Sunday, July 17, 2011

Yes, I wonder


And, yes, I wonder what goes through your mind when you hear my name, when you speak my name. I wonder if I make your heart skip a beat, if I merit an almost imperceptible smile that can’t help but escape your lips, or if you wish you were brave enough to tell me what you really feel.

And, yes, I wonder. I wonder what is behind the fa├žade—the brawny, the invincible, the reserved, the tamed. I wonder if it could all fall down; and if yes, I wonder when that time will be. Beneath the pursed secrets you chose to share, what is really there?

And, yes, I wonder what kind of fool I am for holding a heavy torch this high for so long. I wonder if there will ever come a time when I decide to sail away from your shore, and the gales don’t push me back into your harbour.

And, yes, I wonder if all this is real. If all this skipping heartbeat isn’t just a figment of a lonely heart.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

The Rafa consequence


I expect a slew of lash back if, by any miracle, theatre actors read this, because I really didn’t find indie filmmaker Rafa Santos’s quip about indie actors offensive. It has got nothing to do with my not being a theatre actor (hell, I’ve only been on stage during graduations; and in college when, out of fun, my classmates and I would play pretend about being singers), although I know I could very well receive acting award nominations each time I schemed.

It was a funny remark, if you ask me. And if audiences tried to observe the expression on his face and listened to the whole interview, they’d actually find that it was not his intention to offend anyone. It was more of a compliment, really, when he said that theatre actors are “better to work with because they don’t complain, you can feed them Skyflakes three meals a day, and pay them in cat food.”

What happened was that people just weren’t able to catch his witty delivery. It could be that the theatre actors who reacted held such ire against Santos because, like Eugene Domingo, there was truth to what he said. Or it could be that Santos’ remark was not taken lightly—as he had intended—because he is a newcomer in the industry; that, had it been some veteran indie filmmaker who said it, people wouldn’t be fuming.

Because when we say something, not everyone is going to understand what we really mean. In the same way, when we tell a joke, not everyone is going to find it amusing. Santos has apologized yet some of those who were ‘hurt’ by what he said still remain unmoved. I think Santos deserves the ‘forgiveness’ of those whose egos he unintentionally bruised.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Catching the bird flu


Having accounts on social networking sites serves as some sort of identification these days. You meet someone over the Internet and one of the first things you’ll be asked is the name you’re using on Facebook—to verify your identity, for sure. You meet someone personally, and you’ll be asked if you have a Facebook account; say that you don’t, and you’ll be met with looks of disbelief and disgust. It’s like—can’t a person exist without a Facebook account?

Well, with Facebook, I can understand. Because, really, who doesn’t have a Facebook account? Some even have multiple accounts, God knows why. Even pets have Facebook accounts. So, yes, if someone told me that he doesn’t have a Facebook account, I’d probably throw looks of disbelief and disgust myself; unless, of course, he is under certain circumstances that hinder him from having one.

But with Twitter, I didn’t get it. Well, I still don’t. I’m in the process of trying to get it. If there’s anything to get out of it—if you know what I’m saying. Because, who would want to post something online with limited characters? Well, apparently some people do.

For me Twitter is for celebrities—those who find the need to let their fans know details of their daily lives, even the unimportant ones. Twitter is for those who have something to advertise. People who are too busy to write a blog post or a Facebook status exceeding 140 characters. But no one is ever too busy, you see. Twitter is for those who want to blog but are lazy enough to blog.

So I don’t really get it. I find it preposterous. But four hours ago, I signed up for a Twitter account on my mobile. I jumped on the Twitter bandwagon not because I want to be a sheep following the herd, but because I want to find out for myself why it has become an eminent part of modern society. I signed up because a lot of people do seem to be making a deal out of Twitter; some of my friends have accounts; a lot of people who shouldn’t even be using computers have Twitter accounts, and are polluting the Internet with silly-bordering-on-idiotic tweets; some bloggers I know have signed up for it, and are communicating with their fellow bloggers through it; some people do have a good ‘tweets’—informative, witty, provoking.

I don’t know how it will affect me. I don’t know how I’ll make use of it. But I’m keeping the account for as long as I find it logical to do so.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

The taken


Sorry guys I’m taken! 30 June at 23:08 via Mobile Web

Anyone who knows my pathological need to punctuate, which sometimes leads to over-punctuating, would know that I didn’t post that status update on Facebook. I surely would have placed a comma after Sorry if it were really me who posted it, because a comma is basic punctuation. And, really, it saves lives.

It was just a sort of prank a friend thought of doing when he borrowed my mobile. And to make certain it appeared true, he even posted the first comment, to which I light-heartedly responded. And then network friends hit the like button, and other comments came in.

I found it amusing that those people who don’t usually comment on my post—let alone hit like—did so this time. What was there to like? I wondered rhetorically. Did they like the idea that I was in a relationship? Or did they just like the idea that someone was in a relationship? As to real-life friends who liked the post, I’m confident they felt glad that I was taken.

But what if taken then didn’t really mean I was in a relationship? What if the post was meant for wandering spirits who wanted to take residence in my body, and I wanted to tell them, ‘no, you can’t possibly have my body because a certain other spirit is already sucking the life out of it’?

And then there was the rhetorical comment (or it might not have been rhetorical at all) asking whether it was true—that I had been ‘sold’, as rough translation would put it. It raised a brow—my brow—because it seemed like to the person who posted the comment I don’t have what it takes to be ‘taken’. That no one would want to be in a relationship with me. So I replied, trying to be as civil as I possibly could. But I really wanted to be rude even though I wasn’t angry at all. What was the point of being rude, anyway—what was the point of throwing back a retort when the target wouldn’t understand it? And I am certain, based on previous exchange of comments, that he couldn’t fathom my humour even if it was delivered in English and he now lives in the States.

And then there was my friend who said it was unbelievable. And I could have gone and defended myself (for God knows what reason), but I only expressed how I felt underestimated, because then I knew it would become a blog post and I doubt Facebook would allow a lengthy comment such as what I would have posted.

So no, I am not taken. I am not in a relationship. Why? Well, that’s another post.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Burn on me, you can’t

cant burn

There is that panic—the nagging feeling that my laptop is going to bail out on me anytime soon. I don’t know what caused it, but I had been using my laptop for at least 15 minutes when I noticed that it was burning hot. So hot that it could almost burn skin. Or maybe that was an exaggeration. But I panicked. Who wouldn’t? And I swear I smelled some sort of plastic burning, or it could have been a delusion or something. You know, my mind turns to panic mode real fast.

I unplugged the AC charger and turned the machine off. It was really hot. You know that stuff people who’ve experienced near-death instances say—that their lives flashed before them as they were experiencing what was supposed to be their last moments on earth (or so society likes to dramatize)? That was what happened to me. But instead of my life flashing before me, it was a future without the laptop that almost drowned me out of sanity. I thought of how I’d spend my days—nights, more importantly—without a laptop. My laptop. Sure, I have a desktop computer in my room, and it’s still fast despite the countless games my brother has installed, then uninstalled and installed again. But the thing is, I know it won’t be the same. I just know it. This laptop has been serving me well for over a year now. It’s my life, so to speak. I don’t think I’ll survive without it. And no, I can’t afford a new laptop, so that’s out of the question.

After I let it cool down, I turned it on again. And when the low battery icon appeared, I plugged in the AC charger. I kept sniffing for that burning-plastic smell I thought I smelled earlier. I kept touching the machine, and thankfully it wasn’t scorching hot like earlier. Obviously, I am now using it and it’s not threatening to explode before me. But I can’t help being paranoid about it. I can very well recall the flashes of no-laptop days, and the thought of it makes me want to just dig a hole a bury myself alive.

Was the sudden change in temperature responsible for the incident? Because the laptop was in my freezer-of-a-room, and I took it out to the dining area where it was a bit hot; I plugged it in immediately and turned it on. I just hope no part of it got damaged. I have a feeling I’m going to have nightmares tonight about losing my laptop. I haven’t even given it a name yet. And I know I’m going to be really paranoid about it for days, weeks even.

Dear God, please keep my laptop in good condition. I swear I will refrain from attacking people who post idiotic comments on my Facebook wall. And I will try not to be really harsh to those who don’t know the importance of punctuation marks.

Saturday, July 2, 2011




Saturday, you used to be so good to me. Now, you’re just a reminder of the things I liked to do, the conversations I looked forward to having, the hours I wanted to last, the laughter I wanted the world to hear, and the friends I used to know.


I see you now in a different shade. No warm lights to make me feel safe and cosy. No scents to remind me of what dreams may come. No cold to induce half-truths within lies. No half-full glasses. No smoke to blur the edges. No sound.


You shouldn’t invite me into expectations; I will not allow it. You shouldn’t hand me hands for fair occasions; I will not allow it. You shouldn’t, at all, look for me in the crowd. I don’t belong there. Not anymore.


And if you think, for a moment, I shall miss you, you’re mistaken. Don’t hold your breath. Hurry now and let another day through. And I will take another over you.