Slip of the Pen

[Better late than never.]

Act I

February 14, 2001.

Valentine’s Days in high school are fun. As fun as a jackhammer pounding your heart. As fun as your self-humiliating exercises in stupidity when courting a loved one.

And the only people who understand this perverted ‘fun’ are those who will kiss Cupid’s ass for her (or his) love. Funny.

I submit to you this pathetic excuse for a suitor as Exhibit A. Yours truly.

Two bouquets. One barely surviving. One already wasted, its petals trampled by similarly-eager lovestruck students at the PSHS lobby. And of course, the insanely-expensive Ferrero Rochers, ubiquitous this romantic season. Ready to be sampled by her dormmates.

Valentine’s Days in high school are fun. Waiting for her for three damn hours at the dormitory is fun.

Hey, no problem. Anything for her. Even a kiss on Cupid’s butt (told you so).

And in a few days, the prom. Unlike the more pathetic guys around me, I’ve got a date. The Princess. (That is not her name, commoner, but a true sultanate title. In romantic, fairy-tale fashion.)

“Love is as much of an object as an obsession, everybody wants it, everybody seeks it, but few ever achieve it, those who do will cherish it, be lost in it, and among all, never…never forget it.” — Curtis Judalet


Act II

February 14, 2002.

Love is a luxury. But when your head is all inflated and you’re feeling mighty, it’s an afterthought.

They already call me the ‘King of the Philippines’. A week ago, General Santos City became my throne. Of the thousands of high school campus journalists, I emerged on top.

I don’t need love. My pen is the only thing I need, baby.

Eat my exemplary journalism, Cupid.

Oh, yes. Prom is — again — a few days away. No promdate. Don’t want to have one.

Actually, it’s the Princess who wants to go ’stag’. Not me.

Hah. Her loss.

Er…

Please take me back, Princess!

I am a triumphant loser.

“Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?” — Jane Seabrook


Act III

February 14, 2003.

Third year of proudly exercising my right to become a woman’s slave.

Nick Joaquin would be proud. Imagine — Corsarius, new hero of The Summer Solstice. Tadtarin Part 2.

High school Valentines are over. The University is the new battleground. But yes, same girl. Same Princess.

Three roses. A poem. This’ll do. Though I’ve heard her bestfriend’s going to shower her with bouquets upon bouquets.

To heck with it.

I will NEVER lose.

After all, have you ever heard of a peasant failing to win the princess’ heart? No. It always ends up nice and pretty in fairy tales.

Imagine. THREE YEARS. Sa’n ka pa?

The ending of this tale is going to be perfect.

And yeah, tried to give my own bestfriend a blue rose. Failed. She said her mom and pop would get suspicious.

“I ran into my ex today…then I hit reverse and ran into her again.” - Unknown


Act IV

February 14, 2004.

Bestfriend Sophia is with me. McDonalds Philcoa is our haven.

Minutes ago, we were cavalcading ourselves on the Palma Hall steps. Fighting over what were the correct answers to the Physics exam.

Eat magnetic induction, Cupid.

I wonder how the Princess is faring with her ‘bestfriend’.

“I’m not rushing into being in love. I’m finding fourth grade hard enough.” — Terra (10 yrs. old)


Act V

February 14, 2005.

No money. The bank is brimming with people changing cheques to bucks. I’m not one of them. I’d be nowhere near the middle of the queue when the bank-tellers pack up, presumably for their own Valentines dates.

My salary’s going to be for nuts, after all. Goodbye, Valentine’s Day.

Love’s commercialization is sickening.

That’s why bestfriend Sophia and me are sitting here in a dingy restaurant in UP Diliman’s Shopping Center. Breaded porkchop for me. Icky squid for her.

No roses. No red-pink-rosy Hallmark cards with center-aligned rhyming ‘poetry’.

I said: No money.

Commercialization is optional.

To paraphrase the late and the great Jose Garcia Villa*, “Always and always the Cupid astir / Ages and ages assailing man the fair / Assuaging now afflicting now man the alone / Stuff that rubber arrow into your fat arse!”

Belated Happy Valentine’s Day to y’all.

*Please, esteemed poet, do not go a-rolling in your grave. Please.

What makes a villain?

I believe it’s all relative. There aren’t any clear, delineating marks between what we usually brand as ‘villainous’ traits and the ’saintly’ ones. Decreeing a definition of what is wicked or not for the whole of humanity is like having faith in the existence of the amaranth; it simply doesn’t exist. For example, people like to think (myself included) of Hitler as the penultimate villain in history, but in all probability he might be condescendingly regarding all of us as miscreants in whatever afterlife he’s dragged himself in.

Absurdly enough, talking about ‘villains’ brings to mind the girl which I courted for three years, centuries ago (see my related post). During that awfully-long time, I placed her atop a pedestal, a princess worth my life and much more. (Uh, I guess the ‘much more’ means dozens of short stories and poems, one of which was a five-page ode for her 18th birthday.) But as is cliche for love stories, the pedestal came crashing down one day.

Don’t hate me for this, but I’d be more of a jerk if I won’t admit that she instantly became a villain in my life. At least, just for one or two weeks after she spurned me. And hey, it wasn’t a one-sided deal — I learned that she was growing close with another guy all the time I was trying to win her heart. I unknowingly fulfilled the role of a pest, a devourer of her time, time which she could’ve blissfully spent with the other guy. Maybe I was a demon in her life, too. (Not that it really mattered, because they ended up lovers in the end.)

The day we parted ways was a nadir for our friendship, and at the same time a pinnacle for marking each other as ‘villains’. The villain-stuff wore off as time passed by (at least for me), but unfortunately we haven’t really talked much after that day. We still catch glances of each other in UP, but absolutely no exchange of words, no perfunctory how-are-yous. She only greets my bestfriend, Sophia, who’s with me most of the time.

I tried chatting her up for the first few months or so, but when she wasn’t responding, I quickly got tired and gave up. I’ve moved on, so there’s no reason to waste time trying to initiate a healthy conversation with a person who wants to keep her mouth shut. My friends hazard this silly guess that maybe she’s finding herself guilty for being a one-time villain in my life. They say, after all, she made you cry for three damn years. They say, that’s why she can’t look straight into your eyes.

Really now. I love being the guy that everybody loves to hate, and so I must discard their notion.

She was the heroine, and I was the villain.

*****
And if I’m right about that, then I’m a…

What Type of Villain are You?
mutedfaith.com

Corsarius: A Self-Proclaimed Jaded, Unfeeling Bastard. But still, this happened to me.

*****

It was supposed to be another humdrum day.

It all began with another boring commute to the university, aboard an FX taxi*. A half-hour spent on the road, listening to the radio, looking out of the window and seeing the stories of humanity unfold around me. Only my musings kept me company — the driver was muttering a curse about traffic policemen, another passenger was humming absently, and to my left sat a young woman (I assumed she was young), all complete strangers.

I didn’t bother to even give the girl a sideway glance. It isn’t my nature to go staring at people, especially at women. I guess I’m a shy boy, your quintessential torpe; I sat there benumbed, unable to observe her from the corner of my eye, even if the sweet, hypnotizing scent of her perfume was all-too tempting.

Believe me, the only thing which kept me from going crazy right there in the FX was the thought that she: 1) wasn’t a beautiful girl, 2) didn’t have the soft, angelic, ivory features that accompany the stereotype of a “beautiful girl”, 3) and if she was that pretty, she was a spiteful lady with demonic sneers that starkly contrasted her angelic face.

The FX taxi trudged along, and the girl went out of my mind, until –

“Sa tabi na lang po.” The vehicle screeched to a halt, meters away from the escalator ascending to the Quezon Avenue MRT station.

It was her. She actually spoke! What. A. Sweet. Wonderful. Voice.

She shifted towards me. “Excuse me,” she softly whispered. I suddenly realized that I was the jerk between her and the car door. I opened it, and got out to let her pass.

We came face to face with each other.

1) She was a beautiful girl. I WAS WRONG.

2) She had the soft, angelic, ivory features that made her a true stereotype of a “beautiful girl”. I WAS WRONG.

Cross Items One and Two. Item Three was still a mystery. But I WILL BE RIGHT.

I stepped sideways to let her pass. She did likewise. We ended up face to face once more.

Repeat the above routine for fifteen damn seconds.

Unbelievable? Believe it. Surreal? It happened. Stuff of pulp fiction? I ended up like pulp, after this:

“Ah..” her voice trailed into uncertainty. Her lips started to curl into my great prediction — a spiteful, demonic sneer. I waited for doomsday to smack down upon me.

She smiled. In stupefying, heavenly fashion. “I’m so sorry,” she said in the sincerest tone you will ever hear.

Chuck Item Three into the waste bin. I WAS WRONG.

“Ah.” It was all I could manage. She stepped sideways one last time, and walked away towards the direction of the train station.

*****

The FX taxi whizzed past the MRT escalator, even as I craned my neck in a futile attempt to see the stereotypical-girl-with-angelic-features-and-heavenly-smiles for one last time as she ascended into heaven, er, the station.

A day after, I’m still having trouble twisting my neck. The pain is unbearable.

February 2, 2005 is a day which shall live in infamy. Stupid day.


*FX taxi - a Toyota Tamaraw FX used as a public transport vehicle. Slowly taking over the streets of Metro Manila.

You know you’ve spent too much time on the computer when you spill milk and the first thing you think is, ‘edit, undo.’ — some wise guy.

Have you ever wished that a new life was one click of the button away?

No, don’t get me wrong. I’m not having any of my “please God let me die, reincarnate me as Brad Pitt” days. At least, not now.

I just think I’m getting too much of computer stuff into my system.

When you’re writing something in MS Word (or OpenOffice for ye anti-Microsoft pundits), it’s child’s play to ‘undo’ your mistakes. Press CTRL-Z, and voila! Your sin’s cleansed. It’s the same when I’m typing Java or LaTeX code in Crimson Editor; CTRL-Z is your ticket to a peaceful mind.

Arguably, the most wonderful example of all can be found in PC games. Your character just got split in two by that uber-powerful Celestial Sword of Ultimate Death brandished by the Evil Dark Lord of Slaughter? Don’t fret. Just press ‘Reload’, and live again. Your virtual Kobe Bryant scores 100 in a triple-overtime Game 7 for the NBA championship, and he just missed that easy, game-winning buzzer beater? Reload, and better make that shot next time.

It’s so damn easy, right? So easy, that I’m getting really used to it.

So, in real life, you’re all alone in a room with this bombshell, humping away to a steamy kingdom come, then notice a hidden camera blinking and grinning at you. What do you do? You and you’re buddies are having a wicked time backstabbing this certain professor, then you suddenly feel his eyes stabbing you from behind, and when you turn around — he’s there! What do you do?

Simple: reload!

Or maybe not.

This may sound unbelievable, but when I encounter scenes in life similar to those above*, my first reaction is to reach out and press some imaginary ‘Reload’ button in my mind. I know, it’s weird…even I am unnerved by my own response. It’s a surreal experience; so surreal, in fact, that if you were the one telling me you were having this similar oddity, I wouldn’t have believed you.

Maybe I should go out more often. You know, from time to time, get in touch with reality. So I don’t end up like this:

You know you’re obsessed with computer graphics when you’re outside and you look up at the trees and think, “Wow! That’s spectacular resolution!” — another wise guy.


*No, I regret to inform you that both scenarios were from someone else’s life, and not mine. Really, guys.

With a few hours left before we usher in the New Year, let me share with you some of my thoughts regarding the recent Christmas season (it ain’t over here in the Philippines, where the Yuletide fever begins on November 3 and fizzles out on February 13).

I’ve decided to write this personal essay in my native tongue, Tagalog, because the topic is about a uniquely-Filipino Christmas tradition (finally, my first Tagalog post). If you can’t understand Tagalog but suddenly has a pressing need to know what’s the essay all about, then drop me a comment and I’ll translate it in my free time (yeah, I wish).

Happy New Year, people!


Ang Kulang sa Pasko Ko
P.Y. Kimpo

Hindi ko ramdam ang kumpletong diwa ng Pasko.

Ilang tao na kaya ang nagsabi ng ganito? Libo-libo? Milyon-milyon? Marahil narinig mo na ito mula sa ‘yong mga kaibigan. Mga kaanak na baon sa problema. Mga tambay sa kanto na pulos toma ang inaatupag. Mga manunulat na madrama (gaya ko). At kung alam ko lang, baka ganito din ang nararamdaman mo. Siguro’y sawa ka na sa mga taong nagrereklamo kung bakit hindi sila madapuan ng sayang hatid ng Disyembre. Siguro’y iniisip mo ngayon kung bakit nakukuha ko pang magsulat tungkol sa isang paksang gamit, laos, cliché.

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