Thursday, November 29, 2012

Cafe Americano

Americanos he discovered are best served with conversation and though the potato chips paired with their caffeine confections were obviously inappropriate, they ate them anyway, chewing and sipping at unpatterned intervals.

The sun's rays were soft and filtered just right that it's beams illuminated her face in just the right angles. He realized that her cheeks blush every time a puff of steam touches her face and decided that she looks beautiful that way. Rosy and blooming like pink May blossoms down Aunt Rebecca's garden.

Conversation clouds floated everywhere from Murakami to Tacloban to ponderings after graduation and bedroom interior decorations. And later that night, she'd kiss him and he'd have involuntary tremors from having too much caffeine but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Just the soft dewy breeze as he rides home that November evening.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

The Boy on the Shore

The air smelled like the ocean. Like it always had every summery July morning by the mansion that overlooked the sea. The boy that lived there hated the scent and if it weren't for the dying sun, he wouldn't have tolerated walking down the beach at sunset when the scent was strongest. 

It is a magic scent, the ancients have said and the boy could only laugh at their ridiculousness. He was a boy of advanced thinking and such medieval follies were a waste of brain cells as compared to Nintendo or Physics or gaming capsules. He's simply admitted that some people are like that, rationalizing the unfathomable without even measuring logical reasons or explanations.

That particular afternoon, he frolicked farther than usual. The sun was buttery and salmon and its toasted tendrils swirled with the gray waters. He imagine holographic worms beneath the sea, consuming the light and glowing themselves in the process. He felt the waters rushed to the shore and he buried his fingers in the sand, slowly, lustfully, like fornicating for the very first time.

The sea is a mistress, malevolent and dreary, like Aunt Ugliana during her monthly visits.

He watches its waves crash on the shore, carrying with it its remnants: shells, abalones, corals, crabs and the breeze, that filthy breeze he inhales at the moment. In return the earth vomits to it pollution, dead dreams, despair, unrequited love and all the grime of human existence. The ocean accepts them all, enveloping the filth in its dreamy waves.

And just like all the others, he surrenders his desperation and metaphorical craps to the sea. Crashing his body to the foam, letting it lure him with its waves and drown him with its poisonous dreams of infinite oblivion.

It is always silent in the sea. The dead never speak.

"Perhaps that would explain the smell", he thought. And on his way home that summery July morning, he vowed to never see the ocean, ever again.

Thursday, November 22, 2012


I suppose it's weird and unwholesome if I try to secrete creative juices from my already weary brain but I am quite missing this blog and the number of days without new entries have been translated by my brain as eons, so here I am, again, writing in a coffee-less November morning.

The past few days have been hectic. Taxation is obviously not a friendly subject and most of my other Accounting's are too, so I suppose I'm on the right track on my academic life. Besides, without these hardships, then there's nothing really fun about going to school right? Most recently, the greatest fun I had was flunking Management Accounting. And here's another great news: RETAKE! Bongga.

Now if only Accounting was a bit more whimsical. More dreams and and shells and arches and baroque influences (?). Less numbers. Less stress. Less blah. *sigh

Fairy Godmother?

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Two Tens

For some weird incongruous reason, birthday posts are compulsory in my universe. Maybe it is the drive to document the transition from teenage dreams to adult nightmares that made me sit in front of this canvas and once again spoil it's whiteness with lackadaisical blabberings. 

Maybe I am mourning the death of my youth but then again, youth is a state of mind and age is only a number-a really ugly number. Or maybe I am anticipating the life that I am about to live, the responsibilities that I am about to have and the many stresses and quarter-life crises I am about to face.

It is now that I realize that being 20 is like a Sunday night after a long weekend of adrenaline-overdose and youth addiction. The anticipation of the Monday, the nostalgia of memories about to be blurs, and the yearning for another round of the fun experienced; all these three are rolled in a curly ball with butterflies set inside my stomach. The feeling is uncomfortable but I am presuming that this is normal since the number 20, in my universe, is uncomfortable. 

It may take some time for me to answer age questions though. But you know what they say, practice makes perfect. And I intend to have as little of that as possible.
Happy 20th birthday to me! XD

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Bossa Nova, Yesterday and Paulo Coelho

It's official, I love Tuesdays and Thursdays. Caffeine in the morning and bossa nova overload plus the thought of not going to school until 4PM is the ultimate seventh heaven. For one, it provides me with bed-lounging time, perfect for rolling on the mattress from left to right (or whichever direction). Second, I could definitely do the the laundry and contemplate on a lot of stuff which for some reason happens simultaneously. Third, I could save my lunch allowance and maybe buy something nice come Christmas time!

The possibilities are indeed endless. And while one part of my brain drafts that part, let's linger on another topic that has me bursting at the seams with excitement, my first day of school. Didn't see him (praise the Lord!), had so much fun and quality time at most of my subjects-Law, most of all, and felt warm and fuzzy reconnecting with friends and crushes and realizing how much I miss all of them. Seriously, the semester break is the River Lethe, almost made me forgot all of them. 

Anyhow, I am in search of the perfect place to drug myself with caffeine and drown on Paulo Coelho's The Witch of Portobello. Baker's Haven, with newly refurbished chairs, provides for the perfect option but since I don't have a Kindle, or any eBook reader or tablet for that matter (even a laptop!), I guess I have no choice but read here, at home, in utter soliloquy and solitude. Chos.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

November Blues, Reds and Yellows

November came swiftly and in just a few days, I will officially mark my second decade of existence. To be honest, it's not something that I am excited about. The responsibilities, the idea of simply growing up and being illegally young, discussions of stuff to do and should do in this lifetime, urgh. There's simply a mountain of stuff to think about and I am not the kind who thinks about stuff. I'm more of the worry-about-stuff kind of  person and right now I really am worried about everything.

What if I turn into an utter failure? What if I am not what other people expect me to be? I mean, I know that I shouldn't really care about what they say, but I am pressured. Trying-not-to-disappoint-Mom is the worst pressure an only-son could ever have.

And so November is officially a cold bitter frost in contrast to the sunny skies just outside my window. With a lot of stuff on my mind, with a lot of things to do, I just pray that I don't go delusional or completely bonkers when I reach 20.

Or maybe I'm simply in a quarter-life (or mid-life *gulp*) crisis. Who knows. November just started anyway. Fingers-crossed?

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Morning Thoughts and Prada

You awoke to the sound of silence. And just like that, uneasiness dawned on you: so crisp, so tangible, even the impeding rain is an unwelcomed comfort. It's like waking up on the wrong side of the bed, or having the wrong kind of morning coffee or maybe the thought of those Prada's that could never ever really be yours.

And then you ponder at your uneasiness: on how unfortunate you are for not having anything to eat or anything to do because your whole life depended on electricity and this blackout is just pissing the shit off you; on how the rain is making things worse because the electricity people can never fix anything without getting wet and electrocuted; on how lonely your phone is; and on how goddamn expensive those Prada's are and you start blaming Bryanboy and that Muccia bitch for making them look so desirable. 

And so you ponder and wallow at intervening times while the rain pours over the metro. If only it rained Prada, now that would be a welcomed comfort. 

Monday, November 5, 2012

My Fair Lady

And since I don't normally watch horror films on Halloween, except for a very slight exception for Scream 4 and Bunshinshaba, I spent the spooky season watching film noirs particularly those that involved Audrey Hepburn.

Yes dear. I'm a 'fraidy-cat. And I thank Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's and My Fair Lady for keeping me sane last week.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

You Can't Remember the Title, Can You?

The things is, you are not yourself. And that's not a good thing. But it's also a good thing for a change, really. It's a cycle, a typhoon of personalities that shadow each other over each other, a merging of colors that practically define who you are at certain intervals. 

You take on persona after persona. Today you're the naive little Charlie, or the frenzied Holly Golightly while she searched for Cat that rainy day in New York-clutching to her only idea of a family, but tomorrow you could be anybody. You could be the cat by then darling. That would be charming. Or the chair. Whichever you prefer really.

You go to parties and street parties or the quiet types on hushed Roman verandas wearing those black alligator shoes that sweet old man gave you-or you could've bought those, you can't remember. Really. You can't remember. But the dress on the other hand, you're sure it was a gift from someone. Only you don't remember who but that doesn't really matter darling does it? I mean are we really gonna spend the entirety of today remembering where you got all those stuff? Don't be ridiculous. 

It will only bring up those nights you woke up with blood on your hands. But you were sure that was ketchup-with a horrible horrible stench. Even the body right next to you could've been creepy if it wasn't Mr. O'Riley. Or Mr. Something the other night. But you're sure this was just a Halloween prank. I mean, how else will you have blood in those perfectly manicured hands darling? You would never allow it.

Oh golly. The time. It's already 8:45 and you'd never want to be late for a party. O good heavens no! It would be impolite. And ratty. Off you go darling. And have you brought that handy knife in your bag? We wouldn't want any impolite men now, do we?
vii: Jungian Concept of Individuation