Sunday, November 27, 2011

Beauty and Madness

What kind of loser writes on flimsy napkins while deafening music booms on and on, pacing my systoles and diastoles? Who does not give in to alcohol but succumbs to the gauze of nicotine? Every breath is a rebellion against established principles. Tiny embers light the night, cairns of dying stars immolating most resolve and conviction. My mute screams of protest fall back in on themselves as I reach new highs void of feeling. Feather-light caresses fail to penetrate my shell as I yearn for another in a place bridged by distance and warped by the unyielding bass of uncertainty...and perhaps mutual fear and exasperation.

Need shared worlds be sundered? What am I to do when my heart beats for another out of its own sentient and stubborn and sincere volition? I cannot spurn it away, for flesh and blood, unfeeling, kiss death in its absence. What is sobriety to do when it is doubted, when all of me is laid bare and yet I am bid to be clothed, and accused, wrongly, of laying waste to dreams? What is chance when it is taken away before it is given? What is strength when little fears cripple it so easily?

Stares of malign passions home in, rebuked by the pauper-prince's eyes that seek the one averted gaze from the familiar face of someone dear miles away. 

What kind of fool am I? One whose folly, embraced whole, cannot be helped. One whose breath was taken away even before paths crossed; one whose breath was taken away when paths and lives finally did cross; one whose breaths were taken away again and again and again, sweeter and sweeter with each refrain; one whose puny rhymes fail and whose tropes barely commit justice to the wretched mad impetus that spur it so; one who hopes and whose hopes unleash kaleidoscope upon kaleidoscope of butterflies which nuzzle and twist and tug, unyielding, at the very fiber of my being; one hopelessly imprisoned by moments held in stasis in the trove of memory, each relived perpetually, urging me to yearn for continuity, for more.

I am a fool, a willing victim of fate, who fell, beyond choice, beyond reason, and beyond salvation, utterly and wholly and madly with a friend. Crucify me if you must, but unfeeling repentance for this feeling that stole over me with utter abandon shall not spring from my lips. This is no sin. Let he who has never loved, in any way or form, cast the first stone.

Do not isolate me, please.


Once again I put my question to two young students, fashionable boys both, about eighteen, or what they called then in Florence giovani, being the most difficult of youths, too old to be a child, such as I was, and too young to be a man."

Vittorio di Raniari
Vittorio the Vampire
The Immaculate Conception
Chapter 15

Thank you for sharing, Geek.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Art Stuff


ms paint+mouse+one hour
Original size shown to preserve quality at the expense of the blog 's  OC alignment.

Because there ain't no reason you and me should be alone tonight...or for the rest of our lives, for that matter.

Edge of Glory
Lady Gaga

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


In the city only for a while
Here to face the fortune and the bile

Blue Spotted Tail
Fleet Foxes

Dangling cobwebs embraced me as I passed through the door, welcoming me back. It was only fitting, after all, a thin crust of dust caked everything in the room,  while traces of now-dead gray molds were cairns of moisture long-gone. Our unsettled past really does haunt us. I left Cebu three months back in haste. That afternoon saw me grabbing what quick-glanced decision-making deemed prudent to bring, or salvage. A variety of scraps littered the floor, the wooden figurine ashtray was a bowl of dust, and the books left behind: on the table, inside a paper bag, under articles of clothing, beneath the bed, atop the bed, inside a  cabinet, inside neon shopping bags - they were as corpses of the forgotten fallen in a place lost to memory. I left Cebu then without saying proper goodbyes to important people - the few people who knew my story; the few who knew and helped me through. Up until that afternoon, I wasn't even sure if leaving was the right thing to do. I feared it was cowardice, and feared even more that staying might be foolish, that pride was behind the resolve. I failed for the most part during the time before I returned home. It was a daily labor to just get up and slave through another cycle of monotonous eight hours repeating the same thing over and over and over again. There were occasional moments of clarity throughout that period: endless conversations under the sky that took me places and spurred me to great heights and taught me to savor the adrenaline rush of descents. I have really good friends to thank for them. They kept me sane. When I finally hit rock-bottom, I succumbed to a form of denial and depression. I lived an illusion, and lived on dwindling resources. There was one time when I willfully dove into the sea of questionable sobriety, to warrant a breakdown of the walls that barely kept my already over-spilling sentiments in check. That was a night of surrender, that I have failed utterly and irrevocably, of empowerment, that the admittance of a mistake is an act of courage, and of trust, that the first time I totally blacked out saw me come home safe and sound, albeit with a warped memory whose pieces I pieced together several days later. There is more to this tale, and though I wished to keep it for myself, for its virtues, I will write of it here that it be immortalized and transcend time.

Our unsettled past really does haunt us, but the present brings with it good things unlooked for.  Two great books came wrapped in silver accented by a red ribbon, sent by two Secret Santas. I consider it the first good omen for my return. I have several important things to finish within seven days, after which I shall be able to reforge the ties I have here. I have become quite the recluse, both here and in Bohol, and have done good friends a disservice. They are, after all, living balms to my soul. Tomorrow shall see me wade the waters of the unemployed seeking employment, and hopefully succeed. I have been floundering about for far too long for the rest, which I realized I really needed, to be considered reasonable. Today is the beginning of the next four and a half years of my life which shall see me work to support my studies starting June next year. Don't you dare end on December next year, world. This stranger has dared hope, and intends to work for it. Let me see this, and the many things and ties I need to accomplish and forge, through.

Monday, November 21, 2011

I, Stranger

Aunque en el futuro
Haya un muro enorme
Yo no tengo miedo
Quiero enamorarme

No Me Ames
Marc Anthony and Jennifer Lopez

Hopeless Haters

J, a highschool schoolmate and a former Mr. Intrams winner during his sophomore(and my senior) year gained weight when he got to college. He has this charisma about him and he's quite the looker himself, but apparently, these do not deter haters from bringing up his weight issues, which aren't issues to him when one thinks about it,  considering that it was his choice to get more weight. Being the human being that he is, he has his limits, too, as shown when he got fed up with all the jabs and posted this status(which got a lot of attention) on Facebook:

I may be fat, but: 1) I'm not ugly and 2) I can diet.

I like this style of shooting haters down.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Friday, November 18, 2011

The Child I Wasn't

Taken at a happy place, during happier times.

Most of me was built at school. What little is left was either built, albeit shoddily, or broken at home. There was less of the former than the latter. I recently looked through old photographs from my childhood. What's left now is more knowledge than memory of the moments when I felt extreme happiness. Most of them happened in places outside our old house, with folks from school.

I recall one day when I came home from school in sullen spirits. The weather that noon was sunny, with periodic glares and the occasional pinches. Instead of potholes, those painted nails dug out red welts deep into my skin. The living room ceiling did not shelter me from the intense downpour of shouting, name-calling, spanking, and more glaring. All of these did nothing to help my five year-old self.

All these years later, I still have a photograph, taken by a now-forgotten member of the old household, to remember that day by. The scars are gone, but I cannot say if I ever truly and wholly healed. Despite having faded, the melancholy is still clear in those light and tear-glazed eyes.

I have several similar photos, each yellowed memento with their story to tell. Those  days shaped me. It's a small wonder that quite a number of people remark that I look different today. They claim that the perceived difference is both physical and intangible; that somewhere along the way, something or several somethings were lost. These people have only seen the good photos - those taken from moments and accidents of sheer joy. Most, if not all, of them were experienced in the presence of people unrelated to me by blood.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Monday, November 14, 2011

Donnie Darko

I saw this post in tumblr. the other day and got curious enough to know more about it. They're gif images made from the movie Donnie Darko. Further research showed that it was a good movie(rated 85% by Rotten Tomatoes), but it was of the type that gets appreciated much, much later after its release.

I just finished watching the Director's Cut edition of the movie about half an hour ago and it kept me hooked from start to finish. Suffice to say that the two hours I spent watching it was well-spent. I urge all fans of psychological and sci-fi genres to watch it.

Here's a torrent link for those interested in seeing the film for themselves. Enjoy!

Saturday, November 12, 2011

I, Caterpillar

Metamorphosis Attempt II, Phase 1
The Strange Case of the Missing Necktie

See now, when we stumble, we learn how to navigate better.
See you soon, Cebu.

Monday, November 7, 2011