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Makati City Rules
Self-Diagnosis: Has taken to 25-minutes of leisurely stretching in bed before getting up, proving fatal for punctuality reports. Has tripled amount of nicotine, despite sweetheart's campaign to "Stop Smoking Soon".
But soon, we shall.
Signed, Doctor Self-Diagnosis Kala Herself
Sub-entry: The Flying Mouse
This mouse has been culprit of disturbing the peace in our abode. He/she has danced the Macarena across the keyboard of Julien's laptop while we were watching 'Metropolis' (please watch this... c'est A+!) and has raided our basket of candy.
We have caught him, on numerous occasions, dawdling like His Majesty on his way to the lawn for crumpets and tea. He would have been cute if not for likeness to a hairy, brown, rubbery-nosed little rodent --- which, by the way, he is.
I bought Julien those delicious thin chocolate Lindt squares. The mouse thought it was good, promptly chewing up one side of the box.
And as we thought it couldn't get any worse, I awoke one morning to see him on top of our table. Walking around, as usual. Our eyes met and locked (never shall I forget his cold, rodent stare) and to my surprise, he JUMPED to the floor and scurried away. I swear I almost blacked out.
Yesterday night though, it stumbled upon an open plastic bag of our McDonald's leftovers. Julien watched it enter the bag, then quickly tied it up once the tail disappeared inside, trapping the mouse in. We threw it over the fence at the empty lot.
This story to be filed as Reason No. 8342 in the Why I Love Julien Series.
A grave injustice has been done. Discrimination. We are being treated like criminals, lepers. Our building has been declared to be "TOTALLY SMOKE-FREE" effective today. We are not even allowed to smoke at the 6th floor parking lot anymore. We are not allowed to smoke in the restrooms or within office premises. Will we risk the who-knows-how-much-they'll-charge fine for smoking in the streets? Do they not even have the decency to provide employees with a smoking area that complies with all the rules of the new anti-smoking law? Today, the Makati City Anti-Smoking Ordinance No. 2002-090 has stripped me of my rights and my dignity as a smoker, and I am being shunned by a society that looks down on my rightful habit to light a cigarette. My freedom has been taken away from me. There is no more escape, the very fleeting yet important 10-minute shangri-la, from the harsh grinding reality of corporate life. We have been nicotine-raped! And we do not have justice on our side!
Socle du Monde
Words make sense if you write them for someone
The end of May
It's early morning, or maybe not; no, I don't know what time it is, but it's quiet, what hour is as quiet as this I'm not sure, my watch, it's in the other room. I hear my cigarette burning down. Quiet enough I can hear the smoke carving a path down my throat, lingering in my lungs before making its exit. Asahi beer cans filled with ashes, a faint buzz of machines. Warm summer nights, and during the day I can hear the sky heavy with rain promising to fall, droplets of water waiting to be born from the sky that is a womb
The thing is that ... the rain never stops. It never stops. It's always gray, wet, cloudy. There are always too many sounds. There are always too many things to think about, but not enough strength to do so.
When umbilical cords are cut do you hear the sound of the heart finally independent, a child leaving home? And the candle, smelling Provence, stretches out wick to expel some kind of coquette illumination. So quiet that I can hear shadows over my face, so quiet that my eyes dance midnight boogie, no I'm not going mad, but I could. Everyone can.
I grew up with noise and it is magnified in the way I think. Even my thoughts are noisy. I grew up with impatience. Who am I, What am I doing, I ask myself while watching the rain fall from the rim of my umbrella, in the middle of Ayala during rush hour.
In the next room is gentle breathing, chests heaving. While my lungs inhale smoke, another inhales dreams. It's no surprise that smoke and dreams can fill rooms. And it's almost two months and questions still hover in the air - I know what I feel and I can hear everything so clearly that all it has to do is connect with speech, and why is it that quietness brings the greatest noise... arms laden with words I want to give birth to, but they run around like mischievous cats that get stuck on trees, and what can I do to rescue them?
When the day arrives I find myself attached to filling my lungs. With air perhaps. And work. And the commute to and fro. And the daily routine bothers me. And the paychecks never seem enough, I don't talk about the amount but the satisfaction of something worth all I've done. WHen I look back at the end of the day was everything worth it, does the end give justice to all the effort? Do you like what you're doing?
I come home to my Love and put my arms around him and it's so quiet like rain about to erupt, just like the end of May, the beginning of rain, and a girl writing, alone, in the dark. How many people like what they are doing?
Mister Jeepney
You are NOT Filipino if you haven't ridden a jeepney during the rainy season. Nine people squeezed into a horizontal plank, all holding dripping wet umbrellas and bags, is NOT a good way to start your day, but that's as Pinoy as you can get. Oxygen was never meant to enter a jeepney, and I believe it was built to elude the concept of "personal space". In fact, riding a jeepney on a very rainy and bad day is equivalent to group rape. With a participation fee of 4 pesos. And a driver.
To pay my homage to the jeepney, here are some of the Written and Unwritten Rules about riding the Most Dreaded Transportation On Earth:
1. The best seats in the jeepney are the front seats. Just be sure to move your legs away from the stick shift (cambio in Filipino), especially if the driver’s a maniac.
2. The second best seats in the jeepney are the seats closest to the door (or should I say ‘hole’, since it isn’t a really a door). This may also be known as the WORST seat, though, as the sabits (or the guys who hang onto the door when there are no seats available) decide to stick the crooks of their arms into your face. Breeeathe, sugar, breeeathe.
4. You are required to pass along the fare of fellow passengers if you are within arm’s length. I’ve seen fare being passed along by a total of five people before reaching the driver. It was a very long jeepney, I believe they were two jeepney bodies molded into one.
5. However, if you are in a foul mood as I usually am, you can refuse to pass along someone’s fare by turning your head to the window and/or by pretending to fall asleep, and/or scowling very menacingly and glaring till the person passes the fare to someone else. Don't expect to win popularity votes, though.
6. A jeepney usually takes 9 people to fit in one row. Obviously, the person who measured the seat’s length believed that all passengers possessed the body size of Gwenyth Paltrow or Twiggy, effectively eliminating the more heavy-set passengers from their magnificent calculations. Therefore, there is a 97% chance that one passenger in the jeepney will be sitting half-a-butt on the seat. If you are unfortunate enough to be the Phantom Passenger (as I affectionately peg it), good luck, and be sure to dig those heels deep into the floor!
7. All jeepney drivers went to the School for Bad Musical Taste. Musical selections range from slow rock (Michael Learns to Rock to Bon Jovi), to Pinoy Rap (including S2upid Love et al), to sentimental crap you wish you never heard again (A-ya-yay Pag-Ibig, et al), to horrifying disco beats. All are played at maximum volume. Of course, maximum volume! You wouldn’t graduate from School for Bad Musical Taste without learning the importance of maximum volume.
8. All jeepney drivers passed the Are You Cheesy Enough School of Interior Decoration. Magna cum laudes are not difficult to spot – they are the ones that have decorated their jeepneys with disco balls that actually work, speakers under the seats, and black lights that make everyone’s teeth glow green.
9. It is surprising how, given the conditions, jeepney passengers are able to unwittingly avoid eye contact. It is also surprising the number of jeepney passengers who insist on making eye contact. To choose the lesser evil, please do not maintain eye contact. It is considered rude.
10. It is also considered rude to read your neighbor’s cellphone, or reading someone’s received sms message, in the jeepney.
11. Jeepney drivers will most likely start the motor while you are still getting off the jeepney. Lithe bodies are required to get off. Only after having walked three steps away from the jeepney will you be assured that you are, finally, safe.
12. Some people pull the jeepney trick of not paying. Have you ever done this? (Don’t act so innocent) This is done by sitting very quietly at the end of the jeepney, and getting down as quietly as possible at a popular stop, where most people go down. Do not draw attention to yourself, look as if you’ve paid the fare. Very silently. Like the snake you are.
13. Jeepney drivers can be classified into the following categories:
And next time I'll write about buses.
Star Child
You're a star child and you were plucked from the sky. From everywhere to here, a universal puzzle, in a jar. You're a star child and the death of stars just isn't too grave (anymore). Why don't you just tell me how we are supposed to save the others, follow supernovas, a Big Bang in your eye, over and over again? You're it, sleeping silently beside silk patterns, forehead creased, hand clenched, your body weak, shining in the dark, eyes closed, forever away, my star child.
A little story
So, it was two o'clock in the morning right, and I woke up, suddenly, from the couch.
I had a stiff neck. The hair on the back of my neck were standing, the way they stand when you suddenly feel a ghost in your midst, just like Hollywood romanticizes it.
Surely enough, there was a skeleton sitting across the room.
"YAAAAAAAAA!" screamed the skeleton a bit half-heartedly. It moved its jaws left, right. Then, up and down.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the skeleton started to shake. Its sick, milky-white bones sounded hollow each time they bumped against each other. I covered my ears to drown out the sound. It interpreted my action as cowardice, and it continued to shake.
Briefly I thought of the moussaka I had last night. For those who don't know what a moussaka is, it's an eggplant dish, with a bit of ground meat and cheese.
What I really wanted that night at the restaurant was lasagna.
"Let me change my order to lasagna," I told the waiter, last night.
The waiter had a remorseful face. "I'm sorry, ma'am, the lasagna isn't available."
That's why I ate moussaka. It wasn't bad. In fact, I would even say it was 'delicious'.
Suddenly I remembered the skeleton. It was still shaking. It was now also shouting "YAAAAAAAAA!" a bit too loudly. The skeleton was really on a roll.
And then, as quickly as it started, the skeleton disappeared.
And then I went back to sleep.
The End.
To be able to write
They say to write poetry is easy. Take a few words, put them together, make them sound nice.
"Or else do like I do," she said rather quietly. "Tie them in knots like a cherry stem with your tongue. When you do..."
"You're a good kisser," finished the other.
"A good poet, you mean," I interrupted.
So, like they say to write, you have to chew thoughtfully, first, on a ballpoint pen. Sit in the dark, invoke spirits of Plath and cummings, try to make words cum in your mind.
They say to write poetry is easy - all you have to do is
"Imagine yourself on the pedestal, splitting image of"
"...god," finished the other.
"God can't be split," I argued.
"You can do anything, if you're god."
When you write you are god. Or are you. How can you create something from a box-set of letters, words from fridge magnets, a puzzle of chance and a stew of alphabet soup. How can you be god, when you write. Or are you.
"To write you have to have cigarettes," she declared. Pulling out a pack, lighting a match. Reds, lights, menthol, slims. "Your choice of smoke is like the air you breathe. You have to learn how to write."
"You have to learn to be god," continued the other.
But how can you be god, how can you spread Genesis to Revelation on paper, how can you make your pen flow like fluid, like an orgasm, like a growth spurt, like honey dew. How can you. Or are you, already.
Do I have to be someone else when I write, I asked. I only want to know one thing, is it easy, or is it difficult.
They say, to write is easy, it is just a matter of getting used to words.
"Then," she said, "read me something you've written."
Clearing my throat I started to chant, words I picked up from the corners to the cracks of the floor:
"And in my arms it cries
"No good," she insisted. "You are still not god."
So I tried harder.
I read:
"I never wanted anything
I followed my reading with a question: Does it make sense?
"I don't know... does it?"
"Does it? I don't know."
"Then continue."
I continued:
"Head in my tongue,
To write is easy, they say. All you have to do, to write, is to string words together, and to become god.
Allez
The latest French word I've learned is 'donc', a conjugation, which means 'therefore'. Donc, I use this word whenever I can. Also in my vocabulary is the French word for 'go', which is 'aller'. I'm brushing up on some French as my boyfriend asks me again and again why I say 'ko' instead of 'ako', and what's the use of all the -mag, -um, and -nag verbs anyway?
To my chagrin I can't answer, maybe because sometimes when you've spoken something you've been used to for so long it becomes impossible to make distinctions. And yes, of course I'm making up an excuse for my poor Filipino grammar!
During Holy Week somewhere along the crowded Burnham Park there was a man peddling a corny silver tool thing, the Filipino version of the Swiss Army Knife if you will. I was looking at the strawberries and Julien insisted we get the army knife as a 'tool'. The other morning we used it to put a vagabond screw back into his laptop.
Rule number one : Tools are useful!
He has a nice formal coat - big, black, Mao-collared. It looks distinguised and strong, invincibility in a suit. It looks darling, the way it hangs next to my size-one jeans. His stuff occupy approximately one-eighth of our cabinet. My tiny pairs of shoes seem numerous compared to his Vans and black boots.
 cigarettes, and a mouse for breakfast He smokes more than I do, if not as much, but his lips remain a sweet red, his gums a sweet red, perfect white teeth. He's getting thinner, so last night we sat infront of his laptop and visited pictures of him when he was sixteen, six, twenty, twenty-two. Various hair lengths, same sailor shirt. The eyes seem to get older but the intensity never wavers. When we're done watching his pictures, I still think he's thin. "We're the thin couple," he said because I'm thin too and definitely underweight. Last Saturday was my birthday. I'm twenty-four now. I got drunk and went to bed in the middle of my own party. I didn't even notice the guests leave. Woke up late with a hangover on Sunday. On Sunday night I attached myself to his leg and told him I wouldn't let go. We played a bit of cards and he tried to walk around as much as he could with me on his leg. I got bored and let go, and he promptly attached himself to my leg and we crawled all over the floor, from bedroom to kitchen, to prove his point. And then we tried to find my point of balance, as he raised me on my stomach with his legs until I fell and I guess I have no point of balance. Afterwards we watched Labyrinth, David Bowie singing "Dance, magic, dance..." in his skin-tight leggings, along with singing puppets. Did I mention I just turned twenty-four...?
 An evil koala has attached itself to my leg! We bought a saucepan and he made crepes - sausage crepes, butter-and-sugar crepes, jam-and-butter crepes. I flipped them over in the pan and it was warm and it smelled like crepes and we opened the windows to let the smell out of our apartment, even though it smelled so good. Lesson Number Two: Crepes smell like heaven. The nights, they're cool and comfortable, even in summer. I was never able to sleep with a bit of light on; now, when Julien leaves the door a notch to let some light into our bedroom, I don't mind one bit. Sometimes before we go to sleep he'd push his toe against my foot, or I'd scratch the palm of his hand till the motion made me feel sleepy. And while he sleeps I'll walk around the apartment holding a pink pillow but I'll always, always go back to him and scratch his palm or hug his arm till the motion makes me sleepy. At the office I want so much for the work day to end because it feels like I'm starting a new one when I see him. And maybe there isn't much to say, and maybe my life sounds boring right now, no wild parties to talk about or no poetry laced with marijuana, but sometimes you have to feel like you're home. And I do. On the way back to Baguio in a cramped bus at three a.m. in the morning, I folded myself into a question mark trying to sleep, hoping to get home soon. And all I had to do was lean my head on his shoulder to know that I had home sitting right beside me.
 touch knees when you feel cold I'm learning possessive pronouns now. Lesson 6.1 in my French grammar review book. Le mien, les miens, le tien, les tiens, le notre, les notres. Mine, yours, ours. Singular and plural. Lesson number three: It's nice to be like grammar... And still I'll wait till I speak it fluently, and in between it's nice to fall asleep scratching someone's hand, and it's nice to wake up still sleepy, and it's nice to run Mao-collared jackets between your fingers and it's nice to eat a pear in the evenings. I suppose life's just nice. Things have happened and sometimes you shouldn't let things get in the way of love. It's so harmful when that happens. Sometimes, wrong comes out of wanting so much to be right, or mistakes are just the right intentions carried out askew. I don't feel like dwelling much anymore on who hurt whom or what destroyed what. It's just a matter of being in the moment, of getting through it no matter how difficult. You know? The simplest words make great sense. Donc, aller.
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