I guess I felt suddenly attached to my weakness, the beauty and power of it. The undying flames of juvenile intimacy, the longing embrace of commitment, the sweet dreams of a happy future full of warmth and sunshine; an assurance that the rainy days would be just as warm and lovely.

The car was ok and so was my heart. Not that there is any real connection behind them. I just found out that everything could be so connected and yet at the same time nothing, absolutely nothing, means anything to something whatsoever. The world did and did not run at the same time on logic and wisdom and infinite design. It was full of contradictions and these contradictions have given birth to love.

Kundera said that ‘metaphors should not be trifled with.’ I have, and it has given birth to that magic feeling. I am so delighted. Now, I could speed up along any avenues just as my heart could race to meet you at the road’s end. At the end of that long road we would end up kissing, loving each other.

]]> http://thoughtbubbles1.wordpress.com/2008/06/08/fixing-fenders-and-broken-hearts/feed/ 0 thoughtbubbles1 http://thoughtbubbles1.wordpress.com/2008/06/08/the-heights-of-infidelity/ http://thoughtbubbles1.wordpress.com/2008/06/08/the-heights-of-infidelity/#comments Sun, 08 Jun 2008 17:40:32 +0000 thoughtbubbles1 http://thoughtbubbles1.wordpress.com/?p=75 ]]> It is actually very simple. You and me together. That is all that matters, that is all I need in life. It is sheer infidelity to ignore it.

Jealousy takes many forms. You see something in the eyes of your lover, you see it in her actions, you hear it in her words, you feel it in her kisses, then like a creepy brutal beast it devours you.

Somewhere in the shadows a minstrel sings. “Blessed are the tall for they make no sense at all”

“I’m in love with someone who is in love with another guy.” He said. “That’s so uncharacteristic of you…” I remarked. I already know the story – He was begging this girl not to leave him although the girl has already confessed to him that she loves him just as a friend. “My heart belongs to someone else whom I can’t be with at the moment…” She said to him once.

“The thing is, she’s not leaving me completely. We would be happy spending our times together as long as there is sunshine but at night she would kill me with these guilt trips and conscience pangs…” he said.

“Oh boy. This is quite a mess you are in. Leave her.” I said to him. Mine was a sincere advice.

“It’s not that easy…”

“But you’ve done terribly hard things, made seemingly heart-rendering decisions in the past…”

“I guess I enjoy being a fool, being stupid. Or maybe right now I am delighted by the thought that I am being so benevolent and loving and understanding and all…”

We lit our cigarettes and for a moment we both blew out our smoke and stared off into the sky in silence. The clouds were gathering about now, and any moment God might send the waters from heaven to drown us all.

“But she doesn’t love you…” I reminded him, breaking the ice shelf.

“I know, buddy. I know.”

I was waiting for her under the old clock. I was so tired I just slumped on the space right underneath that clock, seemingly oblivious to the muddy boots and brand new havs and fake nikes and and janilyns and whatever anyone has to wear on their feet. I suppose I have kind of taken special notice of footwear that time. My head was already kissing the dirty marble. The shoes, naturally, did attract me, as I certainly did attract looks from passersby. I was almost asleep. I didn’t give a damn.

“Get up, shithead.” I heard a voice say. I looked up, and there was some god, beckoning me. But I was so tired, I didnt give a damn. Then I cursed myself in my head and I felt sick of myself and I wanted to cry. Suddenly I wanted to cry.

I felt someone kick me in my tummy. It was quite painful. But it only strengthened my resolve to stay that way, fallen, tearful, wasted. I could still hear the sound of a million footsteps. I could not perceive or sense anything else by then.

“You should have died a million years ago. You should have died. But you should not die this way. This is too glorious for you.” The voice said, and it was followed by a wild stab at my body. I felt the blade slice me, maybe in two, maybe in a million pieces; my body writhed and my mind felt the horrors of 600 centuries of evil and manipulation and deception and horror and death. In was like I was made to experience the cosmic feeling of eternal damnation. In that instant I was the personification of the ultimate horror of humanity – the sickness unto death.

I remained frozen for some time, tragic, desperate. I knew all the universal juices had flowed out of me. In that numbing pain I felt my soul for the first time – it was me, it existed, apart from me, it was there, it was real, it was undeniable, and it was in pain. My soul did exist and I shuddered at the thought of the pain my soul had felt. My body was used to pain but my sould wasn’t. The existence of my soul, the pain it has felt, made me feel so alive.

It seemed like forever but I was startled when after some time I could hear the sounds of footsteps, building in my ears, in my head, like the swarming of bees, the magical gathering of butterflies, the convocation of flies. Then the sounds of chaos came to me and I felt dead once more. The pain in my soul was gone, or maybe, I just ceased experiencing either my pain or my soul. But I knew I was back, existing in the chaos, present in some place, aware of countless footsteps. Then it became dead silent.

The silence was almost serene. Tranquil. But I did hear the ticking of the clock. Tic, toc, tic, toc, tic, toc, tic…

I opened my eyes and she was smiling at me. I looked up and she offered her hand. I reached for it and I felt like some force had pulled me up from a deep, dark pit. Then I felt sunshine. Warm and tender, it gave me enough strength to force a smile.

I looked at her, and realized that I was still in the same chaotic place, the same place full of people. But I knew I was with her now, she was with me, holding my hand. My heart never felt so happy.

“You’re drooling on your shirt.” She said, with a sweet laugh. I laughed too, and I must have looked so clumsy searching my pockets for a handkerchief or tissue. She handed me her white face towel.

In the end, I’m sure I’d be left alone. I have left women just as women have left me. But in everything I have had so far I knew, to a certain extent, that there was an amount of love, an exclusive, secure kind of love between two people. A love that didnt include third parties or long-standing promises worth years in the making. But tonight I am sad because our breakdown would be unique, so refreshingly unique: that she did not love me. No, she never did.

The way I asked her to. The way I wanted her to.

So I guess I’m setting her free. Her kisses, her embraces, all the smiles and laughter really belonged for someone else. Someone else, someone else, a looming presence, a dreaded existence. She belongs to herself and to her love. What right do I have to force myself inside that already neat arrangement?

Tonight I am mediocre. Sophomoric and sentimental, cliched and irrelevant. My world collapses but it is no big deal. I am no big hero and the world does not weep for the demise of ordinary men.

The night before, she had sent me a letter. A letter which I couldnt bear to read one more time after I first read it. It was too painful, way too painful for me to bear. Of course, the thought hits me that I might have overlooked a few details, but what the hell. It came to me loud and clear. She was, once more, pushing me away.

What made me sad is despite my intentions of staying, she kept on telling me that why should I stay if pain is all that I’d get? Well, i said, I’m quite tired from it all, and so she said, ok, I understand you have to leave, fine, take care. To think that we had some sort of sex life? No, seriously, I mean, I mean, what the hell, what the hell. We have isolated love from its harmonious complexity to its most indistinct note: selfishness.

These things ran into my head as I walked, rather absent-mindedly, towards the main library. With my 9 am Gudang Garam, I sat down, legs spread far apart, elbows resting on my hips, and enjoyed the smoke. The cigarette was crackling up a bit, and I wished I had some maryjanes or a vodka and tonic or whatever to keep me with that funny feeling of melting away.

Was I guilty? Of course I was. Guilty because I was betraying my moral standards? Maybe, we could put it that way. But what the hell. The guilt only makes the hurting all the more sweeter. It is the follow through that completes the perfect 15-foot jumper.

Suddenly, a faint voice said ‘excuse me’. I looked up and I got so tense, the security guard was standing beside me. Oh man, I had it now, I thought, jail and all and expulsion and what about the freakin’ Magna cum laude? But He smiled and asked if he could have a light. I laughed a little bit and handed him my pink Cricket. He thanked me and walked away down the steps.

I felt so sick. I felt terrible. Miserable. Life was crumbling down and I was caught right in the middle of the ruins. I needed anyone and yet I marvelled at my capacity to enjoy failure. Like I was born for it.

I got up, feeling a little light in the head and went to the door of the Main Library. I breeezed through the security checks and wires and all. As I entered the Men’s room I quickly found my favorite urinal spot. The place was empty and I proceeded to pee.

I noticed that there was a little salagubang drowning in the pool of urine and phlegm and toilet water. It was trapped, its feet stuck somewhere. Barely alive, it responed by moving its feet as I dumped my load onto it. I took pity of it and wanted to pick it up but I realized that I didnt want to go into that much trouble, soiling my hands and all just to save a pathetic, dying insect without a soul.

I opened my latest FHM and some pictures almost made me puke. How ugly these women have become! I dragged on my cigarette and remembered Meggy’s words, which were no different from what my Mom had said: ‘You’d die before you even graduate’. Ah. Peer pressure. It made me laugh quite a bit. I was delighted with the thought that I was so lucid and yet I was so unappreciative. So absurdly unappreciative.

What does college life mean anyway? My friends have been good to me. So were my teachers. I mean, really, I appreciate each one of them. But I guess I am reminiscing in this way because I chose the people whom I were supposed to learn from. Now, I’m really being unappreciative, but so is the world. ‘It’s so unfair!’ I cried aloud, so loud and so proud to have voiced out my protest.

One of the most unforgettable text quotes I have received came from Kristel. It said something like, ‘be not regretful of the past, anxious for the future and ungrateful for the present.’ It ended with ‘God is Love’. Ain’t that nice? I was supposed to be that — regretful, anxious, ungrateful. But I do believe that God is Love. So I guess there is a glimmer of hope. Well, to think that Miami won and Pacquiao won and I’m quite going steady, so, I guess there is hope indeed. Now I’m being a little appreciative.

So tomorrow I will begin my day taking my Kirkland Vitamin C, my Clusivol, my GNC Vitamin E (with rosehips), and the two capsules of RLR Squalene. Hahaha. Of course, there’s always Marlboro Lights Mentol to complete the ensemble and make everything in my head intelligible. There is hope. There is hope.

To think that hours earlier I was almost starting to flirt with the complicated ritual of self-inflicted pain!

A month later, I began acquianting myself more to that great addiction. On the eve of the first day of classes for my first year in UP, I bought, rather nervously, a pack of Philip Morris from an overpass vendor near our place. Then, I placed all the contents into an old canister and threw the pack away. The next day, right after my first ever class in Palma Hall got dismissed, I puffed my first puff in the AS steps and thought to myself, ‘Ah, so this is UP!’ I was so delighted at the thought of freedom. Freedom, as well as the taste of menthol in my mouth, made me feel so satisfied.

A few weeks later, I got bored with Philip and proceeded to buy Davidoffs from Manang Carmen’s. Though a bit overpriced (and expensive), I still marvelled at the power of tobacco, that great force. That was how I met my closest friend in school, Sharine. Right after our Philo 1 class (11:30 am) we would go to some bench in the AS parking lot and smoke those Davidoffs away. It was she, who, a year later, would tell me that I wasn’t doing smoking properly. No wonder my tonsils always hurt, and my nose was always dirty. No wonder, too, that I would be perplexed about why my exhale was a fart compared to the chimneys of others. Turns out, I wasnt really sucking the smoke to my lungs. Haha.

For a time I would stop smoking. During UP Fairs I savored the smell of Gudang, and during the heydays of my org in Lorena Barros I would waste my time away with Marlboro menthols. But I still didnt know how to smoke properly. Until one night, just before Christmas, Fundador in one hand and a Dunhill in another, I finally got it right: blowing chimneys. Finally! At Christmas Eve I knew how to smoke.

Cigarettes were my best buddies. I have been a great devotee and I am somehow proud of being one. There were nights when my old pals, my Dahong Papaya bandmates, would enjoy their beers while Christian and I would pride ourselves with downing pack after pack of Marlboro Menthols (in fliptabs and Cricket lighters) purchased in some 7-11 in Eastwood. In Christian’s car Ines, Jehn, Ronald, Roan, Christian and I would hop from Jerry’s Grill to Pier One (a memorable one during the wake of FPJ); my hands were always out of the window, a Marlboro in hand.

I also happened to meet some of my most cherished friends in UP by way of the mutual love, or need, or interest, to smoke. My UP-ISAW barkada would love to smoke at the gutters of the Balay Kalinaw, Isaw sticks all over. My KAPPP orgmates too, we are slowly turning the left wing of the AS into a fireplace. Aside from Sharine, I loved smoking in the Lib walk with Camille. Pauline and I would always smoke in KAPPP, as we last did during a Friday Night Fair in the sloping banks of the Sunken Garden. Louise and I would smoke and tell of happy thoughts in Megamall or in the UP Theatre steps; I would also infamously be teaching Mao how to smoke in the Lib Steps during 2004. When thoughts like these come to me, I am filled with unbearable sorrow. These people have come and gone, and somehow, I am wondering if, like the smoke that fades away into the sky, someday I myself would fade away. Of course I will.

Many nights I have spent with the company of neighborhood friends and out of school youths and street bums in our subdivision. Many times I have been offered different things that I could also inhale. But I always refuse politely. The solitude of the tobacco was enough, and it was all that mattered to me.

I think, what I love most about the smoke, aside from the tobacco, is the smoke itself. I loved seeing the smoke coming out from my mouth. I loved the smoke as it got blown out of my lungs, especially when the air is still and the lights are contrasting. That is why I hate smoking at day in our bathroom, when the sun is shining fiercely and the sunlight comes darting in through the windows; the white and pink tiles make it hard for me to see the faint white figure of smoke. That is why I savor cloudy, gloomy and rainy days for smoking. When the shadows of the earth are present, the smoke seems to gain potent vitality. I remember taking lonely walks with my Dunhills on Sunday nights around our place, cherishing the sight of smoke against the bright street lamps. Once, I was so dissapointed when I had to wait for a date in the Heaven and Egg – Oakwood – Breadtalk entrance of Glorietta; I had a cigarette but I had no lighter. I couldnt find anyone who had one, for some reason. Come to think of it, I even had Tar Shields with me, the nicotine from a used tube dripping in the box.

Does the prospect of ill-health terrify me? I guess so. But the solitude is harder to bear. I have all my reasons but they are no reasons at all, in the end. I might even start quitting. Once, I had a jog around the Acad Oval, trying to reminisce the 3-round nonstop ROTC COCC jogs we had on rainy Wednesday sunrise(s). Then after a round and a fourth, I got tired. My lungs gave out on me. I went back to my car and took a sip of water. Then bang! Auto suggestion: I took a cigarette out and enjoyed it. I was sweaty, tired and lost. Alone. But the smoke had a nice force into it and I was calmed.

During last summer I discovered an Asahi Beer Ashtray in our house that belonged to my grandfather. It was glass, from Japan, and about 40 years old. I liked it and I placed it promptly on the coffee table in our living room. I lit a Marlboro and after a drag, I placed it on the ashtray to rest. Then all of a sudden I smelled something weird; I looked at my cigarette and saw that a thick white smoke was blowing wildly from it. I realized that the ashtray had candle wax dried in the surface; maybe some time ago it was used to serve as a stand for some candle, most probably during a brown-out. The wax maybe had melted and got stuck to the flame of the burning Marlboro. I stared at amazement as the thick white smoke blew on and on. I, out of sheer curiousity, took a puff, and more smoke came. I blew thick smoke out and suddenly my mouth tasted of candle wax. I laughed somehow until I flicked the ash and the wax no longer was there.

The same thing happened tonight.

With Murakami’s Norwegian Wood in hand (6th time to reread it), and DeBussy’s Clair de Lune playing in my stereo, I used the same ashtray and then came the wax-effect. It was as wild as I can remember, the smoke. But it surely didnt last long: the wax was out as I flicked the ashes down to rest at the ashtray. I was so amused at the way things are going, the way thing have gone. Women, friends, heartaches, failures have come and go, but my cigarettes remained with me. Or maybe it was the habit that remains. But surely, I would have to go, too, just like everything, everyone else.

There are no good endings for smokers nor for the stories they make.

‘Well, what the hell’s taking you so long to decide whether or not you’d start introducing me to everyone as your girlfriend?’ She answered back.

‘Fuck it. Screw breakfast.’

‘Fuck it. Screw love, you motherfuckin’ sunnavabitch!’

‘Bullshit, Marge! Bullshit!’ He was on the top of his lungs now.

‘Bullshit your ass, you bastard! You’re an asshole, Nicky. An absoulute goddamn bloke. Shithead! Good-for-nothing Faggot!’

‘Fuck you, Marge. No wonder you get so wet whenever I lick your pussy dry. You smell like hell. You stink.’

Marge was almost crying now, looking at Nicky. Nicky kept on shouting all those obscenities, oblivious of the world. I took pity on those two wonderful geniuses. They were saying the sort of things that we hear all the time in movies, but we would not like to hear those words so loud and so clear on rainy Tuesday mornings. I felt like embracing Marge and putting a hand on Nicky’s shoulder. Those geniuses needed help.

I sipped on my coffee, hating the world all the more. My tastebuds got burned at the slightest contact. ‘Dammit,’ I said. Marge and Nicky looked at me.

The moon has just upped and left, she said things have become so dense. I guess that’s true, my sweetheart can’t even thank me for the little things done.

Love was like a rebound that was very hard to pull, I was so tired and cold. My soul was begging for anything and no one gave anything at all.

Why not fall in love with me? Why not tell me not to go? Why push me away why say things I never wanted you to say?

I only dread the day when nothing would mean everything and everything would mean nothing at all.

When that day comes, would you still expect me to catch you from your fall?

shcwerschwerschwerschwer. Mushy mumbojumbo crap.