I think another article of mine is going to be published at Garage about "Long-Distance Relationships" (not sure yet). At the end of the day, i believe that whatever works for people, works for people, so I am in no position to say otherwise.

The last article I wrote for Garage Magazine was about summer flings - "Flinging it up this Summer." As shady as that title might sound, we actually came up with an honest, objective, and informative article on the issue. I mean, let's not be children. These things happen. Some people enjoy them. Some people don't. Some people are self-righteous fucks who impose their beliefs on others and think every damn source of delight is EVIL (that is why Adam Lambert lost American idol too).

Seriously, if there was no question about Adam's sexuality, he would have won by a landslide. But, the truth is America is not ready for a gay idol. A lot of people automatically dismiss certain types of people out of conservative ignorance - aetheistic philosophers and scientists, transgressive writers, anarchists, homosexuals, heck, even dating coaches.

Speaking of which, I would just like to clarify that although I am very good friends with Natural Seduction, executive coach, Nash Casten, I am not an associate of his company and am not responsible for the views and opinions (of which I am ambivalent about [agree with some/disagree with others]) presented in the websites  linked to the article. The links were included in the article as part of an agreement between us - "You let me interview you, and I'll put your site on my article."

In other news, my essay about "Nudity in Art" entitled (If my memory does not betray me) "A Cordial Letter to Future Man," will be published in the third issue of Bump Magazine.

Check it out! Peace!

Adam Lambert was the Elvis daemon of ecstatic agony when he performed “Tracks of my tears” and “If I can’t have you.” In “Mad World,” he was the tormented soul whose glorious wails of pure alienated despair seem to have echoed from the phantoms and spectres of suicidal lovers from the pits of the second level of Dante’s Inferno. He was the fiendish incubus of raw longing and restless turbulence in “Satisfaction” and “Born to Be Wild.” He was the jaded, egoistic, self-absorbed, lecherous second coming of Faust – the hedonistic demon of indulgence and abandon – in “I’m Feeling Good” and “Ring of Fire.”

Yes, Adam Lambert sold his soul to the devil to be able to emulate the devil’s defiant wail as the Morning Star was cast down from heaven unto the depths of hell - forever illuminating oblivion with the crimson glow emanating from the heart of the first sinner.

Adam Lambert’s songs are metaphorical representations of the ancient battle between good and evil – at once echoing the repentant sorrow of fallen angels and speaking in the holy tongues of envious, sex-deprived seraphims.

Adam Lambert is what entertainment for an ironic generation is about – imbued with a sharp meta-camp sensibility, edgy in his defiance of suffocating social structures, and fearless in advocating a liberal perspective.

Kris Allen is a solo version of “Boyce Avenue” – check out their acoustic renditions of “Apologize,” “Disturbia,” “Bleeding Love” in YouTube. “Boyce Avenue” was what Kara and Randy had in mind when they picked “Apologize” for Kris to sing - http://www.titikpilipino.com/news/index.php?aid=1228&section=International, they have an acoustic guitar version of the song, which the performed in SM Megamall as part of a mall tour. No kidding, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Z3TRqPdif4.

But what most people don’t know is that these contestants hold deep, dark secrets, that when revealed might influence the outcome of the contest. You saw it here first, the deepest, darkest secrets of the American idol finale contestants.

Adam Lambert is actually the product of a United States government experiment that combined the DNA of Freddie Mercury, Michael Jackson, Mick Jagger, Meatloaf, and Madonna to create the ultimate disco demi-god.

Kris Allen is actually the long lost brother of Alejandro, Fabian, and Daniel Manzano. He was originally the fourth member of “Boyce Avenue,” before he married Barbie Allen (the blonde girl) - his acoustic brothers disowned him after he adopted his uber-white wife's surname, "Allen," having viewed this act as a complete disregard for the Manzano bloodline.

Yes, I’m biased. Obviously, I think the better artist should win.

My vote (if only I could): Adam Lambert - the turbulent titan of transgression; the Eros-demented demi-god of disco; the self-aware, meta-artist of commercialized camp (which makes it more campy).

Alright, where were we?

Oh yes, Archie playing Vanessa Carlton. But despite that song, which was totally gay, his set was actually better than Cook's. Although I'm not a big fan of teeny-bop-pop or techno-dance-pop, his songs were actually catchy.

The only songs worth listening to from David Cook's set was his Collective Soul cover (the one he sang from last year's finale which provoked Simon to tell him that he just lost the competition) and the Mariah Carey cover of "Always Be My Baby." The rest were obscure covers from old bands only he knows about. It seems that he's going back to the rock roots, he used to play when he was "an-obscure-rock-dude." If he keeps it up, he will one day be "an-obscure-rock-dude" again.

If you were a David Cook fan from his days in American Idol, I'm sorry. The David Cook you loved is not the same dude. He promised you acoustic ballads like his covers of "Billie Jean" and "Hello," and in his album he delivered some of the most generic pop rock junk since the INXS album. To give you an idea of what Pop Rock should sound like, think of U2. David Cook doesn't sound like U2. His music sounds like a lesser Daughtry.

But, what exactly is Cook rock. Well, in a nutshell it's either a softened, dumbed-down, simplified Metallica or a hardened, up-tempoed, loudened Michael Learns to Rock. Honestly, you'd be better off with either Metallica or MLTR. Half-ass music is plain bad. I mean, if I wanted rock, I'd listen to rock. If I wanted pop, I'd listen to pop. Make up your mind Mr. Cook. If you want to go rock, go all the way, man.

The poor guy so far as to invite the crowd to sing with the songs from his album. The crowd did, "Come and leave the light on - lalala - come on leave the light on - hmm-hmm - lalalalalala - hmm-hmm-hmmmmm. Hmm-hmm." No one knows the lyrics. No one. "Lalala-lalala-lalal-time of my life."

I can't wait for Adam Lambert to make an album that is nothing like the crap these two almost-great artists have produced.

So, among the perks of being related to people who know people who know people that are involved in the production of the reent archuleta/cook concert, I was given the opportunity to see (from really close, I might add) the two guys from last season's American Idol finale. I wouldn't have paid, with my own money, to see them, but I would gladly take full advantage of my complimentary tickets.

I was kind of disappointed, not with the production (you go guys! thanks for the cool seats) but with the performers. I wanted the Davids to do a remake of last season's finale where they sing al the songs they sung from AI and we get to vote and judge them and shit like that. But it was nothing like that. They sang obscure songs from their sucky albums.

I enjoyed one song from Archuleta, "I'm loving angels instead" by Robbie Williams which, if my memory does not betray me, he also sang in the finale. Then funny part -- he sat at the piano and said, "I'll play the first song I learned to play on the piano," so I'm expecting "Hey, Jude" or "Imagine," right? Cos those are easy to play. Then he plays Vanessa Carlton. HUwat! Straight men study piano to play coldplay and the beatles or Axl Rose's "November Rain." Not Vanessa Carlton's "A Thousand Miles."

Awkward... Yeah. He's more akin to Adam Lambert than Kris Allen... digs?

To be continued...

A recent trip to Puerto GaleraI with Nash and a recent drinking binge with Chase gave me an opportunity to indulge in nostalgic memories of certain events from years past. Nash, of course, brought up every bizzare encounter we recklessly threw ourselves into - which upon further examination proved almost self-loathing, like waking up in strange places with a wicked hangover and no money.

Next is a rundown of who, through our adventures, have been harmed, slighted, pleased, angered, made happy, made sad. Being with a former "partner-in-crime" (if onl;y I could come up with a cooler term) caused an influx of faces, smiles, voices, lies, whines, wine, swine, etc. Everyone I have known, or at one point have considered as a crucial part of my mortal existence, has re-emerged in the form of metaphysical phantoms.

It made me sad. So few of them, in truth, really mattered now. Mere shadows and echoes. Which brings to question what was all of it for (with "it" I mean the entire endeavor)? All for naught? Mischief? Did it make me a better person? Probably not. What did all those people, whom at the time I believed I loved, or at the least desired and lusted after, leave with me? More impoortantly, if identity had any weight or relevance, what did I leave with them?

What mattered?

This train of thought was then continued during an inuman session with Chase. "Men," he said, "ang dami nang nangyari." He talked about people I knew from the village I once lived at who were now dead. Yea, pretty morbid. Anyway, it got me to thinking how much loss is lost at a loss and shit like that.

I was once told, "nothing is ever lost." I agreed and thanked the stars I had someone to tell me that. But, only now do I question if there is anything gained. The most trivial things trigger massive existential angst in me - and made me turn into stalker mode. I do not know if the act was motivated or driven by a bloated ego, or a delusional sense of importance, or a distorted idea of where meaning exists, I checked the blogs of all of whom were personally (however brief) associated with me and not one had a single line of literary blogspace squandered in my name. It could be just me, but I felt, slightly injured. Or forgotten, maybe. Well, to begin with, this is not what normal people do. I should be writing articles about science, but instead, I stalk former friends.

And as if what had passed was of little relevance or consequence, so unlike something that might leave one permanently scarred. I felt an "Unbearable Lightness of Being" (hahahaha!), but seriously. It was as if all that I was and had been, as if all that was shared, endured, enjoyed, loved, hated, argued about, and cherished were reduced to a single fleeting image - a flash of recall after a few shots of vodka - a lighter's spark in the midst of supernovae. Inconsequential. Irrelevant. Forgettable. That is the human identity, I guess. A spark today in the supernovae of past and future social encounters. All for naught. All for naught.

With that, I say:

Nihilist Manifesto - Rule Number One
Meaning exist in things that matter. But, if anything should matter, it should matter in the moment.

Nihilist Manifesto - Rule Number Two
What matters today (in the moment) may not matter tomorrow. So, what matters today may not really matter at all, in the grand scheme of things.

Nihilist Manifesto - Rule Number Three
Nothing that is written about nothingness has meaning because meaning exist in things that matter and nothingness is the absence of both matter and the things that matter.

Dear Me,
Whatever attachment you have for the history of your identity only exists within that history and could only be viewed objectively in the non-existent "present" context of that history. Anything outside of that, is flawed with nostalgic indulgences you are too old and too busy to be thinking of. You just wasted two hours writing something that neither matters nor has meaning.

I found an ancient correspondence between me and a brief acquaintance. At the time, I honestly just wanted to get with her - but, something happened. I became more interested in what's inside her head and it was pretty cool looking back at it now. Well, the romantic angle didn't work out very well. the interaction was way too intellectual to make room for any type of romance. I have fond memories of it though and being a writer without the luxury of discretion I will post the correspondence here. For what purpose? Cerebral narcissism. Duh.:

***

Vain, pretentious, self-absorbed, charlatan a.k.a. ME:
March 12, 2007

ULTRA - the one and only film I acted in that won an award (not because of my acting, of course) - is going to be part of the Moroccan film festival. No kidding! It sounds like a joke but it's not. It is seriously going to be shown abroad. Is that cool or what?

Maybe I should move there. A film career might blossom for me. Life's getting pretty tame with a regular teaching/writing job and stuff. It might be very cool to go to some foreign jungle and swing on vines with exotic tribal princesses or lead a communist revolution or start an opium plantation.

When I was younger, college, I wanted to be ridiculously rich so I could stay in a big ass mansion with an opium pipe and 27 concubines. But life had other plans. *Sigh*

Anyway, if anyone is going to Morocco any time soon, make sure you catch our film! It's freaking awesome, I think. When I saw it I didn't know what it was about. Because its high art. That's how it's supposed to be. Ambiguous and incomprehensible to pretentious artsy-pansies. Hahahaha! :)

By Dustin Edward D. Celestino

Once upon a time, a book was written entitled “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time,” because I promised you that there would be a book entitled as such. It was the title I picked for this document too, because it’s the best possible introduction for a book of the same title because it includes the name of the woman who inspired the work. What could best pay tribute to the muse who inspired the creation of this document if not by putting her name, Greta, on the title of the book that is entitled, “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time?”

If you have read carefully and was able to observe that I have said that this was an introduction to a book and I was able to write enough pages to create a piece that begins with this document and extends to the length of a book, is that, initially, this document was written to be just a letter and not an introduction to a book.

Although, as I am writing this very sentence I am fully aware of the fact that this piece may not extend to the length of a book, I implore you, my reader not to dismiss that possibility because if you were to dismiss the possibility that this piece could extend to the length of a book, it might disrupt your suspension of disbelief. This narrator’s voice, in imploring you to suspend your disbelief, might have encouraged your disbelief. On the other hand, the mere fact that this piece is openly acknowledging the presence of a literary device, in its honesty, might further suspend your disbelief and allow you to find the events that will unfold within this text plausible.

This document was never intended to become a book by mere virtue of the fact that it begins with a ridiculously ambiguous title that may or may not have anything to do with the contents of the book that is yet to be written as it was, initially, just supposed to be a letter to the lady who inspired the title, “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time.”

I, as you might have speculated now, am an unreliable narrator and like so many unreliable narrators before me, I have a motive. There is a reason for the composition of this document. A girl. That girl may or may not be the person currently reading this document.

Unfortunately, she will only truly realize the scale of this gesture if it was read by someone who this document was not originally intended for. That someone else may be you whether or not your name is Greta because there are many Gretas in the world.

In fact, your real name might not even be Greta, it may be “Margarita” and Greta is just your nickname, and yet, erroneously, your nickname, “Greta”, was the name that was included in the title to of this document that may or may not have been originally intended for you.

Margarita, if there is a writer that can make you read this far into an introduction of a book that is yet to be written, maybe there is within you an interest that transcends beyond this document. Whatever flattery you may derive from the knowledge that this particular document may have been written for you is returned to the narrator because you have been paying attention – to me. And by paying attention, you permit me to mold the whims and temperaments of your sentiments no matter how much doubt you have of this unreliable narrator.

And should we fall in love due to this correspondence, I should not gather all the credit for it is you who, through your refinement, have inspired me to create this moment of subtle irony: You, the reader whose fingers touch the flimsy edges of this page, may not even be Margarita. Or Greta. This letter may not even have been originally meant for you.

You might wonder, “Is he so afraid of rejection that he sends love letters like messages in bottles? How can this man have the audacity to create an intricate, ambitious letter and still fail to directly address the object of his affection?”

Well, that is not the point. The point is the grand gesture because the grand gesture would make a wonderful story for our children. Not the story entitled “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time” but, the other story.

This story:

“Once upon a time, your father wrote a document that may or may not have been written for me, but I thought it was, since my name is Margarita, so I replied and thus began a long correspondence that led to a tryst that led to you.”

Greta, you can even tell our children that you wrote a letter, of equal complexity, to me that said:

Dear Writer of this Document,

You were so in love with me that you could touch my mind from where you’re sitting and manipulate my thoughts as you repeatedly reminded me of the irony that I may or may not be the Margarita you were referring to. You started calling me Greta because you erroneously entitled a book called “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time” as a tribute to what you thought was my real name, but was not my real name, because my real name is Margarita. But, another reason why you have entitled your book, “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time” could be because you might have had another friend whose name was Margarita whom I never met because I may not be the ‘Greta’ who inspired “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time”. In fact, Greta might be a fictional character. But, in any case, the name must have inspired you so much as to go this far in speculating my possible reply to the letter you are currently writing for me. So, currently, as you are reading this now, at home, or somewhere else; beginning to be conscious of the ironies that are occurring, I, the female voice in your head that you hear as you read these words in bold, “I” the writer of letter would like to ask you one question: How can this letter be written as a response to and at the same time part of the book, “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time?” By this feat alone, will the facts above not make this the most novel love letter since I received the document entitled “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time”? Now, we’re even.

                                                                             Much Delighted,

                                                                                      Margarita

 

Yes, Greta, you can even tell everyone that that letter was your response. But, you’d be lying because I wrote that too. But, since you are one of those rare muses who could inspire mental activity so intense to enable a boy with a crush to create a metaphysical labyrinth this intricate, I’ll allow you to lie to our children.

You can even tell our children that:

“As you father typed this sentence on his computer right this very moment, he was thinking of me. To express his adoration, he wrote a document entitled “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time” which, after several correspondences between us has been compiled into a book of the same title – delivering on a promised he made just now as this sentence is being written.

But, you’d be lying to our children again because as I typed:

“As your father typed this sentence on his computer right this very moment,” I wasn’t thinking of you. I was actually thinking what the metaphysical implications of this document are. For one, the only thing between fact and fiction, right now, as of the moment that this underlined word is being read is whether or not you are ‘Greta’ – for whom this document was intended to. I simply wanted to write a story with an unreliable narrator who used the form in which this document is written in, to disguise a love letter.

BUT, if you are Greta, this document is authentic for it has served its original purpose which was meant to be a letter to you. But, if you are not, then you have, “by sheer accident” or by purchasing a book entitled “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time” come upon what may or may have not been meant to be an introduction to a book; a book in which this document is both an introduction and the first of many letters of a long correspondence between this document’s narrator and a woman named Margarita.

But, if you’re not Greta, the lady who inspired the narrator to write the document, “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time,” this might be taken as a failed fictional experiment since it may have neither a plot nor conflict. In such a case, for there to be any type of artistic merit in this document I propose this document to be a performance.

There is actually no story to be told. If there was a story to be told, it is so brief that it could fit in an image from a poem. If there is a single image that could ever be forcefully extracted from this document, it is the one that is happening right now:

A man wrote a letter and his object of affection is currently reading it now...

Art, for a moment was empowered with the ability to document life as it happened while it was happening – and it was achieved through the combined effort of the artist and the muse.

And if it was a combined effort, does it not mean that we have, together, collaborated on one of the most original works of performance art (the closest I will get to dancing with you, Greta)?

But, if you are Margarita, you must be flattered that a work of this profundity has been entitled “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time” thus making it the most intricate love letter you’ll ever receive, thus turning this particular instance – the moment when these words are being read, the moment you can actually imagine hearing my voice as if I am whispering and you can feel my breath; this violation of space that has just been committed – into a romantic gesture.

If you are not Margarita then, quite possibly, this document can’t exist as a romantic gesture, after which no artistic merit could be derived from this document unless the writer of this document declared that this is a story about one man’s attempt to create an intricate compliment for the object of his affection.

Its fictional, non-fictional, or anti-fictional qualities could now be validated by the existence or non-existence of, Margarita, the person whose name inspired the title of this document.

If that were the case, this document then could be an essay, or rather, a performed opinion: on the proximity of art and life; truth and falsehood, and not a story. But, isn’t that wonderful, Greta? The truth of that initial statement depends on your existence. A truth that, in order to be true, depends entirely on you. Isn’t that an intricate compliment? I just turned you into truth. The fundamental fabric of reality is currently anchored on you.

On rare occasions, that is how I feel – as if the sudden non-existence of truth, as if the sudden non-existence of you would cause the logic of reality to crumble. But on rare occasions only.

Now, we come to this: Greta, after all that has been said, I must throw caution to the wind – do not confidently presume that this document was written entirely for you. Do not forget the reader here, the one whose vision slowly and gradually slides and glides and reads between the lines. His or her presence demands an element of conjugal reference.

Yes, Greta, there is a reader here that may or may not be you, to whom a story was promised and to whom a story will be delivered. So do not dismiss this effort as a desperate admirer’s attempt to win the favor of his beloved. Because Greta, as I have repeatedly mentioned, this may not even be a letter for you. There is a very high probability that it is, but for all you know, this could just be an intricate story created solely for the amusement of an anonymous reader and not what you may now have presumed to be a love letter (not that there’s anything wrong about writing love letters, because there is nothing wrong with love letters especially if they’re sincere).

No matter how pleased you may be by what you may believe to be a discovery, it must be clarified that no secrets have yet been unveiled, because the fact remains that this document could simply be a story. There’s a persona, who may or may not be based on the writer of this document, who wanted to win the favor of a woman named “Margarita” by writing her a letter about her name being part of the title of a book which is a compilation of letters from a correspondence that may or may not be compiled depending on how favorable her response is to this letter.

Either way, even if not another word in this document is removed, added or altered in any way shape or form, its authenticity may change. And when that moment has come, it was not “I”, the writer of this document, who has deceived you; it was time or space and/or the things between and beyond time and/or space.

As for the reader, it would be unfair of the writer to promise his audience a story and not deliver one, so I will tell one. It will begin with the lines, “Once upon a time,” and will be entitled “Greta and the Boatman of Space and Time.”

Madalas mo akong makikita sa mga madidilim na kanto ng Quezon, sa mga pulang distrito ng Makati, at sa mga liblib na iskinita ng Ermita. Dito ko ibinebenta ang produkto ko. Parang drug-pusher. Pero imbes na dahon o bato, laman ang ibinebenta ko. Tulad rin ng drug-pusher, galing rin sa iba't-ibang lugar ang produkto namin. Meron mula Pampanga, Olongapo, at ang  madalas na paborito ng mga customer, mga babae galing Baguio. Parang refigerator kasi yung klima roon. At ang karneng naka-refigerator, mas matagal masira.

Bakit bugaw ang tawag sa amin? Ewan ko, pero dalawa ang palagay ko. Una, kasi di ba kapag nilalangaw ang pakain mo ikakampay mo ang mga braso para maglayuan yung mga langaw? Ganoon siguro. Kaya lang, sa aming trabaho baliktad ang gusto naming epekto. Magkakampay ka hanggang malapitan ang mga mapera't malilibog na mga langaw. Malalaman mo naman kung padating na sila e. Sigurado may maririnig kang "Vrooom! Vrooom!" Tunog ng langaw na nanlilibog. At pag-ihinarap ko na ang babae, ngingiti ang langaw at pagkikiskisin ang dalawang palad. Isa pang teorya ko ang bugaw ay parang tindero ng palengke. Magdamag nagsisigaw, nagsususutsot, walang tigil ang kamay sa pagkampay. Kapag may customer, makikipagtawaran. May mga suki na pinagbibigyan ng pinakamagagandang karne.

Ganun din ang ginagawa namin, namimili din kami ng langaw na dadapo sa produkto namin. At tulad ng isang tindero, mayroon din kaming sari-sariling ilusyon para magmuhkang sariwa ang mga babae namin. Kapag medyo may pagka-hipon, yung mga tipong muhkang masarap ang katawan pero patapon ang ulo, kailangang makipot ang damit at ang style ng buhok ay nakatakip sa muhka. Kung maliit ang boobs, dapat masikip ang palda para ang puwet ang mapansin, et cetera, et cetera.

Nakakatawa kung iisipin na namimili kami ng dadapo sa produktong di naman namin pinili. Kung sino ang dumating, siya rin ang ibebenta. Tulad din ng pangkaraniwang palangkero, hindi kami mapili sa produkto. Sariwa o bilasa, bata o matanda, may sakit o wala, wala kaming pakialam. Basta't kailangangang may pambayad ang dadapong langaw. Kailangan lang matibay ang sikmura.

Maraming naniniwala salbahe raw ako. Imoral. Oportunista. Ano pa? Mabaho ang kaluluwa. Mabahong parang tae. Oo. Parang tae. Hindi ko sila masisisi. Minsan ako mismo ang nasusuka sa sarili ko. Ano ang magagawa ko? Kapag humilab ang sikmura mo mamimili ka pa ba ba kung saan manggaling ang kinakain mo? Manggaling man iyan sa kepyas o langaw, kapag gutom ka, kakain ka. Hindi naman ako namili ng ganitong trabaho. Sino ba namang gago ang gustong maging bugaw na gabi-gabi napapalibutan ng kepyas, luha, at ng langaw.

Nakapag-aral din ako ng konti. Isa akong high school graduate. Yun nga lang, mas marami pa 'kong oras na ginugol sa barkada kaysa sa pag-aaral. Pero hindi ko pinagsisihan iyon. Sa katunayan nga, ang abilidad na natutunan ko sa mga tuso kong barkada ang bumuhay sa akin at sa kapatid ko mula nang namatay ang mga magulang ko. Si amang at si inang, sumalangit nawa ang mga kaluluwa nila.

Tulad ng maraming tao, pinalaki rin ako at inuto ng mga magulang ko sa paniniwala na isang araw ako ay uunlad at yayaman. Maniwala ka man o hindi, karamihan sa mga magulang ay may ganitong mental disorder. Paniwalang-paniwala sila na pinakamahusay at pinakamagaling ang mga anak nila. Pinagpipilitan na malalampasan pa sila ng mga anak nila. Parang 'hero worship'. "Ang anak ko ang pinakamagaling! Tiyak yayaman siya!" Hay naku! Wala na talagang mas hihigit pa sa paghanga ng isang ina sa anak niya. Pag mahal mo kasi ang isang tao gumagaling talaga siya kahit gaano siya kabano. Minsan maligaya rin ako na wala na sila. Malulungkot lang sila sa kinalabasan ko. Naririnig ko na ang boses ni inang: "Anak, isa kang trahedya."

Ngayon pa lang ako nagsisimulang magising sa mga pantasyang binuo ng mga magulang ko para sa akin. Maari rin pala akong maging tulad ng mga taong humahara sa kalsada at nanghihingi ng pera. Masuwerte pa ako sa lagay ko, may pagkain pa sa kaldero.

Tao pa rin ako. Nasusuka rin ako minsan kapag nilasing ng aking konsesiya. Lalo na kapag iniiyakan ako ng mga hawak kong babae na inabuso daw sila o ginahasa. Hindi ako nagpapatawa. Nagagahasa talaga ang mga puta. Maraming customer ang hindi sumusunod sa kasunduan na isa sa isa.

Iba ang prostitution sa kalsada. Hindi ito tulad ng club na sa loob gagamitin ang mga babe, na may bouncer o hoodlum na magbabantay. Dito iba ang sistema. Hihinto ang auto, magbibigay ng pera, sasakay ang babae, tapos bahala na. Nakikipaglaro ang mga babae ko sa baga. Para ko silang binebenta sa disgrasya.

Wala akong magagawa. Kasama iyan sa trabaho. Hindi ko rin naman puwedang balaan ang mga baguhan sa mga maaring mangyari sa kanila. Pag ginawa ko yun baka magbago ang isip nila at huwag nang magputa. Hindi puwede yun. Baka ako ang madisgrasya. Nagbubulag-bulagan na lang. Nagtatangatangahan at naghuhugas kamay. Nilulunok ko ang suka at nagdadahilan pa nga na para lamang akong agent ng mga maid, na tagahanap lamang ng amo. Pero hindi rin. Ululin ko man ang sarili ko na wala akong kasalanan, gigisingin ako ng sarili kong boses sa madaling araw:

"Boss, mura lang. Bata pa ito. Bihira ko lang ito ilabas." "Sariwa pa, ako mismo tumitikim bago ako magbenta." "Okay yan! Makinis na, ahit pa."

Oo, tae pa rin ako.

Hindi rin ganoon kadali ang ganitong trabaho. Masisiraan ka ng ulo kung hindi mo kaya ang konsensiya mo. Sa isip dumudugo ang mga sugat na inaani ko. Ang technique ko rito, hugag mag-isip. At hangga't maari, hindi ko kinikilala ang mga babaeng hawak ko. Kapag napalapit ka sa kanila, kapag nalaman mo ang kani-kanilang trahedya, ewan ko lang kung makapagbenta ka pa. Pare-pareho kayong magugutom. Mas mabuting tingnan na lamang sila na parang mga bagay. Walang kaluluwa. Mas mahirap kasi magbenta ng ibang tao kaysa magbenta ng produkto.

Pero hindi talaga maiiwsan na paminsan-minsan, mapalapit ka sa isa. Lalaki rin ako, mahilig sa maganda. Kapag nagkagusto ka, pakiramdam mo kilalang-kilala mo na siya, kahit code name niya pa lang ang alam mo. Pearl ang palayaw niya. Tamang-tama ito dahil "flawless" siya, ala "Rosanna" at higit pa. Tingin ko "flawless" pati budhi niya. Kasing puti ng kutis niya. Puno ang labi, at maliwanag ang ngiti. Ngiti na parang umaga, parang bagong pag-asa. Ganoon naman talaga kapag mahal mo, pero siyempre noong panahong iyon nakalimutan ko 'to.

Ang hirap niya ibenta. Pinuputakti man siya ng mga langaw, hindi ko siya basta-basta maibigay. Iniingatan ko kasi siya. Ibibigay ko lang siya kung sino sa tigin ko ang mas matino kumpara sa iba. Kailangang nakakurbata, o kaya sa mga teenager, yung mga muhkang mabilis makaraos para huwag siya gaanong mapagod. Piling-pili ang mga binibigay ko sa kanya kaya medyo mas malaki ang kita. Bukod pa roon, medyo tinaasan ko ang porsento niya. Hindi nagtagal napansin din niya na may gusto ako sa kaniya, at yun nga, nagkaroon din kami ng relasyon. Mayroong mga babaeng nagselos at lumayo sa akin, pero hindi ko rin pinansin. Bahala sila, basta ako, maligaya kay Tina. Tina nga pala ang tunay niyang pangalan. Ti-na. Ang sarap sabihin. Ang dulas dila. Kahit puta si Tina, tinanggap ko siya. Tina, Tina, Tina, akala ko ikaw na.

Limang buwan din umabot ang aming relasyon. Mas lalo ko siyang nakilala, kasabay noon nasira rin ang aking pantasya. Dahan-dahang nagkaroon ng mga gasgas ang pagka-flawless niya, hindi lang sa katawan, sa pagkatao na rin. May ilang peklat na siya sa braso mula sa kagat ng mga customer namin. Mayroon din siyang mga marka sa leeg, ng dating rashes na mula sa sari-saring laway na natuyo sa leeg niya. Malalim na ang mga mata niya kaiiyak sa tabi ko. Naging malungkutin siya at matamlay. Nag-iba na ang anggulo ng mga sulok ng labi niya, nawala na rin ang liwanag ng ngiti niya. Bukod doon, lalong napalayo ang kalooban ko sa kaniya dahil sa hatak ng mga bagong babae. Mas sariwa, mas bata, mas makinis, mas "flawless." Ganoon naman talaga, walang kagandahang hindi nalalampasan ng iba. Ang tao ay hindi marunong makuntento. Patunay ko riyan ang mga kustomer kong may mga asawa na.

Hindi nagtagal, iba na ang aking kursanada. Noong unang buwan, ayaw ko siya payagan mag puta, pero ilang linggo pa ay hinayaan ko na rin. Noon, handa rin akong magpakasal sa kaniya. Matapos ang ilang buwan gumagamit na ako ng condom sa takot na mahawa sa kaniya. Kapag nagtanong, sinasabi ko 'birth-control.' Ngingiti lamang siya. Wala, ilang araw pa, nakipaghiwalay na ako sa kanya. Dahilan ko, nagseselos ang ibang puta, nababawasan ang aking kita. Ipinangako ko na lang kay Tina na pag umunlad ako, 'tsaka kami muling magsasama. Magbabago kami ng linya, at mabubuhay ng maligaya. Pero nung sinabi ko iyon, alam kong hindi naman ako uunlad, at wala rin akong balak magbago ng linya. Sanay na ako dito. Mahusay akong bugaw. Sa palagay ko, alam niya rin ito. Wala kahit bakas man lang ng ngiti ang dumapo sa muhka niya.

Malaking porsento ng mga puta ang nagkakasakit. Mahirap umiwas dito. Hindi sapat ang condoms at iba pa. Ang latex kapag nainitan lumalambot at kung minsan napupunit. Sinabi rin ng mga doctor na sobrang liit ng AIDS virus. Kasya ito sa pagitan ng hibla ng condom. Delikado talaga. At ito ang sinapit ni Tina.

Ako ang unang nakapansin na may sakit si Tina. Napansin ko ang ilang pasa sa kaniyang katawan, dito pa lang nagsuspetsa na ako. Tinanong ko kung sinasaktan siya ng mga kustomer, kung saan nanggaling ang mga pasa niya. Yumakap lang siya sa akin at humagulgol. Nalaman ko na may sakit siya. Sa totoo lang, madami sa kanila ang may sakit, pero hangga't hindi halata, hindi naman ako nagtatanong. Kinausap ko siya at sinabing hindi ko na siya puwedeng ibenta. Binigyan ko na lang siya ng sampung libo, para bang 'separation pay' para makapagsimula man lang siya ng negosyo. Kinuha niya ang pera, ipinadala ito sa mga magulang. At isang gabi may nabalitaan na lang ako na may babaeng nagpasagasa sa Quezon Avenue. Kawawang Tina. Hindi ko man lang nakayang pumunta sa burol niya. Matagal-tagal ko na ring hindi iniisip si Tina. Nalalasing kasi ang aking konsensiya pag iniisip ko siya.

Marami pang sumunod sa kanya at tiyak marami pang susunod. Pero tulad ng dati, muli akong maghuhugas ng kamay. Wala na akong pakiramdam. Ang luha ko ay barya, konting bonus sa puta. Hindi na lang ako mag-iisip. Wala akong pag-iisip. Wala akong kasalanan. Wala akong malay. Palutang-lutang lang sa agos ng panahon. Parang taeng lumulutang sa inidoro. Tae. Tae. Tae.

Huwag ninyo ako husgahan o pagtawanan. Huwag niyong sabihin na kaya ako nandito ay dahil hindi ako nagsikap. Sigurado ako, sino man ang magsabi nito, ni minsan hindi nakatikim ng kahirapan. Kahit anong tiyaga mo, pag walang suwerte, gutom pa rin ang aabutin mo.

Hindi ko pinili maging tae.

Marami pa rin ngayon ang nagmamalinis, tingin sa sarili'y mga diyamante't brillantes. Mga walang tae sa katawan, mga walang kasalanan, makintab sa kalinisan.

Mga Ulol. Dahil rin sa lipunang nakaupo sa trono, kung bakit may mga tae sa ilalim nito. Pag bumaha na, kapag nalunod ka na sa kahirapan, kapag hindi ka na makahinga, kapag nawalan ka na ng pag-asa, tingnan natin kung magpakadiyamante ka pa. Magiging tae ka o mamamatay ka, dahil tae lang ang lumulutang sa baha.

[End]

Start:	Nov 24, '08 4:00p
End:	Nov 24, '08 6:00p
Location:	Magnet Katipunan

Ipapalabas ulit and "ULTRA", and maikling pelikulang nanalo ng 2nd place sa katatapos lang na DotMov Movie Festival.

Artista na ko! Heto na ang 15 minutes of Hollywood stardom fame ko --- well, actually, 3 minutes lang... or less.

Nonetheless, we are proud of this movie because it was made by a 3-man crew!

Imagine that! 3 lang kami tapos yung isa pa sa tatlo walang ginawa kundi kumain at mang-arbor ng pirated DVDs from the director (ako yun [yung pasaway, hindi yung direktor]) and still the movie found a way to win.

Congratulations to Whammy Alcazaren, the drector --- painom ka naman! Ang laki ng kinita mo! ;)

You are staying in a wooden shack with housemates who like to smoke. From your bed you could observe the smoke crawl in, from the gap beneath and between the bottom of the door and the wooden floor, like a fog of fleas. There is a silent dread. A dread whose nature you are not accustomed to. It has probably been there all the while, but only now do you realize it – an irrational fear of fire. This room is much different from the one you have in Manila. The cold concrete walls that you supposed would keep you burn-free from midnight until dawn are substituted with thin plywood sheets whose audible translucence allows you to eavesdrop on your housemate’s grinding teeth …Fire was, in that  Indian epic “Ramayana”, a symbol of purification, and, for most cultures a symbol for rebirth. And there are legends of a mystical firebird phoenix rising from the ashes of its previous self. It was brimstone and fire that God sent to cleanse Sodom and Gomorrah to a ruined heap of clean debris …But, you don’t want to be purified. There is a pre-requisite, you believe, before purification is justified; a certain amount of committed transgressions and a certain feeling of filth. You don’t feel that now and find no reason for purification – not by fire at least.

The weather is dry and warm, and the consequences of the current illness you harbor, cough, seems to leach through your lungs and seep into the atmosphere. Or maybe you’re just not used to Dumaguete. In Manila, you’re usually cloistered in your fire-proof, concrete room and your air-conditioning. From there, you can only speculate the significance of the summer heat …If you were to be purified, you wish it would be with water. There’s plenty of water here. Bottles and bottles of water that might be enough to drive a hydrophobic to the conclusion that, “It is this place, this shack, that is the definition of doom.” In Manila, you swear at cold water and buy heaters. In Dumaguete, a cold shower is a blessing, even more – a type of salvation. This is a type of salvation, a type of purification you would welcome – not because you’re dirty, or filthy, or un-baptized, or sinful, but simply because it’s warm and you find water to be some type of messiah or distraction from the irrational fear of burning.

Then it starts to rain outside. A gradually increasing imperial army marching on the steel roof, recruiting imperial volunteers for every slope the weather conquers. The crickets are silenced and so is your mind. You are salvaged from speculations of spontaneous combustion by an imperial march of raindrops. The sound is monotonous, solitary, like a camouflaged intruder with a lonesome lullaby that lingers – an intruder with an ode to the specter-like force that sneaks behind your eyelids and weighs them heavy for sleep …You were warned before by a friend of this “Dumaguete” place, that overwhelming silence that drives the mind to disquiet and writes lines like streaks of rain on window panes and you find yourself with a dilemma. You try to rationalize the irrational fears, fears that never existed before, as a product of a longing brought by the silence, and the rain, and the imperial parade on the roof. This place is conducive for good conduct and contemplation, and your tragic flaw of apathy for big social issues has made you think of small personal ones – think of poverty, or prostitution, or ponder politics and corruption, think of anything to divert your mind from its inevitable destination – you think of Jacqueline. The twenty-year-old beauty, Jacqueline of Manila …If you die here tonight, that conversation about some dead guy’s poetry will be her last memory of you. You’re not actually going to die here. It’s an irrational dread. But there’s a sense of random regret about the fact that the last lines you said before you left, your reply to her suggestion that, “Maybe you could show me your work sometime.” was “Sorry, I don’t write children’s fiction” (a playful remark at what you pretended to presume as the limits of her comprehension – the irony here is that she didn’t “get it”) instead of “I would love to, upon my return.” It’s Jacqueline, the reason for all these irrational fears. Why else would you acquire a fear of fire when you don’t even fear death? Or why else would you allow yourself to be lulled into sporadic stupors by rain? These are things you don’t do in Manila …This place, the Davao Cottage in Dumaguete, is haunted with things you usually don’t have time to contemplate. More than fire, you fear desire and this dread currently treads a path, an imaginary pathway – a bridge, no, a tunnel, or an underwater pipe from Manila Bay to the Boulevard, and Jacqueline is shining through it at the speed of light – to be later embodied as an invisible longing. But, you don’t want that. Desire always comes with despair the way chicken comes with gravy – desire is the chicken and despair is the gravy. You try to think about politics, and poverty, and other things you don’t usually care about, but your mind continuously constructs the underwater tunnel from Manila Bay to the Boulevard – you imagine it dark and you find yourself take a glimpse through it, as if looking through a telescope – it’s a pipe and someone at the other end turns on a flashlight. You are, for a moment, blind and at the same time enlightened by your own certainty that it is Jacqueline holding the light at the other end. “Why now?” you ask yourself. Maybe because of the romantic lack of proximity that allows you to fantasize about a long-distance love affair ala Nelson Algren and Simone de Beauvoir …Maybe the rustic wooden flooring has the mystical ability to transport you to an older time, a time when courtship was not only a tradition, but a pre-requisite to consummation. This confusion reminds you of Jacqueline’s confusion at the end of the movie “Iron Man” (the movie you two last saw before you left for this writer’s workshop in Dumaguete) …“That’s it?” she asked at the roll of credits. It was a mall in Sta. Mesa, the one next to a motel trademarked with the face of a Japanese geisha. Yes, you remember. She had to get her measurements taken for a dress she was supposed to wear to a friend’s debut party. The designer had a shop nearby. “I guess there’s a sequel,” you said. “The movie is too short,” she insists. “That’s because you were late,” you said as you poked her sides …”Shhhh.” A person from a few seats behind called both your attention and you said, “Dude, the movie’s over” and you both laughed because it was, well, over. “I had to get my measurements taken,” she said. “You could have simply asked me.” You laughed.

34-27-37. If you had cable television, or a video game console, or air-conditioning you wouldn’t be thinking about Jacqueline’s vital stats. You wouldn’t be thinking of fire, or mythical fireproof firebirds. You wouldn’t be listening to rain or retreating inside your subconscious mind to look – like one would through a telescope – through a dark tunnel and find Jacqueline at the end of the light holding a flashlight. But, that is exactly what this place does. It puts your mind into focus, bypassing the usual mental clutter you gather in an average Manila day. How does the mind move in Manila? It flows like a jet-stream of neon colored gin-pomelo bursting through a damaged dam turbine. Unregulated. Inconsistent. Irascible. Much like your own temperament during most days. And when you lay in bed to contemplate on what consequences destiny has gift-wrapped for you, nothing really brings comfort. Only delirious memories of the beautiful people you have met in the ominous hours of the evening. Your head is down-dragged with illusions and fantasies of warm encounters. The pillow – trodden, beat like a fox-hole sandbag, bombarded by those pulsating romantic visions in your head. Memories and visions of spinning hats and pouring wine while hitting clubs dressed like a 60’s American gangster at The Fort. Or disco bowling night – checkered pants and afro wigs and dancing like crazy 70’s hippies …Here, you think of dancing to elevator music at the plaza where barangay ballroom dances are held, or sitting on a park bench and talking about philosophy with your sister while blowing bubbles, or taking swigs of tequila with a straw hat on at 5pm on a beach. The order by which sentiments and images and memories come into focus are disorganized and beautiful like water in a basin whirlpool you whirled as a child. “That’s because its life and life can fold and unfold into itself as it pleases, defiant of the arithmetic of a paper calendar,” you tell yourself …Then the lights go out. You declare a command. The same one God said at the beginning of time. “Let there be women.” Wrong command. A Freudian slip. “Light,” you say, “let there be light.” But, there was no light. So you get out of bed and you fumble for the Davao cottage door knob. A silent wish is made in your heart, and it said: Let this door lead to a woman’s room.

You go through the door and find yourself in a cul de sac, facing a wall that had a red arrow pointing to where there are stairs. Above the arrow was a sign that read: Fire Exit. You turn around. You turn around and find yourself in a mall, facing a bridge you thought you burned. A burnt bridge, a vexed woman, and you’re in a mall. “What do you want?” she asks. Faces fade in and fade out like past and future dream references. “What do you want?” She asks. So upon closer inspection, you realize that it’s Jacqueline. It’s Jacqueline standing in a movie line with a guy who smells like a barber’s comb. He smells like hair. When you met Jacqueline, she had glasses on and didn’t have those weird contact lenses or those streaks of golden hair. She was debating issue-based motions like a feisty little care bear telling some poor guy to Google the definition of ”narcotic”. That guy she was bullying reminds you of the guy she’s with now …On her freshman year in college, she was so efficient. You wouldn’t find her cheerleading, marching, trampling on imported soccer-grass or smoking Baguio gold grass. You’d find her in the library, highlighting school-owned books with orange, but only the relevant information. It’s the closest she will ever get to vandalism. She highlights important stuff like dates and stats and names. Unlike you who highlighted in green every “ass” and “asses” in every “mass” and “masses” word in Marx’s “Das Capital”. Green “asses”. That’s not something a utilitarian would do. Needless to say, you don’t believe in “the greatest good for the greatest number”. There is no utilitarian ideal for you. There is no pursuit of happiness. Your happiness is in regression. In rewind. To bloodstream backflow into infancy and naiveté. You were unwillingly severed from the body of a woman, reared and launched into a world and has since yearned to return into that most accommodating belly where you were disgorged from. “What do you want?” She says. “What do you want?” She says. “What do you want?” She says …and everything goes in rewind: ?tnaw uoy od tahw – you wake up and find yourself in the DLSU library with a green highlight marker in your hand. Jacqueline walks past you. You follow her to William Hall where there is a national debate. She’s loading up on general socio-political knowledge, working hard, stayed up late the previous night, shot up espresso. And in front of the big crowd during a crucial monologue that could have won the national debate title and could have plastered her face on those little posters scattered across the university that said “Proudly Lasallian”, she Freudian slips the phrase, “this policy, if implemented will provoke a revolt from the asses… masses, I meant, masses”. The audience thinks of farting and they laugh. A faulty government policy, like a fart inducing kamote. And you were there applauding in ovation, while her cheeks went warm into a lovely rouge. “And with that I end my argument”, she says and runs out of the auditorium confused whether she should laugh or cry or both because she was happy and embarrassed and victorious over the absurd seriousness of arguing for sport. You find her in the fire exit when you go there to smoke and to congratulate her for what you thought was the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen in a debate. It was funny and correct like a pun. And she was pretty when she blushed and when her eyes grew large after realizing her blunder. And she giggled on stage, in the debate microphone, giggled like a child and ended her argument and ran outside and sat on the staircase of a fire exit where you found her confused and flushed pink-embarrassed and happy for saying “asses”, the same “asses” you highlighted in green. You reach for her shoulder so you could say “hi” but found a doorknob instead. You walk out of your room and hear someone say, “Fuck! Brown out!” It’s probably one of your housemates. She never turns out her lights because her room is haunted …You sit on the couch and think of Jacqueline. She’s in Manila now. You are in love with her, now. In this rustic place, with its rustic wooden flooring, that transports you to romantic periods and places where one can fall in love. You are about to text her.

 

You reach inside your pocket, but instead of your cell phone you find panties. The lights go “on”. You are sitting on a different couch and a woman walks out of the bathroom. It’s Jacqueline. She walks over and hits you in the arm. She takes the panties from you. She says, “Those are mine!” You are confused. “What? Where?” She interrupts you mid-sentence and says, “I’ve been looking all over for these you pervert!” She sits on your lap, kisses you on the lips, and leans on your shoulder. “I missed you. How was Dumaguete?” She asks. “Well… I think I’m still there,” you say. “Huh?” She asks. You say, “Yeah.” “What do you like about that place?” She asks. You say, “There, I could fall in love… with you.” “Oh,” She says. She gets up, walks four feet and turns to you. “Why did you come back then?” She asked. You say, “Well… Because I missed you, I guess.” She walks away and opens the bathroom door but there was no bathroom inside. Just darkness. She says, “I would rather have not seen you again knowing that you loved me, than be able to fuck you every week believing that you didn’t.” She walks into the bathroom and the door closes. You say, “Wait!” and try to stop her. You run for the door. When you enter it, the people welcome you. “Why are you in such a hurry?” one of your fellows asked. He’s tall and Chinese but, he can speak Visayan …There is a poetry reading event inside. You are made to sit in the front row. There’s a woman there in violet who reads the first poem. You forge into your vision the features of her face – powder pale skin, razor edge cheekbones, and eyes that hint at the serene seduction of a silent slumber – the supple yearnings of a tender soul. Mathilde, yes, that was her name. You thought it would be perfect if she was your first wife. You could tell your children when and how you fell in love while she was reading poetry. After she reads there is a bizarre number with a woman singing and a bald man dancing to the lyrics, “I’ve been a bad, bad girl, I’ve been careless with a delicate man.” He dances with a shawl and runs around to the lyrics, “And it’s a sad, sad world, when a girl can break a boy just because she can.” It’s a breakup song and as if by some miracle of memory a dark cloud suddenly hovered over Mathilde and started to pour a steady spray of black ink. The bald man throws the shawl in the air to catch it with his head, but you and Mathilde lock gazes and time suddenly slows down as if people were underwater – the shawl in mid-air, the bald man in mid-air like a photograph of George Balanchine in mid-petit saut. Then you stand and hear yourself sing a song from the soundtrack of The Phantom of the Opera – “All I ask of You”.  You look at Mathilde and sing, “No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears; I’m here, nothing can harm you, my words will warm and calm you.” But, she turns away and sings her own The Phantom of the Opera song – “Think of Me”. She sings, “Think of me think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye remember me once in a while, please promise me you'll try…” When she walks out of the hall, you find yourself sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of a desert reading Lord Byron’s “When we two parted” from a scroll that suddenly disintegrates into sand and you find yourself in a desert and everything is dry and drained and the sky is pink and there are cacti all over like green howling monsters spread over the land to put you in a constant flux of dread. You keep walking looking for something, you don’t know what, just walking, walking, walking encumbered by the weight of your own shirt that absorbed half-a-ton of sweat draining you until you’re a skinny hanger of sorts and wet clothes were hung on you to dry in the desert sun. And then there’s a woman with her back to you and she says, “Why are you alone pilgrim?” …She doesn’t look, and her voice echoes, gentle and warm like the pink desert sky but the green cacti of dread are still howling with silence so deafening that even the wind or your pulse or your heartbeat can’t be heard. You ask, “Mathilde?” The woman’s voice is sinuous like an omen of an un-verbalized affirmation or a portent of an as-of-yet unknown belief …“Where are you headed, pilgrim?” The woman asks, with her back still turned. Now, she’s playing a violin which produces not melodious notes, but silence. There’s a ghastly epic muteness as if spaces were filled with transparent glass material and everyone is frozen, like little insects stuck in ember prison-crystals, where sound can’t travel. You tell the woman, “I would like to see my muse through an expanse of existence. Not in the past or in the future but in the eternity between them.” “Through time?” She asks. You say, “Yes, a pervading awareness of the beloved that extends from the moment of collision until the moment of separation.” “Are you thirsty?” She asks. “Yes...” Suddenly, you feel a wild urge to tell her you love her. “If I told you that I was madly in love with you would you believe me?” You ask. She says, “No... Are you thirsty?” “You say, “I don’t know.” She says, “It is impossible that you love me. We have not even met.” And then she disappears. You look around you. There’s nothing but the green cacti. The sand dunes. The sky pink and beating, like you’re inside a paroxysmal heart or an orgasmic cunt. You panic. Her voice comes thundering down, saying “Are you thirsty? Are you thirsty?” Louder and louder. “Are you thirsty? Are you thirsty?” You hide behind a cactus. It grows eyes. It looks at you and says, “The cunt is a crevice from where one can enter hell.” She appears again, a hundred feet tall. She spreads her legs and at the center is a galaxy with stars, and meteors, and gases, and black holes, and gravity. Gravity. Gravity pulling you in. She says, “You liar. You liar. You told me that you would like to visit every chamber of my psyche, traverse every inch of my body, and take shelter in the deepest trenches of my soul, here’s your chance.” You are sucked into her body. You shut your eyes and scream. You are trapped inside a pink, beating, underwater cave with thick mucous that burns your eyes. You close your eyes and struggle and swim through the cave where, like a tunnel, a dot of light is seen in the distance. You can’t breathe. Water goes into your lungs. You swim faster and struggle harder with your eyes closed, your eyes burning from the honey-like red mucous. You feel for the little dot of light and try to rip through it. You push your head through. Finally… air. You inhale. You open your eyes.

 

The next thing you see is a doctor’s torso. You look up and you see doctor feet in shiny leather shoes. You hear yourself crying. You cough, and feel water come out of your mouth. You look down and see a doctor’s face looking at you. Smiling at you. “Welcome to earth, kid.” He says. He takes you to the woman with a violin. You see her face, but it’s blurry. You realize you were just born. Your eyes haven’t developed yet. You try to reason with the doctor but, all your mouth can do is cry. Wild baby cries. The doctor tells the woman, “What will be his name?” She says, “He will not have one. He will not have one. He will not have one.” You focus your attention on her face. A white blur. You focus harder. Your eyes adjust and you realize that you’re staring at a fluorescent bulb. You still hear a crying baby, but not your own cries. It is more distant, a cry from the next room. There is someone singing in the next room “Say you'll love me every waking moment; turn my head with talk of summertime. Say you need me with you now and always; promise me that all you say is true, that's all I ask of you...” She’s singing her baby a lullaby. The crying stops. A woman enters the room and turns on the light. “He’s asleep… for now,” she says. You are delighted. It is Mathilde. You try to recall the features of the face you forged into your vision – powder pale skin, razor edge cheekbones, and eyes that hint at the serene seduction of a silent slumber – the supple yearnings of a tender soul. Mathilde, yes, it’s Mathilde. She lies next to you and shares the blanket. “Where are we?” you ask. “What do you mean?” she asks. You suddenly realize that neither of you can make statements, only questions. “Are we married?” you ask. “Did we not get married at the Cathedral of Saint Catherine?” she asks. “But, didn’t I dislike that place because the aisle was so long that the bride could change her mind halfway and run back and sprain her ankle because the churchyard pavement is made from coral stones?” you ask. “But, didn’t you change your mind because you thought it was ironic, because according to legend, the name of this city is ‘Dumaguete’ because it came from the word ‘dagit’ which meant ‘catch’ and that was the church where, years ago, the women would run to for sanctuary when the pirates came to take them?” she asks. “But where did the flowers come from?” you ask. “Didn’t you order them from a little place called ‘Panyings Flower Shop’ because you said we didn’t have enough money, even though I had money and you were speaking for yourself?” she asks. You both lay on your side and look at each others eyes and you keep asking her endless questions that could be answered by questions because you didn’t want to fall asleep, because you were afraid that you would wake up somewhere else, because you were afraid she would be gone, because this might be the closest you will ever get to her, because you were afraid of fire, because there was a mystical fireproof bird, because the traffic was heavy, because you ran out of batteries …“Because you ran out of batteries. You didn’t call for three weeks because you ran out of batteries?” Jacqueline asked. You are shocked. You look at her. “Look out!” You swerve to the right. You almost hit a parked tricycle. You realize you’re driving. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks. You say, “Nothing.” She has those feisty Chinese eyes. You smile. You tell her, “You look great. I love the green necklace.” “You should. You gave them to me. Did you even pick them out yourself?” she asks. You are puzzled. “I did?” You ask yourself. You look at her. You ask her, “Where are we going again, love?” She smiles. She hits your arm with a playful punch. “Oh, stop it.” She says and smiles. You glance back at her. She’s gorgeous. She gently pushes your chin with a forefinger. “Keep your eyes on the road.” She says. You are in Quezon City circle. The heart of the city. You are driving around the circumference of the endless fence enclosing Manuel L. Quezon’s monument. But, the usual roads are gone. As if the veins have been amputated from the heart and the heart beats alone pumping blood to a vacuum of space. There is nowhere to go. One by one the vehicles disappear and your car accelerates. You look at her again. The car moves faster. You grab her hand and kiss it. You let go of the wheel. “Keep your eyes on the road.” She says, but this time, she doesn’t move your face. You step off the gas pedal, but the car still accelerates on top gear. You move to the backseat. The car runs faster. She goes to the backseat with you. “Keep your eyes on the road,” she says and kisses you. The car hits something. The sound is deafening. You fly through glass. You think it’s the windshield. Glass is everywhere floating with you in slow-motion so slow that you can actually count the shards. You fly through more glass sheets and a cottage window. You fly through a car windshield, and through a cottage window, and land on a bed …You are in a wooden shack with housemates who like to smoke. From your bed you could observe the smoke crawl in, from the gap beneath and between the bottom of the door and the wooden floor, like a fog of fleas. Then the lights go out. You get out of bed and fumble in the darkness for the Davao cottage door knob. You find it. You open it and find only darkness. And there’s a sense of distance, as if everything you knew, you know, and you will come to know is so far away. Your heart races at the thought of what could happen once you step out of the room and into that funnel of infinite possibility. You think for a moment. You take a deep breath. Then you dive into the dark distance.

[End]

I've decided to post excerpts from my unfinished works to seek inspiration and encouragement and validation and love and strenght to finish the damn monstrosities. I send them out like little random prayers. May they one day be finished.

UST Press has recently released a really awesome book:

Aguila, A., Arriola, J., Wigley, J. (2008). Philippine Literatures: text, themes, approaches. Manila: UST Publishing House

 -- a book that approaches local literature with more of a thematic approach than the traditional historical approach we (me, at least) have all grown sick of (I took the subject twice, once in DLSU and then in UP [not because I failed but because UP asked me to because I wasn't a Literature Major {I don't get it, either}]).

Here's my current syllabus. The book was so awesome that I even used the goals of the book as course goals and the chapters from the book as subject headings. I hope no one sues me.

Technically, since I am using it as a textbook it's only fitting that the book and the course have the same goals.

It's going well so far, much better than when I tried to teach "post-colonial" literature (of course. One can't really teach something one doesn't even like):

PHILIPPINE LITERATURE IN ENGLISH

Course Syllabus

Course Code

PHILLIT

Description

This course offers a study of Philippine Literature using a thematic approach that accommodates different perspectives of the Filipino experience.

Objectives

General:

This course is designed to empower the students with the ability to comprehend and participate in the evolution and progress of building a cultural identity through the study and appreciation of Philippine Literature.

Specific:

At the end of the term, the students are expected to:

Comprehend and be able to comment on various literary texts that show aspects of the Filipino condition intersecting with four universal human experiences, namely birth, sex, love, and death.

learn the various literary forms, devices, movements, and historical issues that give rise to the expression of the Philippine experience and sensibilities in a non-native language;

understand the social, cultural, historical, and political values engendered in the texts as a basis of the Filipino identity; and

examine texts using applicable theoretical paradigms and be able write critical papers and produce creative output.

Prerequisite

RESWRIT (Research Writing)

Course Credits

Three (3) units

Instructional Strategies

Reading of selections, lectures, group discussions, reports, reaction papers, book reviews, recitations, examinations

Course Outline

I. The Filipino Man

Male Myth in Mass Media

a. "Mill of the Gods," by Estrella Alfon.

Man as a Cultural Construct

b. "To the Man I Married" by Angela Manalang-Gloria

c. "The Spouse" by Luis Dato.

d. "The Beautiful Woman with a Bruised Lip" by Dustin Edward D. Celestino (attempts at deconstructing the male myth)

e. "The Liaison Manager" by Marguerite Alcazaren De Leon (more attempts at deconstructing the male myth)

II. The Filipino Woman

Myth as metaphor, symbol, and archetype

a. "Alusina and Tungkung Langit" adapted by F. Landa Jocano

Reading Woman as "Demon"

b. "Woman With Horns" by Cecilia Manguera Brainard

c. "The Siren" an excerpt from "The Art of Seduction" by Robert Greene.

d. "Summer Solstice" by Nick Joaquin

 

III. The Filipino Family

Interrogating Media’s Concept of Motherhood

a. "Claudia and Her Mother" by Rolando Tinio

The Family at the Vortex of Migration and Diaspora

b. "Mats" by Francisco Arcellana

c. "Breaking Through" by Myrna Pena Reyes

IV. Filipino Traditions

The World of Tradition According to Nick Joaquin

a. "May Day Eve" by Nick Joaquin

V. Exploring Filipino Humor

A. The Comedy of Errors: The Errors of Comedy

a. "My Own Theory of Devolution" by Jessica Zafra

b. "My Brother’s Peculiar Chicken" by Alejandro Roces

VI. Spirituality and the Filipino

Putting Spirituality to the Test

a. "Is It the Kingfisher?" by Marjorie Evasco

b. "The Distance to Andromeda" by Gregorio Brillantes

VII. Discovering Philippine Aesthetics

The Supremacy of Beauty

a. "Romancing the Malong" by Christine Gordinez-Ortega

b. "Four Values in Filipino Drama and Film" by Nicanor Tiongson

c. "Nina’s Ascent to the Universe" by Jose Wendell Capili

 

Requirements

2 Long exams

a. Midterm Exam

b. Finals Exam

3 Critical Papers

c. Paper 1 (Individual): "The Social Constructs of a Filipino (Man, Female, or Family) and how it has (Affected, Molded, or Influenced) my Identity.

d. Paper 2 (Group): Analysis of a short story or poem written by a Filipino.

i. Summary

ii. Theme

iii. Style

1. Setting

2. POV

e. Paper 3 (Individual): Short Story or Personal Essay

Project

f. Midterm Project (Group): 10-20 minute screenplay.

g. Final Project (Group): 10-20 minute Short Film.

References

Aguila, A., Arriola, J., Wigley, J. (2008). Philippine Literatures: text, themes, approaches. Manila: UST Publishing House

Grading System

Critical papers 30% 150

Midterm/Final Project 30% 150

Long examinations 20% 100

Class Participation 20% 100

___________

100% 500

 

*Yep, I included my own story, not because I am particularly proud of it, but because it backtracks to a traditional code of manliness -- the Katipunan Code of Conduct -- and validates the theory that the male constructs considered to be the norm are, in fact, idealized, unattainable myths.

One of my students asked me to contribute a piece about nufity to their magazine. I said "okay", but was then swamped by deadlines a few days later. I wrote this a day before the agreed deadline. It is, in my opinion, decent but it could have been better. I did agree to send another, better, piece if they needed one again. But, currently, this was the piece to be printed:

 

A Cordial Letter to Future Man

By Dustin Edward D. Celestino

 

Hello, stranger. If you are reading this right now, you must be a person from the future. So I will call you, Future Man. As I am writing this, it is the year 2008. As of this writing, I am 24 years old. By the time this document is read, I’ll probably be old or dead.

I write from the past generation – a generation that was raised with television and blatant commercial propagandas which endorsed consumerism, materialism, and credit cards. Yes, I am from the Age of Information.

The information age, by the way, was a period in history after the industrial age. Since it has been hundreds of years since the industrial revolution, you might not have an idea on what it was like. In a nutshell, it was an age where people created mechanical tools that allowed them to exist with minimal physical effort – cars, railroads and lifting machines.

It was the first cause of the biological degeneration of the human body. The conveniences provided by machinery has altered the human body and produced a wave of physical weaklings. What used to be big arms and solid grips with which men used to handle manual equipment were transmuted into long nimble fingers for pressing buttons. They were a generation of people who had minimal motor skills. But, they survived. Their ingenious machines have compensated for their lack.

I was not part of that generation.

I was part of the generation after that. We were the unfortunate generation spawned by the physical weaklings of the industrial age. Our era was able to create a super machine – the Internet – that gave people the ability to communicate, learn and shop from the comforts of one’s own couch.

It was the second cause of the biological degeneration of the human body. The Internet has altered the human body and has produced a new wave of more physically inferior beings. What used to be lean leg muscles used for climbing stairs in office buildings and running after public utility vehicles during the commute were replaced by fat thighs and big buttocks to protect the tailbone from the stress of sitting for long periods of time.

The mind was not required to function as much because everything one needed to know was one click away. We had thick thumbs for text messaging, an affinity for fast food delivery, an impaired sense of humor, and a heightened sense of irony.

From this post-adolescent age, 24 (not old and not young; the age equivalent of limbo), I have come to realize that human beings have a tendency to produce things that handicap and impede the natural evolution of the next generation.

I can only assume that a lot of things have changed since this letter has been written. I can only guess, speculate; theorize about the aspects of your life in the future. But, I do have one prediction:

"People from the future have no bodies."

Again, I cannot know this for I am writing from the past. But, there is a trend that would probably lead to you not having a body at all, Future Man. I know this because it was my generation of physical and mental weaklings who have reduced the idea of a body to a dirty handicap – like a wound, or a tumor, or a scab.

But, we didn’t do it on purpose.

This is both an attempt to speak the truth and restore (although it is inevitable that you will be driven to rid yourself of flesh) the human being made of flesh.

Future Man, you are the human race’s only hope.

In the beginning, people were made of flesh – flesh that was biologically pre-disposed to have an affinity for flesh. Yes, you might have a new scientific term for this phenomenon. Back in my day, we called it lust.

No, Future Man, lust is not evil.

Lust was designed by nature in order to allow the species that exists within it to survive and replicate. Yes, it has always been like that. Yes, since the beginning of time.

See, men were designed to be attracted to women who looked as if they’re ready to rear children – developed mammary glands, proportioned waist-hip ratio, etc. Women were designed to be attracted to men who looked as if they could protect and provide for her offspring. In this way nature ensures that good genes survive, pairing up beings with favorable genes and getting rid of the rest. It’s called Natural Selection.

So far, so good?

From these attractive preferences, people have built an aesthetic – what is considered beautiful: The female body that looks inclined to rear children and the male body that looks prepared to fight off predators.

When one is around these images, one experiences pleasure. In order to sustain that feeling, artists have created a type of visual art -- the nude. It was a visual work of art depicting the naked human figure. The audience response to the work, whether it was positive (aesthetic pleasure) or negative (carnal desire), was of little concern as long as the authorial intention (the intention of the artist) was geared towards the creation or simulation of beauty.

Whether carnal desire had anything to do with the artwork, the author, or the audience was not a problem. Carnal desire has always been a fertile source of creative inspiration and was, after all, a natural tendency.

Then it happened.

The fall of the human body began when the nude body gained economic value. Since then, nudity has been commercialized. Nudity has turned into a product and thrown into the market. Nudity was sold, rented out, mortgaged, bought, patronized, idolized, exploited, and traded until the aesthetic value of nude depictions had been overshadowed by its own economic potential.

Soon there were naked pictures, naked movies, naked people, naked cartoon characters, naked 3d-characters, naked videogames, naked news, naked superstars, naked here, naked there, naked, naked everywhere, until the market was flooded with naked this, and naked that.

The body has become a commodity, a commercial product, like lottery tickets, cheeseburgers, nail polish, cosmetic products, junk food, condiments, chewing gum, action figures, Starbucks, McDonalds and other money generating cash-cows.

Should we blame the public of my generation for patronizing such products? I don’t think so. As we have mentioned before, we were naturally inclined towards pleasure, both aesthetic and carnal, it was not a conscious decision on our part but Nature’s primal recommendation.

That was not where my generation went wrong, Future Man.

Should we blame the producers of my generation for making nude products? I don’t think so. The system we lived in at the time, has given its citizens an ultimatum: either you thrive in whatever industry, endeavor, business, enterprise, you can find, or not eat and die.

What should be blamed, however, was our carelessness.

We have unwittingly trivialized what used to be one of the most beautiful images in the world – a disarming symbol of human vulnerability (is there anything more honest than a naked body?) – into a quick fix for human urges.

Soon enough, the market was saturated with porn, with nudity and with naked men and women fornicating. Not only that, nudity has also become a vehicle for male, female, and youth exploitation. Since we lived in a system with a very unremitting ultimatum – either we thrive in whatever endeavor way we can find, or starve – many men, women, and children were soon driven to shed their clothing, expose themselves, and subject their bodies to dehumanizing objectification.

 

As of this writing, human beings still have bodies; I am still alive and not yet old; a European is in the Philippines making "Asian" porn; a young man in his teens is downloading porn with his father’s credit card; a prostituted woman is on her way home from "work"; Diwata Rosanes gives birth and a new porn star is born into the family business; My generation is still alive and unwell.

Soon there would be franchises like McNaked, Starfucks, and Jolliboobs…

Then you, Future Man, would slowly create a social construct that would distort the human body and see it as a cheap thrill – something vulgar, shameful, base, dirty, stinky, used.

You will find a way to extract the mind from the body, install it in a complicated network of wires and enclose it in a metal electronic box. You will be a conscious electronic box. Back in my day, we called things like that – television. But, it’s okay Future Man, my generation loved television too.

At least you can now rid yourself of the weak, obese, cholesterol infested bodies that – assuming the degenerating biological trend continues – you have developed from the wonderful fast food, junk food, downloading, uploading, and reloading systems you have inherited from us.

Now, you’ll never be naked.

So, I'm teaching again. So far, I love it. I love it! I don't have classes earlier than noon. I got a bunch of grammar classes, but, I have a 3x a week class of World Literature.

What a fucking privilege it is to teach World Lit. I mean, World lit is like the literature of the world. That is a lot of options. AND I get to pick what I teach. Awesome.

For the remainder of the term I chose: FICTION.

Poetry & Drama were discussed earlier in the term by Ronald. Then he quit. So, I changed our curriculum -- Modern Literature:

Wow! Wow!

My first lecture on the topic was a little shaky. My students keep on asking why we're studying the four fathers of modernism. I don't want to waste my time trying to justify why we are learning, Freud, Darwin, Marx, and Nietzsche. To be honest, I believe, any cultured person should be aware of these four people and how they have influenced HUMAN THOUGHT.

To humor my students, I will answer the question: "Sir, why are we studying psychology and the theory of evolution? Shouldn't we be studying literature?"

So here:

Dear Students,

In order to have, at least, a minimal understanding of the modernist texts we are about to tackle, we need a proper foundation as to what modernism is about. The modern period is very critical because it is an orgasm of paradigm shifts:

Freud inverted the binary of conscious and sub-conscious thought [the sub influences the con, not the other way around] and has paved the way for psychoanalytic literary criticism, which brought forth the notion of an unreliable narrator -- without sufficient knowledge of Freud or the notion of an unreliable narrator, you would probably think that Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart" is a badly written story "that, not only is completely unbelievable, it also doesn't fucking make sense".

Also, without background of Freud and the id, you might conclude that D. H. Lawrence's characters are inherently evil and irrational, failing to understand the psychological drives that motivate their acts -- with knowledge of Freud, you might be able to catch why most of Lawrence's female protagonists inavertedly humiliate and torment their men, and come up with answers like:

1) Subversion due to penis envy,

2) Disordered Eros -- or the mis-channeling of libidinal energy -- from a desire to cause an object of affection pleasure to a desire to cause him/her pain,

3) Dissipation of Eros, thus pushing the drive to a different extreme -- the death instinct or thanatos drive -- whose direct manifestation is sadism,

4) Dissipation of the body -- the body has begun to age and has become a "prison" and therefore there is an instinct towards death justified by a desire return to a pre-organic, inanimate state [which makes them want to provoke the men to hurt them].

Instead of:

1) Uhm... Sir, I don't know.

2) Women are emotional so they do crazy shit.

3) They're bored.

Students, we're just at the tip of our fathers of modernism iceberg. I wanted to give justification for each, but I still have to make your lesson plan and I believe I have made my point. Anyway, we study Marx for his concept of Alienation -- one of the most popular contemporary themes [Palahniuk's "Fight Club", Bukowski's "The Office", Camus' "The Stranger", Coupland's "Microserfs" and "Generation-x" and a shitload more.

We study Darwin because of his influence on naturalism, and writers such as Zola and Hemingway.

We study Neitzsche because he is the father of nihilismm, moral relativism, truth and falsity in the ultramoral sense.

Our selection will include: James Joyce -- truth, falsity, and symbol in "Araby", Ernest Hemingway -- Naturalism in "The Killers", D. H. Lawrence -- Frued and the "Fantasia of the unconscious", and Franz Kafka -- Alienation in "The Metamorphosis".

-- Dustin Celestino

See? I know what I'm doing. Trust me, dammit! Let us not base your opinion of me on that miserable Hamlet lecture I wasn't prepared for. Peace! :)

Check out our experimental short film, "ULTRA" sa Youtube. Also check out "THE LEVIATHAN". Both short films were written and directed by Whammy Alcazaren ;)

Okay. Dumaguete. That was quite a ride. I was told by more than a dozen people how stories need to have a plot. Yeah, I think it's slowly sinking in:


Lesson # 1: You can't get away with language alone.

"In order for a story to become a story, one needs a series of events that would become the plotline."


You, my dear reader, might be thinking: "You didn't know that?"

Well, actually I did. I just wanted to see how far I could push things. In one of my stories this was my intricate plotline:

"One girl tells one boy that she has cancer. He contemplates the idea of death for around 20 pages. Then they have sex. Then she leaves."

Not very intricate. Of course, I was being sarcastic. Duh?

Another one was:

"A guy sits on a monobloc chair and contemplates for 30 pages how his former lover used to fuck him. Then he realizes that something of great relevance has occured -- while still sitting on a monobloc chair."

Basically, NOTHING happened in the story.

I have another one written in Dumaguete:

"A guy feels an irrational fear of fire and starts to speculate [hahaha! I just remembered something... Yeah, Hi Specky] anyway, he decides to speculate about the future...

That's it. That's the story.

But, I can make plots. I swear!

I was once able to construct a plot that included: Rizal, a senile old man, the katipunan, an abused wife, and a Jollibee mascot... Whatever, who cares?


Basically, all my stories for this workshop... well... sucked. My only saving grace is that I was constantly reassured about my "eloquence":

Eloquence - Noun
The quality of artistry and persuasiveness in speech or writing.

So, lesson number one:

The next story I write should have a plot.


Lesson # 2: If you're jumping off a cliff, make sure you don't land on shallow water with a sea bed of sharp corals underneath.

This one is self-evident, I think. I learned a lot about common sense. Lambert, one of the fellows from Dumaguete has a shit load of common sense. In a drunken conversation he said:

"Nike should sponsor farmers. They pay Kobe millions of dollars cos he could 'dunk'? They pay Pacquaio millions because he beats people up? Actors cos they look cute? Farmers make food! Food! Dammit! The weird think about the world is that the most useless shit are the most expensive ones."

At the top of the cliff, I thought:

"Fuck, I'm going to die if I jump... and then a tiny voice inside my head said, 'So what if you do?', I didn't have an answer... so I jumped. My life is bullshit anyway."

In mid-air:

"Dustin, this is it. You are going to die. This is the dumbest death ever. And of all the things you could think about you think of who would weep most upon your death. And in your head was a vision of a line like that from a grocery store with shopping carts and shit, and you're at the counter evaluating the faces of every woman you have ever been emotionally and/or physically intimate with, trying to figure out who would actually weep at your funeral and who would judge you and who wouldn't care."

Upon landing (from the perspective of a fish):

"There was a splash, a big splash. A big mound of flesh fell from the sky and destroyed our home... with his back. There were bubbles and the mound of flesh was making weird sounds like: 'Ouch!!' Then it floated and drifted away, unaware of the havoc it caused... a natural disaster."

First words that came out of my mouth:

"Fuck. Natakot ako."

First words I hear:

"You are bleeding."

Epiphany:

No matter how lousy you think your life is... Trust me. You would rather be alive than dead. Self-preservation is your natural instinct, reader.


Lesson # 3: If you stay in one house for 3 weeks with the same woman, there is a very high probability that you will develop feelings her. Well... if she's hot.

No, I am not "in love". I hate that word. It's stupid. It's not something you can fall in and out of -- like a fucking baby's crib. Even if I were, I wouldn't admit it. Not here, at least. But, yeah. I've always told everyone I know that love is bullshit and here is the metaphor I usually used:

"If I locked you up in the same room with a random stranger of your sexual preference for a year... You will develop feelings for her. There is no 'one' special person."

Now, I know that the metaphor also succeeds on a literal level. Not to trivialize anything though... it feels fucking good. So, does that mean that love is a shallow concept that only idiots talk about? I don't know. Who cares?

I would eat bull shit if it tastes good.

Wouldn't you? More people should talk about bullshit. Bullshit is good soimetimes. It's definitions that fuck people up. Good, bad, normal, weird, common, stupid, wise... What's all these for? If you really want to communicate in the most genuine way... words are the last things you will need.

Yeah, at the risk of sounding like a wuss and losing my street credibility, I must admit that...

No, I changed my mind.

The fastest way to mis-communicate is to say something.


Lesson # 3: Stop thinking, analyzing, rationalizing, justifying... etc. Just live.

I never thought I would, but, yeah. I came back happy. That was the best 3 weeks ever. Leaving the "barn" [the cottage we lived in] was heartbreaking. It was a lifestyle I would have wanted to live longer. With the people I have grown fond of and learned to love with all their flaws and quirks.

Dear 47th Dumaguete National Workshop Fellows,

I love you. Literally. Not like, when you say "I love you" just to get sex from a hottie, or money from a relative, or forgiveness from a vexed lover. But, really. I do. This was a really awesome experience.

Lesson # 4: Just because you are using dialogue that sounds as if it was ripped-off a bad com-arts student's film thesis, doesn't mean it's not sexy.

This is sort-of an inside joke that could possibly transcend it's current genre if you, too, my dear reader, have been in a similar situation when you are so disoriented that you just say the cheesiest stuff and mean it. Like sincere naive questions... Except that what I am talking about are statements, inquiries, and suggestions ...Or those times when you are so bored you just do say something completely off the wall for kicks which you actually meant, but the pure absurdity of the message, comment, or statement conceals this fact. Sound familiar? Fine. Here it is. What can I say? I am a writer. I don't have the luxury of discretion.

Text message:

"Hey ________, I'm so bored that there's an irrational urge in me right now to bite you... & tell you about this particular strange inclination & stare at you at length in order to amuse myself by documenting your growing discomfort."

Reaction:

Laughter...


Lesson # 5: You have discovered your super-secret special ability in Dumaguete... after you realized that you sucked as a person.

It's okay that your narratives suck, Dustin. Most of them sound like blog entries like this one.

Quoting one of your most loved friends:

"Your fiction is a tedious, well-written whine about failed relationships or a long, well-written boast about all the sex you've had."

Apparently, you suck as a person and an artist too, Dustin:

"Your choice of material is shallow."

That was true.

"You speak with a contrived, pretentious, self-aggrandizing accent."

Very true.

"You've built some man-made golden calf idol to replace yourself in order to be accepted by a bunch of your male friends to engage in 'activities' that involve seducing pretty-looking but shallow girls"

Yes, quite true.

"All you talked about and gloated about were girls, and clubs, and dates, and writing frenzies."

Guilty.

[Dear reader, I'm not fishing for compliments. If you don't think I'm this person who gloats about chicks, you are entitled to your opinion, but... it doesn't have to be heard on this entry. Keep to your peace and your romanticized, unscathed, idealized image of me to yourself. It's nice that you think I'm cool. Thank you. But, there are reasons why I wrote this down and I don't want this act to be trivialized as a pity party. Comprende? Thank you :)]

It's okay, Dustin. You can feel good about yourself now that you have discovered you secret-super-special ability:

You can see the truth in your dreams --

But, only the inconsequential truths that exist before historical events occur.

Like that dream you had about a piece of clipped nose-hair falling on a sink. You discover later that this piece of clipped nose-hair belonged to the guy who drove a plane into the twin towers.

There was also a time that you dreamt of a cow in the meadow. Apparently, you find out later that, that cow in the meadow was where the AIDS virus came from [http://www.conspiracyplanet.com].

And there was a time when you dreamt that you were lighting a cigarette with your lighter. Apparently, you will jumnp off a cliff five minutes later, and not die, and be happy however trivial your near-death experience was.

That's how your life is. A series of inconsequential, trivial, shallow events. Like your plot lines. Over-intellectualized random occurences that are boring, mundane, and ordinary -- inconsequential, meaningless, trivial storylines where nothing of relevance happens. But, it doesn't matter right now. Nothing does.

And there's an image engraved in your memory -- a descent from a high place where there is nothing to hope for but the concrete ground, at least a nice place to die on -- the end of anticipation and anxiety of pain.

But, the dumb thing is... There is something to hope for. Always. However trivial, non-universal, irrelevant, shallow, inconsequential --

I actually have something to hope for. I hope I make it alive tomorrow so i can go to McDonald's at 11am and ponder with an amazing person what to do with the rest of existence.

Yeah. Today, bullshit tastes good :)

Peace!

--Dustin

I'm in Dumaguete. Wala kaming TV. Hahahaha!

Who Should Paint You: Andy Warhol You've got an interested edge that would be reflected in any portrait
You don't need any fancy paint techniques to stand out from the crowd!

Your Scholastic Strength Is Deep Thinking You aren't afraid to delve head first into a difficult subject, with mastery as your goal.
You are talented at adapting, motivating others, managing resources, and analyzing risk.

You should major in:

Philosophy
Music
Theology
Art
History
Foreign language

Your Seduction Style: The Charismatic You're beyond seductive, you're downright magnetic!
You life live and approach seduction on a grand scale.
You have an inner self confidence and energy that most people lack
It's these talents that make you seem extraordinary - and you truly are!

You Are 72% Sociopath The good news is that you're devastatingly charming.
The bad news? You mostly use those charms for evil!

What Your Dreams Mean... Your dreams seem to show that you're a bit disturbed... but nothing serious.

You may have a problem you're trying to work out in your sleep.

Your dreams tend to reflect your insecurities.

You have a very vivid imagination and a rich creative mind.

You secretly want to hide your dreams from your waking mind.

Your Personality Is Like Acid A bit wacky, you're very difficult to predict.
One moment you're in your own little happy universe...
And the next, you're on a bad trip to your own personal hell!

At your best: You understand the world completely, and every ordinary experience is sublime.

What people like about being around you: You say and do the craziest things. You're very entertaining.

What people dislike about being around you: You're unpredictable. Your mood swings are quite intense.

How addicted people get to you: They pretty much don't get addicted to you.

Your Love Type: ENTP The Visionary

In love, you are always trying to improve and grow your relationship.
For you, sex should be a spontaneous adventure.

Overall, you are magnetic, inspiring, and a charmer.
However, you tend to get bored and want to change partners frequently.

Best matches: INFJ and INTJ

Your Anti Climactic Fortune Deep into your future, I forsee: A boring romantic encounter

You Are the Ego You take a balanced approach to your life.
You definitely aren't afraid to act out on your desires - even crazy ones.
But you usually think first. Morals drive you as much as hedonism does.
You've been able to live a life of pleasure... without living a life of excess.

he Movie Of Your Life Is A Cult Classic

Quirky, offbeat, and even a little campy - your life appeals to a select few. But if someone's obsessed with you, look out! Your fans are downright freaky. Your best movie matches: Office Space, Showgirls, The Big Lebowski

Your Seduction Style: Fantasy Lover You know that ideal love that each of us dreams of from childhood? That's you!
Not because you posess all of the ideal characteristics, but because you are a savvy shape shifter.
You have the uncanny ability to detect someone's particular fantasy... and make it you.

You inspire each person to be an idealist and passionate, and you make each moment memorable
Even a simple coffee date with you can be the most romantic moment of someone's life
By giving your date exactly what he or she desires, you quickly become the ideal lover.

Your abilities to make dreams come true is so strong, that you are often the love of many people's lives.
Your ex's (and even people you have simply met or been friends with) long to be yours.
No doubt you are the one others have dreamed of... your biggest challenge is finding *your* dream lover.

Your Career Type: Artistic You are expressive, original, and independent.
Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art.

You would make an excellent:

Actor - Art Teacher - Book Editor
Clothes Designer - Comedian - Composer
Dancer - DJ - Graphic Designer
Illustrator - Musician - Sculptor

The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary.

You Are a Newborn Soul

You are tolerant, accepting, and willing to give anyone a chance. On the flip side, you're easy to read and easily influenced by others. You have a fresh perspective on life, and you can be very creative. Nonconformist and nontraditional, you've never met anyone who's like you. Inventive and artistic, you like to be a trendsetter. You have an upbeat spirit and you like almost everything. You make friends easily and often have long standing friendships. Impulsive and trusting, you fall in love a little too easily. Souls you are most compatible with: Bright Star Soul and Dreaming Soul

Your Five Variable Love Profile Propensity for Monogamy:

Your propensity for monogamy is low.
You see love as a gift that you should give to many.
It's hard for you to imagine being with one person at at time...
Let alone one person for the rest of your life!

Experience Level:

Your experience level is high.
You've loved, lost, and loved again.
You have had a wide range of love experiences.
And when the real thing comes along, you know it!

Dominance:

Your dominance is low.
This doesn't mean you're a doormat, just balanced.
You know a relationship is not about getting your way.
And you love to give your sweetie a lot of freedom.

Cynicism:

Your cynicism is medium.
You'd like to believe in true and everlasting love...
But you've definitely been burned enough to know better.
You're still an optimist, but you also are a realist.

Independence:

Your independence is high.
You don't need to be in love, and sometimes you don't even want love.
Having your own life is very important for you...
Even more important than having a relationship.

THIS IS BEGINNING TO BE PATHETIC. HAHAHAHA! I AM SO BORED....

Your Quirk Factor: 90% You're beyond quirky... You're downright bizarre.
You've lost touch with social norms and what's appropriate. And you're loving every minute of it!

People Envy Your Ingenuity You're a person with unique ideas, big plans, and a zany outlook on life. Many people look to you for inspiration.
People envy your creativity and "who cares?" attitude. They feel very ordinary next to you - and they usually are!

You Are Destined to Rule the World You have the makings of a very evil dictator...
Which is both kind of cool and kind of scary!
Will you rule the world? Maybe. Maybe not.
But at least you know that you could.

Your Theme Song is Beautiful Day by U2 "Sky falls, you feel like
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away"

You see the beauty in life, especially in ordinary everyday moments.
And if you're feeling down, even that seems a little beautiful too.

You Have A Type A- Personality

You are one of the most balanced people around Motivated and focused, you are good at getting what you want You rule at success, but success doesn't rule you. When it's playtime, you really know how to kick back Whether it's hanging out with friends or doing something you love! You live life to the fullest - incorporating the best of both worlds

Your Love Style is Eros For you, love is all about the passion!
And chances are, you're currently in love.
You have a strong physical response to love...
And you are great at committing
(As long as the person makes your toes curl!)

American Cities That Best Fit You: 70% Chicago

70% New York City

60% Philadelphia

55% Boston

55% Los Angeles

What Your Soul Really Looks Like You are quite expressive and thoughtful. You see the world in a way that others are blind to.

You are a very grounded, responsible, and realistic person. People may not want to hear the truth from you, but they're going to get it.

You see yourself with pretty objective eyes. How you view yourself is almost exactly how other people view you.

Your near future is all about change, but in very small steps. The end of the journey looks far, but it's much closer than you realize.

For you, falling in love has never been easy. You can only fall for someone who is very patient and persistent.

DUSTIN, DON'T YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO? "NOT REALLY".

You Are An ENTP

The Visionary You are charming, outgoing, friendly. You make a good first impression. You possess good negotiating skills and can convince anyone of anything. Happy to be the center of attention, you love to tell stories and show off. You're very clever, but not disciplined enough to do well in structured environments. In love, you see everything as a grand adventure. You enjoy taking risks for love. And if things don't work out, you're usually not too much worse for the wear! You would make a great entrepreneur, marketing executive, or actor. At work, you need a lot of freedom to pursue your own path and vision. How you see yourself: Analytical, creative, and peaceful When other people don't get you, they see you as: Detached, wishy-washy, and superficial

You May Be a Bit Antisocial... Antisocial? That may be a bit of an understatement.
You think rules are meant to be broken - and with gusto!
Having no fear, you don't even think about consequences.
But people love you anyway... you've got a boatload of charm.

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well.
An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly.
You are also good at remembering information and convincing someone of your point of view.
A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary.

You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

Your Birthdate: October 12 You are certain and confident when you choose to love someone.
Even though your romantic choices may be unconventional - you stand behind them.
Your friends never know you as well as a romantic partner does.

Number of True Loves You'll Have: 4

Number of Times You'll Have Your Heart Broken: 1

You are most compatible with people born on the 3rd, 12th, 21st, and 30th of the month.

Your Personality is Very Rare (INTP) Your personality type is goofy, imaginative, relaxed, and brilliant.

Only about 4% of all people have your personality, including 2% of all women and 6% of all men
You are Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Perceiving.

THEY GOT THE "I" WRONG.

Your Mind is 11% Cluttered Your mind is clear, focused, and downright zen like.
You have the amazing ability to almost completely control your thoughts.
Are you sure you're human?

Your Personality at 35,000 Says... Deep down, you prefer spending time alone to spending time with others. You enjoy thinking more than talking.

You don't spend much time thinking about your place in the world. You are who you are - and people can just deal with that!

Your gift is having a good eye. You take amazing picture and have the natural talent for most visual arts.

You are inspired by great thinkers and heroes. You find human accomplishment riveting.

Your life has a lot of ups and downs, but things generally end up being pretty positive. It's one big emotional roller coaster, that's for certain.

You Are Upper Class Class isn't always about money, and you've at least got the brains, manners, and interests of an upper class person.
You don't have a trashy bone in your body, and you don't pretend to be someone you're not.
You're comfortable with your station in life, and class issues don't really bother you.
The finest things in life are within your reach, and you're comfortable enjoying them.

You may end up: A business leader, corporate lawyer, or philanthropist

Other people who share your class: Bill Gates, Oprah, former world leaders like Bill Clinton, and those reclusive billionaires no one ever talks about.

Your Life is Rated R Your life is definitely adults only. While children accompanied by parents are welcome, they'll probably be scarred for life.

The Keys to Your Life Anything good in your life comes from seeking balance and unity.

You are a flexible shapeshifter who has the skills to survive in any situation.

Anything bad in your life comes from not giving enough... or giving too much.

Remember to not be stingy with others. But also remember not to give to the point of exhaustion.

Sabi sa http://www.blogthings.com/whatsyournameshiddenmeaningquiz/ ito daw ibig sabihin ng "Dustin Edward Domingo Celestino".

Astig. Hahaha!

Try niyo, kung gusto niyo ng magandang balita :)

---

What Dustin Edward Domingo Celestino Means You are balanced, orderly, and organized. You like your ducks in a row.
You are powerful and competent, especially in the workplace.
People can see you as stubborn and headstrong. You definitely have a dominant personality.

You are a very lucky person. Things just always seem to go your way.
And because you're so lucky, you don't really have a lot of worries. You just hope for the best in life.
You're sometimes a little guilty of being greedy. Spread your luck around a little to people who need it.

You are the total package - suave, sexy, smart, and strong.
You have the whole world under your spell, and you can influence almost everyone you know.
You don't always resist your urges to crush the weak. Just remember, they don't have as much going for them as you do.

You are a seeker. You often find yourself restless - and you have a lot of questions about life.
You tend to travel often, to fairly random locations. You're most comfortable when you're far away from home.
You are quite passionate and easily tempted. Your impulses sometimes get you into trouble.

You tend to be pretty tightly wound. It's easy to get you excited... which can be a good or bad thing.
You have a lot of enthusiasm, but it fades rather quickly. You don't stick with any one thing for very long.
You have the drive to accomplish a lot in a short amount of time. Your biggest problem is making sure you finish the projects you start.

You are very intuitive and wise. You understand the world better than most people.
You also have a very active imagination. You often get carried away with your thoughts.
You are prone to a little paranoia and jealousy. You sometimes go overboard in interpreting signals.

You are friendly, charming, and warm. You get along with almost everyone.
You work hard not to rock the boat. Your easy going attitude brings people together.
At times, you can be a little flaky and irresponsible. But for the important things, you pull it together.



You are very charming... dangerously so. You have the potential to break a lot of hearts.
You know how what you want, how to get it, and that you will get it.
You have the power to rule the world. Let's hope you're a benevolent dictator!

You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection.
You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive.
You have the classic "Type A" personality.

You are wild, crazy, and a huge rebel. You're always up to something.
You have a ton of energy, and most people can't handle you. You're very intense.
You definitely are a handful, and you're likely to get in trouble. But your kind of trouble is a lot of fun.





You are well rounded, with a complete perspective on life.
You are solid and dependable. You are loyal, and people can count on you.
At times, you can be a bit too serious. You tend to put too much pressure on yourself.

You are confident, self assured, and capable. You are not easily intimidated.
You master any and all skills easily. You don't have to work hard for what you want.
You make your life out to be exactly how you want it. And you'll knock down anyone who gets in your way!





You are deeply philosophical and thoughtful. You tend to analyze every aspect of your life.
You are intuitive, brilliant, and quite introverted. You value your time alone.
Often times, you are grumpy with other people. You don't appreciate them trying to interfere in your affairs.



You are very open. You communicate well, and you connect with other people easily.
You are a naturally creative person. Ideas just flow from your mind.
A true chameleon, you are many things at different points in your life. You are very adaptable.



You are relaxed, chill, and very likely to go with the flow.
You are light hearted and accepting. You don't get worked up easily.
Well adjusted and incredibly happy, many people wonder what your secret to life is.

I stayed up for 40 hours.

I wrote for 20 hours straight.

I said "goodbye" to one of my muses... The one I loved most [from my current roster of muses which doesn't include past muses].

Yeah. I believe I had to.

Why?

This was my farewell:

Yeah. I think I fell in love with her. A few months ago I told her:

"You are everything I want and everything I should not have. I should not have you. Because if I did, life would break into a screeching halt, and I will be stuck in an ice cube inertia of absolute contentment. I will be complacent. Weak. Unmotivated. Frozen. Unwilling to move, because no movements would be necessary since everything would expand from a random intense feeling of communion with beauty. And life will exist only as a tribute to that memory."


Oh well.


Life.


Stranger than fiction... and infinitely more beautiful.


God is a genius writer.

--Dustin