I Remember

I was looking out the window when you came into the living room. Everybody turned to look at you, but I believe I looked at you the longest, following your every move until you settled onto the couch across from me. I tried to catch your eye but you were then more interested in the magazines on the table.

After a while, we all got up for dinner and, amidst the chatter of everyone there, I stole glances at you. You looked so frail; eating slowly and chewing very carefully, as though your very being would shatter at the slightest hint of a sudden and inappropriate action.

As the diners became smokers, I approached you; and found you lovelier with your timid “Hi!” and “Have you got a light?”

Wine and a conversation ensued; and I felt myself drawn deeper into your eyes as the night unraveled itself. Your thoughts seared my soul and my mind floated into visions of you and I… taking a walk into the woods… sitting by the river… slowly caressing each other’s fingers… our lips finding themselves together as the Sun bade farewell and retired behind the mountains.

I did not sleep at all that night. I knew you had gotten hold of my heart the moment you walked into my life on that most fateful of evenings.

And you still have it, even after all the years that passed us by. Even after you left to chase your noble dreams of lending your hands to the plight for the children of the Sudan. Even after you came back with news that you had found another man, and were to be wed soon. Even after that man broke your heart by leaving you a bride without a groom on the night before your wedding. Even after you intermittently came and went into my life, and finally settled in Africa to forget everything and lose yourself in the beauty of that mystical paradise. My darling, you have always had my heart and you always will…

…as I have yours, in my hands… right now… untouched by neither spices nor herbs… fresh and moist, and as primeval as the love I have for you. Oh, my beloved! To consume your heart and finally have it with me! In me! Nothing can come between us now!

Apolitical Intellectuals (Otto Rene Castillo)

One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.

They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.

No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing".
No one will care about
their higher financial learning.

They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.

They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total lie.

On that day,
the simple men will come.

Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:

"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"

Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.

A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.

Your own misery
will pick at your soul.

And you will be mute in your shame.

At Last!

We put in six hours at Boxed-In Music Studio last night.

Ten songs came out.

I am grateful to the guys, and to JV Castillo and Bong Ramos for all the hard work.

Yeah! The album will be out soon.

Six Hours Yesterday

Knee Bender People Iced: Thirty Seven Car Bombs Planted: Twelve Favorite Weapon Bowling Balls Arms Broken: Two Eyes Gouged: Fourteen Tongues Cut Off: Nine Biggest Enemy: The Bull Get Your HITMAN Name AWSOME-GAME

We Were Boy Scouts

I remember some of it… Clearly… That week, there was a typhoon ravaging the land. Of all times! It was all grey and gloomy when we got there. It was still grey and gloomy when we left… until the last person boarded our shuttle… and the Sun shone on our muddied beings.

On the first night, the tent (courtesy of Bujong Castillo's dad) we pitched on rain-soaked ground fell, almost hitting our faces in the middle of the night. There wasn't anything dry for about a fifty-mile radius from where we were. Hell, the highland city was nowhere near dry that time.

On the second night, Eric Castillo a.k.a. Rhapsody rifled through our packs and took out love letters, which he read over Mr. Douglas Manzalay's megaphone, while everyone was squirming in his cot.

Jeffrey Binarao accidentally cut his arm with a jungle bolo. Archie Ahorro got caught bathing with our water supply - for which we were made to stand in the rain, facing the wind, for a good thirty minutes. There was a kid from the neighboring shanties who could see nether creatures. That "football" game we played, digging up holes for goals, and using a Nescafe Frappe plastic canister for a "ball". Roderick Reynoso competing with a harp made of a leaf and a comb, a la Levi Celerio.

We were a great team then, having bested the other schools in group activities.

And, yes, you went so near to being done for, with that slide you took. Thank heavens for that fallen trunk!

You never ceased to amaze me then, even with your seemingly distant smile and somewhat lofty ideals. You always upheld what was… IS right. I  looked up to you then. I still look up to you now. And not only because of our height difference.

Yes, comrade, Life happened to us. But, that year serving with you in the Student Council and that week at the Jorge B. Vargas Centennial Jamboree… They remain in my memory as the greatest times I've ever known.

But, you see, I'd have won that one-grand prize money for the reunion… but I can't help myself from sharing that her name isn't Ms. Pulido…

It's Ms. Rosemarie Pulgo.

Now, let's start rounding up the boys!

Mirror, Mirror

“Wot wuz I suppowsed te do?”

“You could’ve been a little more patient, you know. Or forgiving.”

“Bot he whistled at me Mum.”

“That wasn’t reason enough for you to have gone Rambo on the dude.”

“Aw, feck! I din’t go Rembow on the bloke!”

“What then do you call stabbing him through the stomach and then kicking his head while he was down on the ground, man? Christ, you even spat at his face while he was coughing up blood. You broke the guy’s nose three ways. And, on top of that, you broke both his wrists with your boots.”

“Well, wot wos I suppowsed te do, huh? Just stand there an’ take shite frem ‘im? I just did wot I thought me Da’ would’ve done. Wot I thought I should’ve done te make me Da’ proud of me.”

“Proud? Hah! Your dad would be mighty proud right now to receive a call about his son being in jail, I tell you. You could’ve just walked away, kid. Your mom told you it was alright.”

“That would’ve been awfully stewpid of me.”

“Stupid? Look at where you are now, kiddo! Besides, your mom might have even taken it as a compliment. She’s not exactly a looker, you know.”

“Wot kinda stewpid feck are ye? That’s crazy shite roit there!”

“You’re calling me crazy? You’re the one who’s talking to himself in the mirror, lad.”

Why

“Why’d you kill her, kid?”

“I couldn’t love her… and I couldn’t leave her either. So, I killed her.”

“That was pretty quick. And pretty awful of you, son. Your lawyer’s outside. She wants a word with you.”

“What the fuck for? This is the third time I’ve told you that I AM fucking guilty!”

“Watch your language, boy! You’re lucky I haven’t beaten you up yet. I’ve been on this job for twenty years, just so I could give my WIFE and kids a decent life in this hellhole so don’t go talking trash with me!”

The copper stormed out of the room. He was seconds away from losing it and shooting me. I would have loved it if he did. Suicide by cops. Glorious.

She walked into the room, shaking her head while squinting at me.

“What happened, Billy?” she asked, sitting in front of me.

I lit a cigarette. “I killed her, that’s what happened.”

“Why, Billy? Why would you do something like that?”

She was, obviously, finding it hard to contain whatever it was that she felt about me. Anger, perhaps. Frustration was more like it. From the day they notified her of my crime, I haven’t given her a single reason, the way I did with the coppers. I even told her that I didn’t need a lawyer; that I didn’t even want one.

I looked at her. “It’s the only way I knew to bring you back here.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, William?!? You’re telling me that now? And you told me, over the fucking phone, that you didn’t even WANT a GODDAMNED LAWYER?!? This isn’t one of your fucking novels, you know! Shit!” she said as she slammed her fists on the table.

I like looking at her whenever she’s angry. Hell, I like looking at everyone whenever they’re angry. Anger reveals too much of what people try not to show. Anger reveals the things going on behind the curtains.

She grabbed my pack of Marlboro Reds and lit up a stick. She puffed deeply and looked at me, trying to regain her composure. “So what is IT that you wanna tell me, huh? I flew across an ocean and left my job for IT… and IT had better be good, Billy.”

I smiled at her. “I didn’t kill her. She wanted a way out of her life and I, uh, just wanted to help her. The body I burned belonged to a thirty-year-old woman who peddled marijuana and crystal meth on a corner near our apartment.”

“Jesus, Billy. You really ARE crazy.”

“And so I am, kiddo. And so I AM.”

I lit up another stick and watched her marching over to the door. She took one last look at me. One cold last look. And slammed the door behind her.

And all I could think of was how to get that copper to lose his cool over me.

Snippets

Every life has one true-love snapshot.

—

As far as he could tell, when your time came, it came, and that was that. You might say something smart on your way out, but you might as easily say something stupid.

—

Young men go to war. Sometimes because they have to, sometimes because they want to. Always, they feel they are supposed to. This comes from the sad, layered stories of life, which over the centuries have seen courage confused with picking up arms, and cowardice confused with laying them down.

—

… sons will adore their fathers through even the worst behavior. It is how they learn devotion. Before he can devote himself to a God or a woman, a boy will devote himself to his father, even foolishly, even beyond explanation.

—

The worst part is not the sleeplessness. The worst part is the general darkness the dream leaves over him, a gray film that clouds the day. Even his happy moments feel encased, like holes jabbed in a hard sheet of ice.

—

How can he explain such sadness when she is supposed to make him happy? The truth is he cannot explain it himself. All he knows is that something stepped in front of him, blocking his way, until in time he gave up on things, he gave up studying engineering and he gave up on the idea of traveling. He sat down in his life. And there he remained.

—

Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them - a mother's approval, a father's nod - are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand; their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of their lives.

—

The old darkness has taken a seat alongside him. He is used to it by now, making room for it the way you make room for a commuter on a crowded bus.

—

"Better," she said, "to be loyal to one another."

—

Love, like rain, can nourish from above, drenching couples with a soaking joy. But sometimes, under the angry heat of life, love dries on the surface and must nourish from below, tending to its roots, keeping itself alive.

—

"It sounds," she said, wistfully, "like someone else's summer."

Good Friday / Black Saturday / Bad K

They’ve gone. On nights like this one, other people would probably sleep early. What with three nights of staying up late and drinking; exchanging stories on the porch. Not me. I miss the company already. The laughter; the anecdotes; recording songs on a digital machine, making believe we were our heroes. Bob Dylan. Joan Baez. Tom Petty. Sarah MacLachlan. And then laughing it all off again.

All I’m left with are the Indigo Girls on my playlist. Singing; whilst I down a bottle of gin. My touchstones are elsewhere. If I only could’ve kept them all near. That I scatter myself in a lot of directions is a testament to my unstable nature. That I favor distance over confrontation is perhaps my sin of cowardice. For a folk singer, I am afraid of facing the music. I would rather go and wage other people’s wars, on soils foreign or otherwise, than make my peace with my own demons and ghosts.

Yes, Natalie, THESE ARE THE DAYS. Days when I am supposed to be the brave man I have always wanted to be. Days when I am supposed to, just for a while and for myself, live the inspiration other people come to me for. But, Natalie, I simply cannot be that man right now. I cannot even be a faint glimmer of my own reflection on the glass.

And, yeah, Sharon’s waiting at the end of the rainbow.

Got This From The Girl Next Shore

Have you ever danced with the K in the pale moonlight?

Which movie was this quote from?