“Muffled silences that sometimes close over a mountain, when the wind dies and everything is held in crystal quiet (this is a line from an Ann Beattie short story), I could hear my own pulse and mistake it as your own heartbeat (this is my line to finish off those borrowed words. “ - for my little spectacle.


I had been on a slack. And everyone forgives me for it (I hope).

We live in hopeful times, the mental shakeups composed, the small aspirations making huge splashes. We are often rescued blissfully not because we feel it is owed us but because that is how good people respond to callings : always to shed light, always to straighten up what is crooked.

And so:

Do I have new friends? Yes, I suppose. I have taken snapsots of remembrances and shredded them in minimum words since I had last written here. What was the last occasion? I watched a musical bonanza and was understood perfectly.

If you care enough to get your binoculars and start peeking into my words so that they may be enlarged, I will allow you, for some good measure. Let me begin by recalling some vivid pictures.

Fruits on Hair.--- I am not quite sure if I had written about this before in this space but in one of the festivities where a friend directed my attention to nuns selling ukay-ukay while competing teams in a street dancing were doing their routines, I did my own pinpointing to this friend and directed her to closely watch two males wearing their huge durian headdresses unmindfully. They were wearing polos and denims so they were not in any way participants of the competition. How brave of them to walk in the crowd without getting bugged by offhand remarks. I wanted to give them a standing ovation until I realized I was already standing up.

A cross on a crewcut-hair --- I was inside a van and seated beside the driver was a guy sporting a crewcut. Only, it was designed with a cross at the back and I was bewildered how that was intricately shaped. What kind of razor was used?

The ghost editors --- I know supernatural things happen and I assume some of the dearly departed also leave their slippers when entering houses even if they do not touch the ground but, I never question the ingenuity, the courage, the Plutonian hand (it is no longer a planet and I grieve along with the rest of the planets its reduction to mere planetoid—is this a word?) stretching all the way from a faraway galaxy. Unseen, unfelt, unrecognized. In the words of……I could not think of a famous person to deliver this so I am quoting myself. In my words : oxygen is my only payment. The life I phrase in paragraphs would have been cut dead were it not for the lease of an oxygen tank courtesy of these happy caspers. I feel so unworthy but loved. How does this sound? To you who may or may not be living, did Jesus talk you into it? Did you ask permission from your respective Moms when you pulled out your magic erasers and fixed everything for the best?

Query : Where did you buy your loooooonnnngggg eraser that it reached me?

Again, for the musicians and the people behind them --- I still am amazed by the pour of talents breeding everywhere like mosquitoes. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, they bzzzzzzzzed. They do not just give new meaning to songs, they are superbly arranged I jump off my seat often times. There is a certain depth to musical works when they are performed other than the Self. How many times have I snapped out from resentment because of music, I haven’t counted how many. Even in commercial television (you might get the crap sometimes but overall, when specials are done to pay homage to Filipino music, my favorite cradle in the manger aside from the various pools of words absorbed by my eyes, you just necessarily float up there along with the fruity-colored dragonflies). When these people brainstorm without minding themselves---I treasure it. It comes at an instantaneous, magical moment to those who care (it is seldom that artists are grouped in one mystifying production and it is all more astonishing that one is getting it for free). Time and again, these people provide balance to the ugliness of what one can possibly hear to compromise your independent beliefs but the beauty, boy, it lurks, hidden in those melodious voices, the ability to break loose the notes to deafen what is just plain unpalatable. There is an ugly component to sound when it becomes a tool to destruct but one has to give credit where credit is due. Majority of the present crop of musicians are professionals . They know their notes. They are never insecure to shun away from inspired inner workings. They are the remaining glory of this country aside from the other artists and writers.

And I know overtime is simply not done but these enterprising people extend anyway. What more can I say.

I will mention those musicians who brought honor and prestige to the country by shining in other lands. It is not often you see them while sitting in your sofa but when they do, it is worth paying attention to. They are truly, truly great and I become proud they come from a country I also call mine. I mean, I needn’t shrink when I get asked what is to be proud of my place.

To the small company I keep when I wake up, my gratitude also. Let my pointed biases not hinder the good work—we may not agree on some things but we won’t resolve the differences with skullduggery. I never realized everyone can be funny.

When someone says, carry on, I look at the face. When the speaker is credible, pardon my rather childish thinking, I could not help but express : my thanks, my life. That is formidably inspiring.


Accessibility of the warped --- She is my most revered female pen user in these islands because she has a very strong distinction of people and to which categories they should fall in her world. She is the only person I have encountered from reading who shares my rabid fancy for domination (hers is the world, mine is galactical---I fear humanoids a lot so I need a rocket to launch mine and subdue three-eyed wonders-----kidding) without doing it the dictatorial way. I was told she watches films at the orchestra. A friend whispered to me one time, “that is her”. I was in the comfort room. My God, I thought. I was sharing a bladder cubicle with someone who will soon subdue me. Fierce. Why should two people aspiring for big battles still experience urinary discharges? I love this writer so much I want her cloned.

I am so glad she is back in wide circulation.

And to the compact herd of great people : I am still embarrassed, deliriously, by even the briefest notes. I do not deserve it. It is almost blasphemous writing this. Thank you very much.

Just because I promised I shall be writing about his artwork --- The revelation does not unfaze. I have a copy of an imported music magazine which a friend bought for me at a discounted, back issue prize. She said she gave it not because of the articles but because of the sketches. I do not know a thing about what you do with your drawings (I am addressing you not as a third person so give yourself an applause. Only L was addressed that way and of course, the person I opened this entry with) so I will compare yours as against my sole source of illustration reference. I do not know of any other to compare it with but if I do, I may have to go at it by attaching my perception using the syntax of other medium—I am imbecile that way. It is by Robert Risko, doing caricatures of musicians.

I say : although yours is evidently comical in other aspects, bleakness and gloom just engulf your frames. It is as if you wanted the grin tossed away in some aberrant stroke. You do not like bright colors, that I can tell. You are using computers so that must be the reason why the faces always manifest in jaded angles. You can better manipulate the old fashioned brush than Steve Jobs’ paint brush. The machine blatantly tells you that nothing is ever perfect, right? I am over extending my analysis again. Anyway, you are at your best when you draw from the perspective of unhappiness I think (laughter held). Machinated humans—you seem to grasp the speed of technology as a diluting factor to the gaiety and humanity of your subjects. Of course, you have to match them with words but even the most blasé work somehow exudes unspoken torment. You do lips very well. Sometimes, they are so small, like cuticles. And spleens. And skeletons. Promise accomplished already.