Chug, chug, chug!

I am a raving maniac, I know. Which kind of conceals the fact that I have really nothing to say or account for the past few days except another series of drunkenness that I deserve a permanent stamp on the forehead that screams: Alcoholic Synonymous! Let us survey the assorted poison I’ve been gargling: weng-weng, check. The ever staple beer, check. Jägermeister, check. Now that’s premature fogeyness for you. And that’s how I spent much of the past few days. This week, I’d hit the pool, swim the toxins off until my lungs burst, go into a perverse vegan diet, jog around the flat. No wait, let me check that: wedge the iPod into my ears, yank the volume all the way up, hold the iPod arm length and dance like a hormonally crazed rhino charging around randomly in nothing but white briefs. Someone kick me in the face. Or in my shins.

Puddles

He negotiates the orphaned parking lot in casual, oblivious strides. It just rained that afternoon and the mood is somehow mild — flanked by gloom and temperance. A faint howl of diminishing wind echoes across skyscrapers and dampness brushes his cheeks. He is neither cold nor warm, he is sure of it, which is both a surprise and vaguely familiar. That kind of sensation. The grass still shivers from the downpour and he notices the gleam of ecstasy from every blade. They seem to fluctuate in elated sways — perhaps in celebration of deliverance from the curious rage of sweltering summer. He notices things like that. No matter how unmindful he appears, casually walking in an abandoned parking lot, he never fails to notice. There were puddles. Seven, to be exact. He counts puddles as a matter of habit. There is no significant reason or neuroses to justify, he just counts puddles because there seems to be a perverted jot into this bizarre habit. He dares not disturb any of these miniature lakes — for he is gripped with alternating waves of awe, wonder and respect for nature’s ability to reinvent itself: puddles are miniature lagoons — a miracle, really — that chose to build a provisional home in a fragment of space and transience of time. This, he understands. He is then gushed with indulgence and a smile races across his mind. Moreover, he knows that puddles are celestial mirrors. They contain secrets revealed in a flash, soon to be soaked into secrecy by the hunger of loam and sand. So he is grateful to notice these common marvels. For these puddles make him remember those eyes. Little ponds he can drown in.

Ephemeral

May 23, 2009
07:23 P.M.

Dear James J. Crist,

It seems to me that whenever I stumble into something really amazing, the minute I touch it, it dissolves into oblivion. Nothing but a faint aftertaste is left. Testament of how ephemeral things and people really are.

Boorishly,
The Struggling Dweeb

P.S.
I think I might have really forgotten how it feels to pine for affection. What must I do?

Too many demons, too few angels

1. For someone who has not read the book, I find Angels and Demons quite entertaining, what with its breakneck speed and rich production values. This then forces me to grab the book and read it, for I heard there were a couple of subplots which were overlooked by the director. Nevertheless, this latest Dan Brown-inspired religious action thriller (three genres you don’t usually see together) is nail-biting and entertaining altogether.

2. It’s a harmless entertainment which hardly affects the genius and mystery of Christianity — less bashing of the church.

3. Where Angels and Demons succeeds is in its sequences of violence, disturbing images, awesome backdrop and celestial speed. With much of the story set in Vatican City, we get to see the intricate architecture of the churches, which massively promotes Rome. Meanwhile, the acting and some of the effects come so fast that if you take a pee, you may miss a murder.

4. Anyone can fly a helicopter.

5. Ewan McGregor’s performance here is probably one of the highlights in this film. He brilliantly chews up every scene he is in as Camerlengo Patrick McKenna who is temporarily manning the Papal office while the cardinals are in the conclave.

6. The church was not portrayed as anti-science at all. In fact, Galileo would have been really happy about the establishment of the Vatican Observatory.

7. There were a couple of heavy philosophical exchanges along the way, including the big one, “Do you believe in God?” posed by the Camerlengo to Langdon. The professor quickly replies that the existence of God is beyond his mind to determine. “And your heart?” asks the priest. “My heart is not worthy.” Ron Howard does an even-handed job of balancing the scale.

8. The room which holds the antimatter was totally unguarded, making it easy for the assassin to break in by stealing someone’s eyeball to get past the retinal scanner.

9. Vittoria Vetra’s purposes are: (1) to explain that the battery will indeed run down, (2) to request her father’s secret journals from Geneva, although they were never actually read, and (3) to run along everywhere with Tom Hanks, to bore us with urgent conversations.

10. That’s a lame way of suicide. Come on, you could do better than that.

Before I go into that

I am having a hard time starting to state my views on the topic that has generated an ever widening gap of opinions on the relevance or should it be the insignificance of Dan Brown’s fictional account of the life of Jesus and the atrocious side of it in his Da Vinci Code.

I don’t want to go to the extreme of backlashing Dan Brown or his book for being a threat to people’s faith or for causing such hype and religious pandemonium that characterized our present day and gradually heightened on the account of the Da Vinci Code movie. I haven’t seen the movie yet but I have read the book, viewed several documentaries and was able to browse through some apologetics written on it. And I must say, it was rather interesting.

The controversy has never caught me offguard. The reality that Brown has never misrepresented his book as fact should not have alarmed the religious community. Second, true that some archaic documents helped Brown weave his story on a very contentious plot, the Gospel of Judas was never considered a canon scripture and is fictitious in itself, a product of second century Gnosticism. That and many other Gnostic writings can never outweigh the overwhelming evidence of thousand manuscripts that support the canon scripture. So personally, I’m still wondering why such fuss.

On the other hand, I am not altogether discrediting Brown and his literary work; in fact it has shed some light on important historical issues that ever shrouded the Gnostics. The Da Vinci Code is a perfect archetype of the Gnostic thought. The Gnostics are a socio-religious group that thrives on self-made realities embedded in their future archives. From the Greek ‘gnosis’ which means knowledge, they claim to possess this ’secret knowledge’ that sets them apart from the uninitiated having received greater light that made them superior than the inept. They are the forerunner of the Knights Templar, the Rosicrucian and many other clandestine societies including the present day Freemasonry. A scarlet thread runs though these organizations along with their vows of secrecy — the ‘light’ that they all claim to possess.

Another quite interesting point is the allusion to the lost grail. A subject that has been hinted in Gnostic texts, chronicled in legendary journey by the Templars and ritualized by the Masons and add to that the secret society mentioned by Brown membered by prominent persons like Da Vinci and others.

So what have we got here? I believe, that more than the publicity the Da Vinci Code is getting and the festive appeal of its religious facade is the ‘light’ — the knowledge that all other modern day Gnostics share, the neo-pagans and the start of the Great Initiation. The wait is not that long, it was a tedious effort, subtle and shrewdly planned not just for years but for centuries. The Da Vinci Code could be that catalyst the age-old Gnosticism waits — the answer that lies beyond the light.

Sore

Instead of one, I have two toothbrushes occupying the opposite holes in the toothbrush canister like a quarreling couple giving each other a cold silent treatment. And what’s more odd is the fact that I only use the one with blue-tipped bristles, so far, absolutely rendering the other (magenta-bristled) a disgraceful virgin in the gum-rubbing department.

I have no personal distaste or aversion towards purplish hues. It just doesn’t strike me on purely aesthetic level, that purple color. I figure the two brushes were packaged as “his and hers” for the price of one. Since I am a bonafide el cheapo who is too goshdarn lazy to rummage around the grocery for the dental hygiene rack containing toothbrushes packed in singles, I allowed myself to be lured by the promise of saving and discount — virtues that have no perceptible effect whatsoever to people like me who are full-blown morons in budgeting and financial proficiency. One of my heedlessly adopted principle is best summed by credito ergo sum. I spend therefore I am. Misers can just go and stuff their prudent throats with bland oatmeal for life while I munch on Frito Lays and other junk.

So there. That pretty much explains why I end up — and now stuck — with two toothbrushes occupying the opposite holes of the canister. The canister was designed to hold four toothbrushes. It’s made of translucent plastic in vivid blue — a striking color balancing the tightrope between vermilion and cyan — that appeals to design-savvy freaks like me.

“Like a swatch from a Van Gogh canvass!” I’d describe to anyone willing to listen, thereby announcing to the entire blogging universe my shameless and irredeemable geekness.

If I, ahem, allow my self-neurosis to reign supreme I’d admit to having peculiar thoughts that the Violet-Bristled Brush may be feeling neglected and awfully lonely. Maybe in the middle of the night, the two brushes would have conversations, where Violet Bristle would break into devastated sobs and Blue Bristle will come quick with consoling encouragement that a time will come when I, the pathologically callously irresponsible owner, will pick Violet Bristle and finally initiate its immaculate quills to the rancid decay swelling in between my teeth.

“I hope so, too.” Violet Bristle nods in dreamy assent, braving a smile and wiping snot off its imaginary nose. Then it brightly tells Blue Bristle, “but that would be the day when you’re worn and rendered pathetically useless.”

It’s safe to bet Blue Bristle is sore. Annoyed, scared and worried.

But above all, very sore.

A million excuses.

Eventually, I will be numb. For now, let me indulge in excuses. Delusion can be pretty addictive. Melancholy is also a street; it needs to be trodden.

Ready For Love – India Arie

I am a sensitive doer.

According to iPersonic.com, I am a sensitive doer.

Sensitive Doers are gentle, modest and reserved persons. They cope well with everyday life and like their privacy. With their quiet, optimistic nature, they are also good, sought-after listeners and other people feel well in their company. All in all, this type is the most likeable and friendliest of all personality types. Tolerance and their regard for others distinguish their personality. They are very caring, generous and always willing to help. They are open to and interested in everything that is new or unknown to them. However, if their inner value system or their sense of justice is hurt, Sensitive Doers can suddenly and surprisingly become forceful and assertive.

Career

Sensitive Doers enjoy the comforts life offers to the full. They are very happy in everyday life. Sensitive Doers are often gifted artists or very good craftsmen. Creativity, imagination and an especially keen perception are just a few of their strong points. Sensitive Doers are very presence-oriented; long-term planning and preparations do not appeal to them. They take life as it comes and react flexibly to daily demands. They do not like too much routine and predictability. Their talents come more to the fore when work processes are variable and there are not so many rules. Sensitive Doers like to work alone; if they are part of a team, they do not get involved in competitive or power games and prefer living and working together harmoniously and openly.

Your type, although belonging to the introverted doers, is also the most amiable and friendly in his dealings with others of all types. This special combination is the reason for your great flexibility. It enables you to work excellently and contently on your own to suit any situation, but also achieve extraordinary popularity and professional satisfaction as a member of a team. Here the precondition is a friendly, collegiate environment characterized by harmony and mutual respect.

You need a working environment without intrigue or political manipulation, and with the least possible deployment of elbows. Cooperation rather than confrontation, should be the order of the day. Colleagues as well as superiors equally appreciate your unassuming, congenial nature and your unbelievable sensitivity plus your attentive and generous ways toward others. In your presence, people simply have to be comfortable; you are not competition oriented, whatsoever.

You are almost limitlessly tolerant and always prepared to accept others as they are. As a consequence, you very rarely have problems getting along with different people. The only exception: when your private value system is hurt or you notice injustice somewhere. In that case, you can react quite forcefully but even in the most heated dispute you always try to argue respectfully and fairly.

Relationships with other people

Sensitive Doers are completely satisfied with a small, close circle of friends as their need for social contacts is not very marked. Here, too, they avoid conflicts – quarrels and disputes put considerable strain on them. Sensitive Doers are often very fond of animals and are very good with small children. As partner, this type is loyal and reliable and is willing to invest a lot in a relationship. Mutual respect and tolerance are very important to Sensitive Doers. Their love of pleasure makes them a pleasant companion with whom one can experience intensive moments. They like to look after their partner with attentiveness and small gifts and are very sensitive to the partner’s needs – often more than to their own. However, should they meet the wrong person, they run the risk of being taken advantage of. They are then deeply disappointed.

Due to your quiet nature, you don’t fall in love head over heels – but once you do, it happens intensively and fiercely. You have a pronounced romantic disposition and once you truly catch the bug, you insist on putting your beloved in the center of your universe. Like the Idealists, you are an all or nothing type, in this respect. Despite your love of freedom, you are the most faithful and devoted of all the Doers.

You are capable of deep feelings, and you throw yourself into a relationship with all you’ve got. You care for, spoil, and support your partner wherever you can – sometimes even at the cost of your own needs. You are devoted to doing everything for your beloved to the point that you may not realize for a long time that you are getting the short end of the stick. If you feel that you can do him/her a favor, you gladly deep-six everything that is important to you: friends, place of residence, or job. As long as you choose a partner who appreciates this trait, and most importantly, who does not take advantage of it, it is just great. It gets extremely dangerous, however, if you end up with an egoist. In dealing with your contemporaries, you are sometimes a little too trusting because you always assume the same high morals and character trends that are yours. In certain ways, that makes you very vulnerable and that applies to love, as well.

Your pronounced sensitivity (also a part of your personality type description) makes you a very attentive, empathetic, and loving partner. You won‘t miss a mood change in your heart of hearts, and have a damned sensitive ear for hidden appeals. You like it that way because excessive love pledges are not your style, and you don’t continuously carry your heart on your sleeve. You prefer to demonstrate how much your partner means to you with deeds, and by reading his/her wish in his/her eyes.

What can you say Dax? *evil grin*

Transience

Probability is I might have forgotten how it feels to pine over a good feeling. That wanting sensation for a certain fondness — proximity towards someone who gives warm thoughts and general lightness. Might being the operative word, then it’s also possible that I haven’t completely. Somewhere in the corner of the room, splinters of fondness remain traipsing gently on the floor, faint, like soft footsteps of beloved ghosts.

Side note: Someone sent me a message last night. He said, “Free yourself from unnecessary guilt.” He made sense; I slept for 9 hours.

Twenty years, summarized

Who hasn’t a bagful of assorted regrets stashed somewhere in the unrevealed recesses of memories?

What kind of mortal does not wish to do things differently looking back and finding his life’s band are collected beads of beautiful downfalls with random bruises strung together?

What kind of soul isn’t shadowed with wistfulness remembering the pains of gaining wisdom, the tortures of living and the pure raptures of being in the momentary embrace of fleeting love?

What kind of wanderer doesn’t wish to retreat into familiar comforts of arms snaking around a torso to calm the storms of juvenile vagrancies? Of finding peace? Of waking up to soft breathing of another heart to dampen the malicious rage of even the bleakest day?

What kind of spirit wouldn’t brave the rivers, crossing prairies, distance and time to be one with the universe in the greatest hopefulness of tilting a head, sleeping on a chest and hear your name whispered by the slow rhythms of a throbbing heart?

What kind of earthly breathing thing wouldn’t bargain with God for hours, minutes and seconds to once more touch that impalpable fire that consumes constellations into tears as they glide the metrical ballets of alternating days and nights?

We are all drifters. Some of us are fortunate to have found someone to share moments in the unpredictable rising and falling of ages. Some are declined of that ever-smoldering flame. Yet, we move on with the journey. We forgive ourselves for our failings and learn not to impose on accounting for all the hurt bestowed by surly earthlings upon us. We bring unto our graves the darkness of secret whispers, the exultations of delicate laughters.

We cross the threshold of a lifetime, ignorant of the elusive truths and laws of living and loving. We make use of what little wisdom and epiphanies we harvested along the way and for some privileged ones, being bestowed with happiness by benevolent souls who touched their lives. These souls make life bearable. They make dreary days tolerable, ordinary days wonderful, and remarkable days a silent celebration perfumed with gratefulness and quiet raptures.

Because they happen within, and oftentimes they are indescribable: The mystic of love and life, such as they are. And we are enthralled, enraptured, lost.

We all drift  from one love to another heartache. We become wise, if not wiser, or hit the pavements crashing headfirst. Yet we continue in our aimless wanderings. We are tenacious beings, resolute to prefer life, to desire wisdom and to embrace passion.

Regrets are inescapable and inevitable. So is life.

The trick is to keep breathing, living, and if opportunity presents itself, approach it with unqualified abandon and embrace the elations of loving.

Only then can you genuinely gauge if you have traveled the distance, mapping trails and trajectories in the infinite landscape of never ending time.

05.11 – I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Cheers to another year of insanity.

Distant Dreamer — Duffy

Who said titles can’t have periods?

Or in this case, question mark. One of my neurotic habits is paying attention to the most inane objects there are. I would read the same billboard copy even if I have passed the dang thing gazillion times and have memorized its contents to within every bleeding inch of my sturdy skull. I would tell people there were thirty two lamp posts from the place where I live to the nearest Mini Stop. When I say this they would shoot me a look of alarm — an expression between alerting a mental institution, utter disbelief, traces of panic, or, on rare episodes, a genuine amusement for this oddball knack for absurdity. I would read the same book four times in the span of three months if it’s mildly interesting and read anything from cover to cover including doctors’ prescriptions which, I would like to state here to be a new branch in hieroglyphics. I would read the same book a minimum of ten times if it strikes or stirs something in me and I would promote it to friends like a requirement for when they unexpectedly kick the bucket and will be interrogated as to its content as a password to eternal communion with virgins, martyrs, saints and seraphs. I would write about boring things, this entry for instance, and waste unsuspecting people’s precious time in enduring this mindless drivel in the hope of discovering something sensible within one herniating paragraph that seems to be desperately seeking for coherence, logic, purpose or meaning. The sad thing is there is none of the above and as hapless sucker you are reading this final sentence with downright disgust saying ‘what the hell was that all about’ but it’s already too late.

Because it’s my dad’s birthday…

and it’s post-Mother’s day, I will post these pictures of my mom and my dad together. I love you both. You are the reason that I breathe. You are the reason that I still believe. Jai ho. LOL. :D

Punch me, now.

Dear PacMan,

Damn you.

Damn you for selling your soul to the shameless marketing and political gimmicks of wealthy corporate machines and surly politicians, allowing yourself to be exploited and inflicted on hapless and uncaring pedestrians and not blushing on the fact that you’re milking the cows dry with megamillion endorsement contracts. And you have the temerity to involve me in your shenanigans? Laban natin? I’m racking my brains trying to remember having signed up in a presumably long list of googly-eyed lackeys. I know that you racked bazillions just for stepping in the ring, and bazillions more to plague TV monitors with yet another ad featuring your grinning face. I need a bucket, I have to puke.

Damn you for assuming everyone cares about your bouts. Not this skunk, PacMan. I fear I maybe the last person in this blasted civilization who couldn’t give a vermin’s ass about whether you go home triumphant or a total loser. Just don’t milk out the patriotic shtick out of me. Being a bonafide cynic I don’t revel in melodramatic sentimental flag-waving shit.

Go ahead, do your thing. I am not against you fighting and winning boxing competitions. There is a certain nobility in proving your might. Go head, take on endorsement contracts. Just don’t intrude into my wayward ways: winking at me in a giant billboard while chomping on drum stick, hawking vinegar, milk, beer, etc.

If I wanted to be patriotic, I’d train to be a professional assassin and execute corrupt government officials.

If I wanted to get spooked shitless, I won’t need help from your gored face. I’d look in the mirror.

But please, allow me to have a parcel of your winnings.

Sincerely,

The Clambering Dweeb

P.S.

But like you Manny, kaya ko rin ‘to! Kaya ni Ken ‘to!

I plead temporary insanity.

Call it overblown paranoia but it must be some unpredicted undulation in cosmic alignments that made my life seem too easy these days it’s starting to freak me out.

Given the previous sentence it wouldn’t require one to have an omni-level intelligence quotient to glean that I have issues. And that maybe not far from being right. My feeling is that life is sometimes too wicked to bear: it would kick you where it really hurts when you aren’t looking. Or it would decide to drop the other shoe when you’re all dressed up for that grand ball in the gates of dreamy bliss. So as a certified skeptic I adopt the constancy of anticipating for when dire things explode. That way I can always shrug off the self-fulfilling prophecy, smarten up and wait for the next blow. But what’s so liberating is the relief when I’m proven wrong. That there are times the universe can be so benevolent even to me.

To which I am truly grateful.

The only strange thing is: I have facility of being eloquent being miserable than for when I am truly happy. A couple of avid voyeur of this blog may have missed it but maybe I’d point out that all the best scenes in my life are either omitted in the archiving of a so-called life.

It’s not because I’m secretive. Selfish, maybe, but not secretive. I feel at times that all the best moments are for private consumption. That these moments shouldn’t be open for public viewing. But that’s not entirely true.

In reality I am at loss when I’m happy. Words blur and sensations detonate beyond description, leaving me fumbling for clarity, holding to exhale.

Most people wouldn’t have exact same trouble. Some are more inspired when happy than when they are wistful. Oh well, to each his own facility, his own gift to articulate an experience, a feeling, a sensation.

Case a point this entry: I started typing with crisp ideas forming constellations in my head and the minute I typed the first benign word they dissolve into impaired ramblings. Gone are details of previous days or the ecstatic minutiae of hours worth documenting with fondness.

Happiness does this to me.

It reduces me into incapacity to share it to both willing and accidental voyeurs. Happiness makes me inarticulate, which some people misconstrue as concealment two blinks away from selfishness.

I wouldn’t argue nor deny. I plead guilty for selfishness. That’s convenient.

That way all disputes germinating will be frozen halfway and I’ll blink twice and won’t resist a pensive smile.

KAYA NI KEN ‘YAN!

What would I give my mom?

It’s again the time of the year when my siblings and I bicker amongst ourselves over what to give our mom for this rather special occasion. Mother’s Day is quite stressful for me because I am not really good in coming up with special gifts. But we always make it to a point that what we give is something really useful for our mom. We veer away from the usual flowers, figurines, photo frames or chocolates because she can buy these stuff whenever she wants. So I came up with this bizarre list of what to give to my mom.

1. Dirt Devil Kone

My mom is a bit of a neat freak, so she always cleans her room. She has this dustbuster but it kind of looks ugly and quite bulky. So I think she would appreciate this cute handheld vacuum.

2. Lili Lite – Bookshelf Lamp

Like myself, my mom reads a lot. She has a very wide array of books in her shelf and pretty soon, it will already burst. So I thought of giving her a bookshelf that is all-in-one. Lo and behold, the uber functional shelf for above my mom’s bed. It’s a shelf, bookmark and lamp altogether. A built in sensor automatically turns the lamp off when an open book is placed on the shelf, and turns back on once its removed. Pretty cool, huh?

3. Wine Bottle Holder – Whimsical Bear

For one, the bear is so cute. I think my mom would really like this since she’s a chronic drinker. I kid. But I am pretty sure that my mom would use this to hold the bottle of soy sauce, ketchup or something else.

4. You Rock, You Rule Pillowcases

My mom always goes for the solid-colored pillowcases, so I thought of giving her something unique and touching at the same time. Of course for me, my mom is the best!

5. A Guilt-Free Nap

Come on mom, take a rest today! Who knows, we might even fool around with you later tonight!