MY HAPPY HALLOWEEN
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I asked a child to draw my face.

She pencilled me in this wonderful sketch.

"From where he had walked, came a supreme realization of taste: sachets are uncool in coffee. He prefers grips." A fan in need is a fan in deed.

And thus, we had confessed to the tradition of Bayvees and Buttwheat in the armory of NY-driven theater tableau.

I had been receiving openings for writing jobs with employers not providing their addresses. I find it weird as is. I went to news outlets and had instead spoken with people who painted rooftops or are members of security personnel. I think I had left my manuscripts in this area. That is the reason I am not heaving an "Oh, I just lost the purpose of my life" panicky trance. I think they are safe in the company of writers much more lustruous and brilliant than this corn cob.

That is worth five years of my writing sojourn. The duplicates are at home, gathering moss in some disc I suppose. This rattles me into starting to scribble new stories, of the idling nooks and combined breathing Epistles of street pulpits. An ally who had been making Houdini escapes in live performing stage admonished thus: "She knows who is spreading lies and hounding her. She is not dumb NOT knowing it."

Silent retards had made more impact in this psyche of the creative world, thank God. We had dropped words for common acknowledgments.

I had a heyday looking at a person looking at a roof being painted and in Bigfoot underlings and giants alike, I was not lost in translation. I was merely astonished he cupped the platform like he did in that seminal Japanese-background flick I had adored so much. He is beyond Oscar. Oscaresque death zapper. Much more than his spocked-laden face, a silvery- peppered man walked leisurely in scarf as if prowling in snow. He is kind of...........taking..........slow..........steps. He is my visional hand.

Then came in a bony man with the longest chin on Earth: it is shaped like a half-moon. It is distressing to watch its length move but is is worth a 1 1/2 hours of Howardian comedy. It is perfect.

Days later, in far, far away world of the warped, another ghost catcher was eyeing lady handbags in that most deadpan face you'll ever encounter. He had the coolest leg rings you could view in eternal envy. His upper torso: macho. His ankle: happily gay. Wonderful, wonderful man. He was inside this corn's "bf" place (this is hilarious as it is Cannes in nature--yes, he IS still this writer's center) and mouthing "Tagalog" lines left and right. Outside, you can see Bencab's picture as captured by old-fashioned Kodak.

The stalkers in the end get more star-strucked by this amalgamation.

I thank God for it.

And Spiderman's creator too.