I concur. That’s why I said ‘my deprived mind’.

But I couldn’t knock-out my paper adversary. It was resilient, just like the two pugilists battling it out on TV. Neither one kissed the canvas. The match was in the tenth round, and the commentators still had it tied for both boxers.

The bell rang, marking the round’s end. I snapped out of my bizarre reverie. Both pugs trudged to their corners with bloody and swelled faces. As commercials began to flood the TV screen, I looked out of the window beside the TV.

A child (let’s call him ‘Boy Angas’) was making his way to the front of our miniature gate. At first, I thought he was going to buy ice from our maid (you know, those two-peso frozen blocks in plastic bags, thirty of which you could pack into a small freezer). Boy Angas was a suki, and when he bought he would yell in the loudest of voices his young throat could manage: “Bibili ako ng yelo! Yelo! Yelo! Yelo nga!” He wouldn’t stop until someone showed up at the window and take his ‘order’. And when someone did, even if that person was my father (who is a government official, proudly middle-class because he doesn’t practice corruption), Boy Angas would talk to him disrespectfully. He didn’t use po or opo, he spoke in bossy tones, he didn’t use the word ‘please’, or the Pinoy equivalent of that (to illustrate: “Bibili ako ng yelo!” instead of “Pabili po ng yelo”).

At his young age — I guess ten years — Boy Angas was, well, a little too boastful for his own good, maangas so to speak. And that irritated me to no end.

And so when I saw him by our gate, I was determined to give him the cold shoulder, never mind the two pesos. But then he sat on the concrete sidewalk and began to rub his eyes, which I belatedly noticed to be wet, a little red, and slightly swollen. Boy Angas was crying!

I didn’t know whether to be glad or sympathetic. I didn’t like seeing people cry, but here was the bossy dude, king of Cordillera Street, emperor of yelo…in sorrow!

Boy Angas was sobbing as he rubbed his eyes. Picked upon by children bigger than his size? Possible. Received a monumental scolding and spanking from his parents? Who knows.

But as I heard the sounds of the boxing match return to the TV, Boy Angas stopped rubbing his eyes. He had stopped crying. He wiped his nose. He squared his shoulders in true maangas fashion. He let out an unreal, furious “Hah!”, then loped off to the street, vanishing from my sight. I think he didn’t even see my observing him.

I was duly impressed. To think that when I was a child, I used to cry for an hour, until the tears dried up or I fell asleep! Truth be told, how ill mannered he might have been, Boy Angas was also Boy Astig. The kid had come in crying, but after a minute, he left with a smirk plastered on his face.

Somehow, his brief act stirred something within me.

I suddenly felt that I needed to overcome my own adversary, that I needed to knock-out the paper boxer who was cadillacing around the ring’s mat, trash-talking me, waiting to be thrown down. Crying and writing are two different things, but my deprived mind seemed to find a thin string that connected both. As the saying goes, “Fight your own dragon.”

And so I turned off the TV, never bothering to finish the match. I had a bout of my own to decide. I went up to my room, returned to writing mode, and buckled down to work.

[In memoriam.]

We weren’t supposed to give them names.

Of the eight dogs of the Zoo on Cordillera Street, four were puppies. Three 4-month-olds belonged to the same litter, waiting to be given/sold to people looking for free/inexpensive half-Dalmatians; one was nearing his first birthday. The last one was Elvis (yes, I know — dad is such an Elvis Presley fan), while the little ones were affectionately called Kambang, Tisoy, and Tisay. Funny nicknames, no real ones. The reason? We didn’t want to get too attached to pups which we’d be disposing in few weeks time. Disposing — some silly term always used by my dad.

If only we knew what was in store for us.

*****

I was the first to notice it. One morning, Kambang (named so for her black patch on the right side of her head and ear) had a fever. Aside from her high temperature, she seemed lethargic, didn’t want to eat, gave no reaction to my whistles and gentle coaxing, and occasionally vomited small amounts of fluids. Though alarming, we’ve experienced those clinical conditions before with other pups, and so I didn’t really worry too much about it. All she needs is rest, I thought.

Just before I left for UP, I checked up on her. I was slightly surprised when Kambang, in her illness and all, wagged her tail as I patted her on the head.

That was about nine in the morning. Less than twelve hours later, I arrived home from school, and the first thing I looked for as I opened the door was Kambang. But it was my Dad who greeted me with the simplest of greetings.

“Kambang is dead.”

*****

I found her in the backyard. When I got over the disbelief, I spent some time observing her before she was properly “disposed” of. Her face was contorted in pain, with her blue eyes and jaws half-open. Wet, blood-stained stool stained her tail and the ground. Certainly a violent death, from within.

Right then and there, as I squat beside the stiff body of Kambang, I gave her a name. “Espy”, short for Esperanza, Spanish for hope.

Why?

Because two of our puppies were already showing Espy’s symptoms, and I was fervently hoping that they wouldn’t end up like her. Elbits, as I fondly called Elvis in “baby-talk”, was the adolescent “successor” to our true-blue Dalmatian. He was already having liquid feces with high concentrations of blood, which was of course very, very bad.

Panicky, we called up our local vet, and she gave the necessary (and expensive) prescriptions, not to mention injecting ’something’ into Elbits and Tisoy. The latter was still alright to an extent — Tisoy even yipped loudly when the vet stuck in the syringe. It was Elbits who was in a dire state — laid out on the ground, glassy-eyed with breaths coming in deep, rib-shaking heaves.

And so Elbits was given medication — anti-diarrhea capsules, antibiotic syrup. Because he wouldn’t eat and was losing body fluids quickly through his feces and occasional vomits, we force-fed him with water-and-sugar solutions. This went on for several hours, with the family hoping that Elbits would stop vomiting, stop defecating blood, and simply recover. We even brought him out to the backyard so that the other dogs couldn’t bother him in his ill state.

But the situation worsened. Elbits’ jaw began to resist our attempts at force-feeding, snapping together with unnatural ferocity. He threw up virtually all of his medication and the remaining fluids in his body.

I ran upstairs, opened the PC, did a quick scan of a dozen websites, and found the culprit — Parvo, the feared virus fatal to most untreated dogs below the age of one. The clinical symptoms were the same; more frighteningly, it often kills within a day or two after the onset of the symptoms. We were asking then: What could we do? We couldn’t bring him to an animal hospital. We didn’t have the money.

But damn, there was still hope. Espy, no, Elvis won’t end up like her. This dog was a fighter; he was the sole survivor of a whole litter which died. He was our Dalmatian’s heir apparent, with the excellent tell-tale spots and lean and mean body. Most of all, he was the wackiest of them all, and as such he was my best friend.

That’s it. He was my best friend. And I was not going to lose him to some devil-kin, unintelligible life-form.

I was patient in administering the vet’s prescriptions; sadly, the virus wasn’t. By 2 AM Elbits’ mouth was tightly clenched, and two grown-up men (me and my dad) weren’t able to force-feed him anymore. His stomach, which was convulsing from time to time, obviously caused him a lot of pain (Parvo causes the intestines to slough, thus the bloody stool). I spent some time talking to Elbits, scratching his head (especially the prominent black spot right smack on his forehead) and even picking off some mites and ticks. Later, I left him to my dad’s care and hesitantly went to bed, fatigued beyond expression, both physically, emotionally, and mentally.

*****

Unbelievably, I was able to have a wonderful dream.

I was standing in the backyard, looking at Elbits perched upon some platform. He seemed to be alright; after all, he was sitting, not sprawled on the ground!

But in the most painful of moments, I suddenly heard our maid’s voice in the background, saying, “Elbits has passed away.”

I woke up, shaking off the drowsiness and headache. I slowly made my way down to the ground floor, opened the door to the backyard, and knelt in front of a friend.

Amidst the strong stench of bloody stool and the buzz of flies, I paid my last respects to Elbits. As I ruminated over what could have been and what would not be, I patted him on the black spot on his forehead.

Moments later, as I readied to leave the house for UP, I paid a last visit to the backyard. There, I laid my hand on Elbits’ head for one last time, and said, “Goodbye, dear friend.”

At the same time, I silently apologized to him, and cursed and damned myself for letting him die.

*****

While I was away at my thesis class, they buried Elbits in our small garden box (garden box, not garden). True, it was an unprecedented move to assure the virus’ survival for months to come, but we had to give him a decent burial, not throw him and leave him to rot on some vacant lot.

By evening that day, Tisoy (with his blue eyes, beige nose, and chocolate-brown spots) became more sick. His frame degenerated into almost a skeleton. We brought him out to the backyard to isolate him from the other dogs. Hours of force-feeding again took its toll, and I slept early that night, still not having recovered from the previous night’s ordeal.

Again, I had a wonderful dream.

The dream-state Corsarius opened the door to the backyard, and Tisoy came rushing into the house, galloping and yipping like crazy!

When I woke up, they told me Tisoy had already died when I was asleep.

*****

Tisay, as she was called (she really looked like a Dalmatian), was A-OK the day her sibling died. She was as ravenous as a tiger, and as active as a tadpole. But the following day she showed the symptoms of Parvo — lethargy, depression, bloody stool, vomiting.

For three days I patiently force-fed her with Gatorade (to supply her with electrolytes) and medicine. She was a strong pup, able to survive longer than her buddies. But as her illness progressed her condition swiftly regressed — she was having liquid feces more bloody than those of the other pups’.

Morning of the fourth day of her sickness, I was horrified to Tisay discharge a pool of reddish, liquid stool, feebly walk towards my direction, and collapse to the floor.

More than an hour later, while I was in a distant library in UP preparing for an exam, the last of our puppies died.

*****

It is always hard to lose a friend to the shadows. More so for four friends.

And as always the case, God has a reason for all of these. A mysterious reason, that is, one which is worth a million crap-ollars for many of us, including me. As church doctrine goes, we should soul-search for this reason; it is our responsibility as children of God.

But if I need to oblige with this, then I’ve got a request for Him in return, a little plea of a corsair who isn’t accustomed to pleading with people at all. I will plumb the depths of my soul to find Your reason, but give Elbits and the rest of all departed animals their own souls. Make every crying kid’s animal heaven a reality. With that mountain-moving, sea-dividing might, give them this simplest of requests, the greatest of dignities. Give them their souls, so they can meet their masters in the end, and blissfully frolic in the fields of Elysium. Please. For me, and for the millions of people who, at one time or another in their lifetimes, mourned beyond mourning for their dear friends.

I’m not sure — heck, no one’s sure — if this small request of mine will be granted. But one thing’s sure.

The Zoo on Cordillera Street is a much more boring place now.

Farewell, Elbits, Espy, Tisoy, Tisay, and the others. Wherever you are, know that you’ll be fondly — and lovingly — remembered.

Till next time then.

July 1, 2005 (Evening) - Espy (”Kambang”), 4 month old half-Dalmatian
July 2, 2005 (Dawn) - Elvis, 8 month old half-Dalmatian
July 3, 2005 (Early Dawn) - Tisoy, 4 month old half-Dalmatian
July 7, 2005 (Morning) - Tisay, 4 month old half-Dalmatian

*Stop, traveler. Latin. Used on tombstones.

Philcoa, near UP Diliman campus

The pitter-patter of the rain is a treat to my ears. They sound like Gaia’s symphony, the right music to drown out the unnatural honks of jeepneys and the barks of bus conductors. The biting-cold droplets falling on my cheek are also heavenly; they make me feel as though I’m being kissed by a cadaver.

This is Philcoa at its finest. I never imagined this dingy terminal to be so elegant when covered in rain and night.

I can feel the incredulous and mocking eyes of the couple behind me. They might be whispering to each other, What’s wrong with this guy? This waiting shed is big enough for the three of us!

Oh yes, I can tell you how tempted I am to pull out my umbrella from my knapsack and shove it down either of their throats. But then the lovebirds would chokingly ask each other (yes, with umbrella in either of their throats), I told you this guy is crazy. Who brings a perfectly-working umbrella in his bag and doesn’t use it in a storm?!

No thanks. I’d rather not add to my disgrace today.

Then it hits me. Again. The memory of her. With the cold eyes hiding a pained look which I can’t fathom.

I am such an inutile being. Inutile beings deserve being rained upon on their parades. Thus, this umbrella-less penitence.

I suddenly realize that I’m in the perfect setting for a tragic soap opera.

Damn, is this scene beautiful.

*****

Corsarius’ Abode, the Dog-Zoo on Cordillera Street

Any moment wherein yours truly, the Corsarius, is eating Nissin chocolate wafer sandwiches is hands-down one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

I just fall for the sight of the palm-size brown square of goodness, already naked of its plastic wrapper. When the scent of its chocolate filling wafts to my nostrils, I am disarmed of my rational thought. Only tummy thought runs this body. And when my teeth bite into the soft sandwich and my ears hear the complementary crunch and the tongue tastes the mother of all tastes, I am rendered speechless.

Because right this minute, yours truly, the Corsarius, is eating a Nissin chocolate wafer sandwich, this moment is hands-down one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

Nothing can destroy this moment. Nothing. I’ll throw back whatever Cruise missile you fling here to interrupt my feast. And I’ll throw it back with Nissin plastic wrappings strung around the empty shell of your malice just to spite you.

But as I enter the living room, I stop my nibbling at my beloved Nissin and stare at the big mound of monstrosity on the sofa.

One of our eight dogs crapped on our precious, ramshackle couch. Crap color: Nissin wafer chocolate. Crap smell: not good. Crap taste: I’d rather not know.

The sight almost makes me throw up. I quickly leave the living room.

Even then, the moment is still a beauty. It has a Nissin wafer sandwich in it, after all.

I finish off the Nissin and munch on another pack.

Small pleasures are for the big boys, too.

*****

UP-Philcoa Jeepney, en route to Philcoa

The jeepney is full, but I managed to fit in. The chitchat noise of the people around me is drowning the pitter-patter of the rain outside.

I want to jump out of the jeep. I want to fall hard and roll on the wet asphalt, lay prostrate on the street, and let the torrent of cold drops dissipate the sting and wash away the goodness left in me. And when a vehicle runs me over, I’ll have the most beautiful funeral tale of all.

But it’s all talk, no action.

Instead, I just smile. Yes. Simply, smile. Smile while the people in the jeep carry on with their conversations and don’t mind this Soujiro**-wannabe, while the rain outside gets more furious, while the memory of her cold eyes pierce my heart.

*****

Some Nondescript Taxi, Quezon Avenue

As the city whizzes past the car windows, I am left to my musings.

Nighttime Metro Manila is more beautiful than the daytime one, I think.

It’s in these hours when you’ll really appreciate the urban setting around you. In the day, the metropolis is a choking cesspool of humanity, iron horses, and smog, but in the night, it’s far more civilized.

The bright lights of the city are marvelous. For example, the neon signs of classy whorehouses along this avenue are, well, pretty and bright. Rather brings to mind pretty girls and shining bright eyes of rich, dirty old men.

And yes, the traffic enforcers. Their absence late at night makes too many a driver very much pleased. Not that you need the enforcers at night; Q-Ave traffic is smooth at nine in the evening. The only ones you have to contend with on the streets are little innocent girls in tattered clothes peddling garlands of sampaguita whilst their adult ‘guardians’ rest easy several sidewalks away.

Truly, Metro Manila in the dark is a thing of beauty.

*****

MH219, UP Diliman campus

I try to hold her hand, but she swiftly jerks it away from my grasp. She leaves the room, but not before casting me a glance with her cold eyes. I can imagine seeing a pained look on her face, but I can’t fathom the reason for it.

I sit on an office chair and hide in a small corner. Something in my chest feels very very painful. My mind is in chaos. Amidst the soft hum of the room’s air conditioner and the chilly air, I can already hear in my mind’s ear and feel in my mind’s touch the pitter-patter of rain and zombie-kiss droplets falling on my cheek.

Then I hear something else. A cacophony of voices, hissing, baiting, inviting.

It’s as if I can hear the other side calling me. The images conveyed by its sibilant whispers can be described by only one word.

Beautiful.


*Phrase adapted from my best friend’s.
**Soujiro –- a fellow with a tragic tale in the anime Samurai X; yes, he always smiles in the face of tragedy.

I am all of these names. I am none of them. I am a multifaceted gem sparkling a thousand dreams, a thousand nightmares. I am your buddy, your adversary, your comedy, your tragedy, your prose, your poetry, your life, your death, your unlife.

I am Phillip Yerro Kimpo Jr. A typical complete birth certificate name — a first name, a mother’s maiden name, a surname. And a Jr. to mark me as a successor to some throne, a nominal rip-off even. To my utmost joy, there is no second name attached to Phillip, the ones generously given by the queer parents of my generation. Luckily I didn’t end up as Phillip Alexander (which would’ve been bad, considering I want my son to be Alexander the Great and me Phillip of the Philippines), or Phillip Paul (which would’ve been bad, because that’d mean I was just another Christian name-clone, and of course, Phillip Paul simply sounds awful), or even (heaven forbid) Phillip Giovanni. Without a second name, this chap’s truly inimitable in his generation — Phillip Jr. Wait, does Jr. count as a second name? Damn.

I am Philos Stormblade. The hero of my swords-and-sorcery fantasy saga. You’re thinking, what an insipid name. But isn’t that the case with your name? Or mine for that matter. Philos means love; Phillip means lover of horses. Stormblade is a pedestrian high-fantasy surname denoting a, yes, blade of the storms; Kimpo is supposedly Korean for port of gold. What’s the diff? Absolutely none. It’s not in the meaning of the name; it’s in how you put meaning into it. It’s not about carrying the name; it’s about living it.

I am Phillip Kimpo Jr. A name without a middle name. There’s no reason to put it there, for she is not here. Give explicit credit where credit is due, and implicit discredit where discredit is due.

I am Kidlat Karimlan. The Dark Lightning. The hero of my Tagalog short story for social change. The title is a paradox, lightning is chaos. Enough said.

I am Phillip Kimpo II. The II makes me an Emperor. Didn’t you know? Philip of Macedon was Philip II. Told you, my son is going to be Alexander the Great. And do you actually think Emperor Phillip Jr. is going to strike fear into the hearts of my foes? Jr. is for the boys. I am a man.

I am P.Y. Kimpo. A dreadful, uncalled-for imitation of T.S. Eliot. Makes me feel like a famous writer already. And yes, it is a nifty shortcut. Downside? My mother’s partaking of the fame.

I am Kimpo. To my friends, there’s no Phillip; there’s only Kimpo. Good morning, Kimpo! O Kimpo, kamusta na? Bwiset ‘tong si Kimpo e! It’s alright; after all, I am my family. I am the Clan within the Man. Kimpo — Korean or Filipino, it matters not. I am a nation of my own.

I am the Corsarius. Simply, a corsair. Captain of my own ship, terror of Life’s seedy ports. Tavern of preference — The Crimson Pen. Barmaid of preference — any of the Greek Muses. Molded by twenty years of pain and hardship, and prone to moments of deep angst. I do throw tantrums, but tantrums of the pen. I am a corsair, not a pirate. I am a swashbuckler, not a buccaneer. I express my angst with panache and wit, not with demented aggression. With the pen as my cutlass, I will set sail and claim the seven seas as my own.

I am PYKJ. I am Phil the Insipid-titled. I am the Junior. I am Light Darkning. I am the Second. I am P.Y. Eliot. I am Kimps. I am Cors. I am all of these names. I am none of them.

I am who I am. I am who I! I am who? I am.

I.

[Another old post -- I hope you won't take my indolence against me. Written almost exactly a year ago. This essay's theme fits one of my recent moods. I'll post something cheerful and spanking new next time, when my body feels better.]

I’m not supposed to write anything today. I’m dead tired, having had to enroll in the morning for my third year in UP. I’m double dead tired, having had to stroll about SM North Edsa in the afternoon with my ComSci ‘gang’. As soon as I got home, all I planned to do for the evening was to have a good supper, plop down in front of the TV and watch Game 5 of the Lakers-Timberwolves playoff series, take a quick face-wash, then finally catch a six-hour sleep to prepare myself for another grueling enrollment day. Yet something happened along that planned schedule, something that even in my enervated state the ‘writer’ in me still wanted to scribble.

Something which they call criticism.

They say criticism is all about weighing the merits and demerits of a certain topic, person, work, or object. But let’s face it; for many of us the word ‘criticism’ carries sinister overtones. No merits, only demerits. For the layman, criticism is crap, or I’ll eat my pen. But I digress.

Half-asleep on the sofa, watching the first half of the Lakers-Timberwolves game tick down to the final seconds, my father arrived from office amidst the fanatical yips and woofs of our four dogs. As I opened the door to let my dad in, he laid his eyes on the TV, and it all began.

“What’s this?! All you watch is basketball, nothing but basketball. You’re such a useless kid,” he growled.

Huh? So what? Give me my short summer break. After surviving a semester of hoop abstinence (resulting in my being a Dean’s Lister for the first time) and a grueling summer of Math 55 classes, I only had two weeks to reward myself for my perseverance and small triumphs. And now I get this from my dad, who of all people have seen me disappear from the world for several whole days (locked in my room studying for every big exam), who have shared my passion for Michael Jordan’s sport (though he dislikes the Chicago Bulls), who have known and claimed to be proud of my victorious semester?

But no, I wasn’t angry with him –- at least not yet. I was ready to let my dad’s comment pass, just to keep my promise to our parish priest that I’ll practice restraint and calm. But lo and behold, my father followed up his jab with a furious uppercut, sending any Christian tendencies of mine out of the house.

“What you should watch is the ANC interview with Patricia Evangelista. Imagine — the best English speaker in the world! You’re nothing compared to her,” he snickered while trying to keep our big, wacky Dalmatian from toppling him over.

That ticked me off. Hell, I didn’t even know Ms. Evangelista was to be interviewed. I’ve read and watched about her dazzling triumph as the world’s best English Public Speaker in the news tidbits on TV and dailies, and I have nothing against the girl, who’s a fellow UP student, a batchmate even. I’ve seen her quite a lot in the Palma Hall lobby. She’s a pretty lady, and I only have admiration for her world-class feat.

There was nothing wrong about her being brought up. What my dad was insinuating –- there’s my big problem.

I’m not trying to be a paranoid git here, but I know my father. Yes, he loves me, but he also likes to point out that I don’t aspire to be the best. He always does that. Maybe he’s doing it for my own good, but hey, too much of a whipping tongue makes a child grow angsty and foul-faced, especially if what the tongue’s saying is just not true.

Contrary to my dad’s estimation, I want to be the best in the disciplines I’m fondest of, or at least one of the best. The best in basketball? No chance. I’m too short and scrawny. Asthmatic too. The best in Computer Science? I did get good marks in my classes, but I don’t love my course. I like ComSci, yet not enough for a heartfelt pursuit of excellence. I don’t see in myself the vaguest shadow of Bill Gates or Linus Torvalds, or even the Pinoy programmer who supposedly wrote the love-bug virus. The best in writing? I’m truly, madly, deeply in love with writing, so I should be well-nigh proficient in this art, right?

But no. Problem is…writing’s not enamored of me. I’ve got a great deal of troubles in my writing; I keep producing pieces whose quality I doubt. If it takes me an hour to finish an essay, I can likewise waste a whole day of reading, re-reading, and revising it. Nevertheless, I still write. I practice, because it’s the only way I’ll improve. Who knows? Maybe someday the line ‘I am the best’ will cease to be a silly, delusional claim and turn to reality, and then my father would be mightily pleased.

So in the end, unable to restrain myself, I shot back at my dad (I forgot what I said verbatim) and went up to my room stomping, the combined might of his two criticisms making a mess out of my manly composure. I know my English is flawed, my speech isn’t to be emulated, and my writing is run-of-the-mill, garden-variety stuff. I know I won’t win any Pulitzers for essays like this. So dad, quit rubbing salt in my wounds, okay?

Damn. Criticism can really cut you to ribbons with its razor-sharp truth.

1985. People have written about their visions for the roll of years. Take Orwell’s 1984 for example. Well, they should’ve written something for 1985.

May 1985, to be exact.

It’s the tenth day of the month. Some hospital in Quezon City, the Philippines.

Amidst the tension in the ER, the silent apprehension in the mind of a thirty-something man, and the shrill shrieks of a thirty-something woman, a new Filipino is added to the Swarm.

But God decides to make him stand out from the rest.

He says, “Give this boy some spunk, some funk, some luck. It will be a good brew. Then give him a cool weapon, let’s say, a flaming cutlass. In that way, he can set sail and conquer the world in his own little raiding ways.”

And so —

“Wait, let’s give him one more thing,” God adds. “Give him some angst. Yes, angst. A little angst along the way goes a looong way.”

And so at 8:52 PM, it becomes official.

The Corsarius is born.

*****

I’ve come a long way.

First, I had a single-digit age. Then I went on to 10, 11, 12. Finally, I became a teenager; this-teen, that-teen. I technically became an adult when I hit 18. Nineteen, that’s a transitory age; I barely had enough time to realize that I was 19. I know, I know — I had one whole year. But a year can zip past you faster than a Maglev train.

Now, the ‘1′ has been replaced by a ‘2′, and the suffix ‘teen’ casually dropped.

The Corsarius is now 20.

I’ve come a long way.

Many events have transpired, especially in the last three years — my stay in college. Those events are so abundant, that they’ve made me forget all those childhood memories.

Yes, the Corsarius is an asshole. He shrugs off the past, to ruthlessly focus on the present.

But God always finds a way to make a person touch base with his past.

An hour ago, I attended mass with my dad at our parish church, Our Lady of Fatima. Being the one-week fiesta of our parish, the song for the Virgin Mary of Fatima was sung by the choir at the mass’ end.

As soon as I heard the first note, my heart started to melt.

That song, the one which I haven’t heard for several years until now, was my perfect childhood song.

When I was in my mid-elementary years, my neighborhood ‘gang’ used to attend the daily summer catechisms at the same church. Before the day’s catechism, we would go around Barangay Don Manuel, picking the best flowers to offer later to the Lady of Fatima (at the catechism’s end). Yes, we were all little boys, carrying around bougainvilleas from street to street, but so great was our respect –- not devotion, that’s for adults old enough to understand its true meaning –- for Mother Mary.

At the day’s end, while we gave Mama Mary our day’s collections, we would sing a hymn for her — yes, that very same song.

So you didn’t expect the child Corsarius to be this cheesy?

I didn’t, too. That’s why as I sang the hymn, I struggled to keep my voice from breaking.

This day, as I truly become an adult, I find a young Corsarius tucked inside the old — happy, innocent, and unperturbed by the harsh realities of life.

*****

There. It’s 8:52 PM.

It’s official.

The Corsarius is now twenty.

[As promised, my old animal-rights essay.]

As I commuted to UP today, I saw two dead cats by the roadside.

The first was just about five blocks from the apartment we’re living in. I was aboard one of those boisterous, tin-can tricycles that zipped through the narrowest of streets like an F1 racer with utter disregard for life. Crossing E. Rodriguez towards Quezon Avenue, the speed-obsessed driver overtook an SUV with a swift swerve of the motorcycle, nearly throwing me off my seat.

Amidst the rushing wind which turned my hair into a sight-hindering mop, I glimpsed what seemed to be a piece of orange carton strewn on the asphalt. Even as my ride threatened to pull away from the thing with dizzying swiftness, I insistently stuck out my head (at the risk of getting my brains splattered by an incoming car) to see if my suspicions were true.

They were. With my uncanny knack for seeing the morbid, I broke my heart. It was a cat, flattened as if a tank or a pison rolled over it. In all probability, the poor thing may have been made road kill nights ago by some speedster fool at the helm of this very tricycle, and since then no soul took the liberty of giving it a decent burial (not even the ubiquitous, blue-clad street-cleaners of Gloria), all whizzing by too busy with their business meetings or wild bar-hopping parties or exams in college, just mouthing “poor cat!” with a feigned shocked expression, then completely forgetting the incident minutes later. All the while the dead feline is run over three or ten or a hundred times again and again, driving out its innards through its agony-frozen mouth and into the cold, somber road while its skin ends up a carpet for the endless parade of men and cars along the street.

And so I forgot about her (or him) as I went on with my commute. Arriving at Philcoa, I boarded a jeepney which would take me into the country’s heart of free thought and free will — the Diliman Republic, UP. As the jeep turned right into University Avenue, I saw the second cat.

Compared to the first casualty, this one was quite a bit more fortunate — it wasn’t flattened as thin as cardboard. Lying on the street, it boasted of plumpness uncommon in stray cats. It had a white, seemingly pristine pelt, though I fancied seeing red on its head. If I were to judge, I’d say a speeding car gave the cat a glancing hit on the skull, and by the sheer velocity of the impact it was sent flying to the sidewalk. Absurd, but possible.

If you fancy another speculation, I can offer another; maybe the cat was brutally kicked in the head by the merciless, drug-induced youth frequenting the many nooks and crannies of UP Naming Mahal. But it doesn’t matter which inference you accept. The second cat remains dead and not a bit more animated than its carton-thin fellow, so I guess it’s not really any luckier than the first.

*****

The sight of animals lying dead or dying has never failed to wrench my heart and render my eyes brimming with salt (an exaggeration, but you get my drift). Those two dead cats triggered a surge of miserable memories, from a dog being run-over right in front of my eight year-old eyes (then being carted off to be served as asucena, so ‘it won’t go to waste’), to a goat being slaughtered at the sidewalks of Quezon Avenue with its vibrato shrieks of terror slowly turning to a liquid gurgle, to countless more cats frozen in their moments of last breath.

I don’t know why I feel distressed when I see animals in agony or death; even a catfish twitching while caught in a hook is a difficult sight for me to bear. Maybe it’s just because they seem defenseless, suffering and dying at the often-inane whims of men. Put yourselves into these animals’ place even for a jiffy, and try to imagine the terror felt by a stray dog or cat a split-second before it is run over by a monstrous, speeding car. Try to imagine how a group of snarling men with long, thick, blood-stained knives would seem terrifying to a goat.

Animals live to survive, nothing more, and they don’t know crap about the concepts of hate, revenge, anger, and sin that makes the death of telenovela villains pleasant to watch. The Corsarius, yours truly, didn’t feel the tiniest bit of joy when the Hollywood-version of Godzilla was finally felled, even after it devastated the Big Apple, squashed men like ants and swatted Apache helicopters like flies. I actually felt sad when the big reptile kicked the bucket; I detested the people who killed him. After all, the plot dictated that men were to blame for the poor beast’s mutated existence, with the nuclear radiation and all. But of course, that was just a movie.

Most city animals whose deaths I’ve witnessed — stray dogs and cats — live a very hard life, which makes their violent deaths more pitiful. If in their infancy Death doesn’t fetch them, they go on to suffer for many years, scouring for food in garbage dumps or a carinderia’s outskirts and lapping up water from street canals or puddles of rainwater. When a storm hits the land, where would they go for cover? If they do find one, it’s still no house to shelter them from the biting rain and wind. This cycle goes on excruciatingly until some nice family adopts them or a kind soul from PAWS** picks them up. But most likely, they’ll be made roadkill or asucena, and when that happens, it’s the definitive end to their heartbreaking lives, an almost perfect conclusion to a drama that unfolds everyday around us, unnoticed.


*Ever eaten a poor doggy? Not me. Unfortunately, millions of Filipinos have tasted the meat.
**Philippine Animal Welfare Society.

It all began when I woke up one day all woozy from my staying up late the night before. I headed straight for the chamber pot, as the call of nature was exceedingly unrelenting.

[At this point, you might be wondering, why the hell do I keep a chamber pot? (Of course, you know what a chamber pot is, right?) Well, first, rest assured I keep the malodorous vessel as far away from my bed as possible. Second, the nearest restroom in the house is a good floor away, and as a person with slight bladder problems, I need to, yes, pee in the quickest time possible. Chorus ala Catholic responsorial psalm: Ooh, this is humi-liaaa-tiiiiing.]

Anyway, back to the story. So there I was, relieving myself of the burden, when I caught a glimpse of something black and round in the, uh, ‘liquid’. Being lightheaded and all, I absolutely disregarded it, replaced the lid on the chamber pot, and staggered to the bed.

That was 11:30 AM.

Fast forward to late evening. I was preparing to go to bed. I opened the chamber pot to relieve myself one last time before eight hours of sleep filled my bladder to the brim. The noxious smell which greeted me enlightened me to the fact that I had failed to, uh, ‘empty’ and ‘clean’ the notorious chamber pot (or at least, tell the maid to replace it with a second one).

But before I could, um, ‘perform my act’ (repeat chorus: Ooh, this is humi-liaaa-tiiiiing), I noticed something black and round in the ‘liquid’ move. I peered more closely despite the lethal odor.

By Jove, it was a snout of something, rather, some animal, breaking through the surface of the ‘liquid’!

That was 11:45 PM.

Disbelief swamped me. My puny mortal logic told me that whatever the poor thing was, it had been drowned in urine for more than twelve damn hours. I thought the thing was already dead, but then it moved again.

And so then awakened Corsarius the Animal Rights Activist, the noble one who lets cockroaches live, the noble one described by friends as “the fool who loves animals more than he loves humanity; ergo, he is a base animal unworthy of being called human” or something to that effect.

Corsarius fished out the poor thing with something OTHER than his hands (that I assure you; repeat chorus: Ooh, this is humi-liaaa-tiiiiing), and laid it gently on the wooden floor.

Guess what the poor thing was? A young, little mouse, its fur really really soaking wet with my pee. (Come on, sing to him: Ooh, that’s humi-liaaa-tiiiiing.)

And what’s cute is that the first thing the mouse did was to clean itself, sitting up and rubbing his tiny hands onto his nose. I nudged it away from the chamber pot, and patiently waited until it skittered into its shadowy domicile (which I believe was under my bed). Better that he grow up to nibble at my shoes than being dead and floating on an unforgiving sea of urine.

*****

Now, that’s one Supermouse. Twelve hours with the lid closed and your nose barely breaking the amber ocean’s surface? Panalo!

Here I’m supposed to give some moral of the story, but I don’t actually know if this anecdote has a lesson to it. Oh well.

Final chorus: Ooh, this is humi-liaaa-tiiiiing!

Adieu for now.


*image from Neil Beck’s Mighty Mouse Home Page.

Without him, my life would’ve been in tatters. He is my comrade extraordinaire, having saved my life a thousand times. You’d think I’d be eternally grateful to him, but to tell you the truth, I’d rather live my life without his company.

I call him bestfriend Ventolin. Yes, that Ventolin Inhaler. A certified object of idolatry for asthmatics like me.

I think my asthma has progressed, er, worsened these past years. It all started when I abandoned NBA Live on PC for the real, gritty, hardcourt game of basketball. I’m not that tall, but I can dribble and shoot my balls (damn, what balls?). Then I’d do weights every other day, just to have that Greek masculine physique that completes an athelete. The reason?

Checklist for Vainglorious Human #1292348916:

1) Face — “Mukha ka namang pang-Starstruck eh.” Actually, what they’re insinuating is that I resemble one of the teen idols from that GMA-7 flick. I object. But still…CHECK. (After all, when I was all chubby and silly in my grade school days, I appeared on several ABS-CBN kiddie shows. Don’t you tease me about it!)

2) Intelligence — Although I boast of several failed subjects in my early State U days, I’m still surviving, even grabbing a spot in the Dean’s List one time, so…CHECK.

3) Arts — I’d like to trample my self-esteem and say that I can’t write, but for the sake of getting a passing mark on this checklist…CHECK.

4) Sports — Scrabble? Game of the Generals? Ehehehe. Ah! Sports on PC and the Playstation! Not counted? Shit. So please excuse me while I leave this item UNCHECKED.

5) Physique — Wooow. My eyes see a vast, infinite blank for this item. What glory.

See?

Oh yes, I was on the road to transcendence…rather, checking the last two items off the list. I was becoming a fast learner on the court, with my shooting emerging as my strength. My dreams of rippling muscles were slooooowly becoming reality. But in true tragic fashion, Fate handed me the sweet gift of asthma. Add to that my benevolence in keeping FIVE dogs inside our house, and soon the Ventolin Inhaler became my bestfriend.

Even now as I type this post, my lungs are pleading for another puff of the inhaler. I missed my classes this day as asthma got the better of me. Wait…

::puff::

There you go.

Now, I believe I must excuse myself. I need to rest.

Tomorrow’s a day I’m not going to hand over to bestfriend Ventolin.