By: Iris P. Concepcion
I have often wondered how the manufacturers of words operate within their environment. Pruning sentences, clipping the commas, slicing the paragraphs and the like.
In another blink of the reverse, I was brought to this seat of language formulators and found myself looking at gifts wrapped on the walls.
I often end up asking the obvious questions. I do expect concise answers i.e., the circulation, members of the writing community, editorial slant, the usual boring stuff I like to grill in some barbecue foyer. I get disappointed when people in the know stutter when they are clueless how many publications are published by their own publishing house.
It comes close to strangling i.e. : "I worship your editor and you do not have a clue what magazine he is manning?"
Of course, I need not continue my line of cross examination. I can cite my favorite retard's first article on David Bowie and how it was placed in a column. I demand the same fastidiousness from his staff (hehehehe). I know how he looks like in briefs and how his nose flares. I am so into the details.
I got excited by this nonetheless. I asked the good guy what their entertainment magazine is. He did not flutter his eyes this time, he answered it with a fluency I deeply admired.
I came out laughing as I took the elevator. I surmised, I need to watch a horror film after this.
So I did.
This is where the "Aki" film streamed. It was horrible and dumb and terrible that it ended up being Akroydish than myself. Everyone is an actor and I have seen the most nuanced, unnamed performers thus far.
Eventually, the men and women you had been struggling to get into, crack their brains or whatnot, are up in the celluloid, acting so horribly.
And the stupid retard got out from theater as he surrounded himself with awful-looking midgets as they chorused: "Aki, Aki, Aki."
Weird.
You wake up the day after with positive policies chartering the course of the country to new, scaling heights and I go: this is what life is made of.