An Ode to Mama

We are mortals. Our feelings are mortals. Our purpose is mortal. As quick as we judge the nature of one’s being, our pedantic views only get in the way of understanding the truth. I lost my mother this morning. Her 6 years battle from kidney failure lead me to go back at her pictures and videos I’ve taken in the past. She held on to make sure we are ready. She understood suffering and its convolution with compassion, faith, self preservation, anger, and self pity.

Yesterday, I went to church with my sister next to the alley of ICU where Mama was confined. I prayed, “I surrender. Thy will be done.” The next morning, I was positive she’d be well, same as the past cardiac arrests she survived but to my surprise, we lost her. I was by myself in the room watching the doctors and medical staff reviving her heartbeat. The doctor came up to me twice to allay how a 30-min resuscitation could mean to her brain. After 30 mins of trying, I requested an hour to be with her body. I opened her eyes, rubbed my cheeks aginst her and laid next to her crouched like a kid. I whispered “Mama”, imagining her grizzled voice answering back. I did too many times noticing how the nurses were timidly rubbing their teary eyes watching me. I wanted to come after her, wherever she is now. And then there was this resounding question in my head– what is my purpose?
One of my sisters got in few hours later. We went about the whole process of getting cleared in the hospital as they call it. I was quiet the whole time which bothered my sister but my head was overwhelmingly boggled by thoughts and memories. We went out to buy water and food, and then a minute smoke to clear our heads. And I thought– I need a flicker of light to remind me why I’m here. As we walk back to the hospital, a 2 year old kid was laying there on the sidewalk (with 2 sleeping parents) unafraid to look through me. I gave him water and food brushing my hand on his head. Later today, we finally went home with the service Mama had arranged and paid for, years before her death.

I locked myself in the room to wallow in grief without a witness, except mama’s ID picture. WHY? WHY? WHY? Why am I so pained? Why am I here? I’m not contending His will but at least an answer would alleviate a pint of reasoning to my strength. Then I looked back and understood. I understood with a heavy heart.

An Ode to Mama

We are mortals. Our feelings are mortals. Our purpose is mortal. As quick as we judge the nature of one’s being, our pedantic views only get in the way of understanding the truth. I lost my mother this morning. Her 6 years battle from kidney failure lead me to go back at her pictures and videos I’ve taken in the past. She held on to make sure we are ready. She understood suffering and its convolution with compassion, faith, self preservation, anger, and self pity.

Yesterday, I went to church with my sister next to the alley of ICU where Mama was confined. I prayed, “I surrender. Thy will be done.” The next morning, I was positive she’d be well, same as the past cardiac arrests she survived but to my surprise, we lost her. I was by myself in the room watching the doctors and medical staff reviving her heartbeat. The doctor came up to me twice to allay how a 30-min resuscitation could mean to her brain. After 30 mins of trying, I requested an hour to be with her body. I opened her eyes, rubbed my cheeks aginst her and laid next to her crouched like a kid. I whispered “Mama”, imagining her grizzled voice answering back. I did too many times noticing how the nurses were timidly rubbing their teary eyes watching me. I wanted to come after her, wherever she is now. And then there was this resounding question in my head– what is my purpose?
One of my sisters got in few hours later. We went about the whole process of getting cleared in the hospital as they call it. I was quiet the whole time which bothered my sister but my head was overwhelmingly boggled by thoughts and memories. We went out to buy water and food, and then a minute smoke to clear our heads. And I thought– I need a flicker of light to remind me why I’m here. As we walk back to the hospital, a 2 year old kid was laying there on the sidewalk (with 2 sleeping parents) unafraid to look through me. I gave him water and food brushing my hand on his head. Later today, we finally went home with the service Mama had arranged and paid for, years before her death.

I locked myself in the room to wallow in grief without a witness, except mama’s ID picture. WHY? WHY? WHY? Why am I so pained? Why am I here? I’m not contending His will but at least an answer would alleviate a pint of reasoning to my strength. Then I looked back and understood. I understood with a heavy heart.

A Time To Remember

Have you ever wondered why people easily forget memories, moments, or details of past experiences? I thought my ability of recollection deteriorated severely after series of epidural injection but it was really just the dates and names that had become fuzzy over time. Even so, I tried verily occasional mind exercises to unlock specifics of experiences that seem to have been calcified at the bottom pit of the brain. It occurred to me that most people I know have some proclivities to disassociate oneself from the past. All they remember is a general overview of feelings and have no hefty effort to reminisce colors, sounds, texture, faces, scenery, etc. Every time I tell stories of events I shared with them, there were only blank faces as if they were never a part of it. What happened to them?

Blackouts. It’s not like the typical socially awkward passing out but I’m guessing people in this generation have viral emancipated memory loss. Is it the monopolistic idea of no pictures-no memory philosophy? Is it the preoccupation of daily motivations?  Is it the antagonistic sins of the past? As a result, we accept things as it happens, sinking in to the cumulative impact of societal stimulus. We change exactly the way this environment expected us to change. The thing is, no matter how we lured ourselves into a delusion this world magically offers, our past is a DNA imprint of life. It cannot be altered nor changed. We can only remember to be warned of what’s ahead.  For a time we’ve managed to procure every reroutes of escape without opening ourselves to malleable justification of the past. We must remember to forgive. We must remember to love. We must remember to rekindle faith. After all, just as we nearly come close to passing, they say the last few seconds is the painful act of remembering.

I’m offering this writing and prayer to old friends and relatives who had left this world in peace.

Chapter 5

I chose friday, not concisely thought out, only for the lack of competition that day. The gamut of emotions hinged alongside a first time prey could be described as a big pit in my stomach. No amount of distractions or medication could cause a relief. I had to bear it until it’s gone. I watched from the elevated narrow parking lot across where she stood. Her eyes drooped out of sullen old age, hardened by the uncommon blackness of iris unlike the mellow slow seniors of her kind. The pinnacle of her load was squeezed in between her armpits while the two arms gladly free themselves from the weight of two full grocery bags. A bag is much easier to cut than a purse. It was a quick consoling remark to deploy the slowly draining guts. She turned her gray-worn head, from side to side, waiting for unoccupied tricycle to stop.

I watched her, as if she was some tenable fire meant to burn an impulsive light-stricken insect. I am the insect, fidgeting to attest the final truth of my boorish pursuit. While she froze jutted towards the right of her direction, my feet tread through the seeming sandpit trail. She was still as an oak, barely noticing my approach. My hand throbbed at the sight of the target—a snake skin crisscrossed pattern. I threw a quick scratch teasing the delirious dexterity of the thread. One more and I heard it hiss about the tease. Almost there and I am ready to pick on the dark hole of unknown treasure. My heart screamed as the gaping hole meekly stretched out.

You know how classical literature love the dramatist execution of revelation? That doesn’t happen in real life. It usually happens now, not later or tomorrow. Those revelations are the pedagogical instruments of imbecile who happens to be everyone by specification.

“What are you doing little girl?” she whispered mocking the visceral content of my nerves. There was neither anger nor surprise in her tone. Her hand gripped like a mounted predator on a skulking possessed arm.

“Nothing. Please sorry to bother you,” I cried.

“Are you lying to me now? Did you run away from home?”her tone remained calm which makes it a rather dubiously poisoning.

“No, please. I’m telling the truth. I have no family.” It was the truth I had ruefully used as an excuse in desperate moments as this.

“Come with me and I never have to give you up to those old men in uniform.” she threatened while pointing to three belly tarnished police men just in time to park.

That wasn’t the last of my mishaps. In fact, later on in life, I’d be the the lost menial sheep caught against the bearings and shackles kissing the back of my skull. The ripples of waving waters showed me the very last thing the old woman taught me. A quick ascension follows the biggest descend.

Chapter 4-Mirroring the Wolves

Mirroring the wolvesFor days, I battled the itch of moving, staunched by the promise of young generous lady or yet another, to come back. The crumbs of unfinished food from a mine of pile beside every fast food chain were beginning to become beyond bland. Hence I started the day, (often at noon), with a slow hoof towards the west of my sleeping camp. The west offers a 24 hour rest room at the gas station and across it, is a grocery store, which is, out of the not-so-original idea, rapaciously opens various opportunities. The lucrative part of this new-found career helped me realize my own power. And so I thought. Only to realize in the end, it’s everyone’s.

Besides the prodigious tapping of food resources, I get pretty busy with other things during the day. I dance away through the occasional music of someone’s radio, sleep under a random shade when a storm of humid air sets in or watch people as they go about their usual shadowy empty self. There were what I call regulars who had established a spot within the grounds of natural property, by virtue of majority’s approval or those who didn’t mind. Here’s a man whizzing off the rusty lamp post, the smoke excrement prying on one’s mouth, a family of three with retractable stove on wheels for peanuts and coated egg, a crippled old man summoning passengers to a jeepney ride, little kids my age dragged by hurried strut of their mothers and co residents unmoved through night and day.

In the course of my daily travel, I became acquainted with few other kids who belong to the society of unwanted and neglected. There’s Pinay and Pinoy in inseparable convocations of sifting through smelling waste of sacks. They are said to be siblings, Pinoy being older at 9 and her sister at 6. The girl and I would often exchange phrases as “Hi. How are you?” but the brother refute any possible mingling by pulling her riveting thinly arm. Perhaps my addition could mean a burden of another mouth to feed. He took great distance from a gang of lads sometimes forming banquet alongside every business and sometimes scattered in pairs. They did offered me to join the group once, bribing with unattractive soiled rice in a plastic but I am no stranger to this affair. The rejection took an offensive toll towards my erring presence and so I’m prohibited to be around their designated territories. They do things differently, which I have attempted poorly. Later on, I had to thank them for showing off their craftmanship.

I didn’t have access to totalitarian educational system. It is what they said it is. I still remember how they loathed bitterly on my desire to pursue forward into high school.

“School is for rich people. Those poor idiots who think they could fool themselves end up in lowly blood sucking jobs barely feeding their families.” Carlo chuckle with approval while Aunt Rina stuff her already full mouth.

“I had a customer last week, really rich politician,” in her bragging voice, loud as a chirrup of a gutted goat. I doubt that.

He invited me to his big house and fuck! I’d definitely want to be a mistress for that house. He was in this big couch, really huge than your bed,” while she point finger to my starry eyed face. “and I mean really gigantic than my bed it could take maybe 10 girls. But fuck, that ass is so heavy I could hardly breathe when he’s on top. And that breath, shit fuck as a pig!” she continued as her face turned crumpled sheet from disgust.

“You know how much he fuckin’ paid me for that hell?” Fuckin’ two thousand! Fuckin’ two. Can you believe that?”

“My teacher said that most scientists came from average or even poor families?’ It was supposed to be a mild defensive statement but came out rather as an infernal assuming protest.

“What?” her voice now strident and forceful. “Is this what they’re teaching nowadays? All the crap about delusional hopes and dreams. Well let me break it down to you kiddo. There is no dream. This shitty house and that food I fuckin’ feed you are the only real shit you gotta deal with.” That’s Aunt Rina.

My family’s not all bad as it appears. They were good educators in so far as surviving the streets. Aunt Rina said that people naturally mimic a person they are not. But everyone stirs from that mask, even the best pretender slips given time. I have to be watching and listening when that time comes. So I stood there observing the haste of two bodies in a crowd clinging side by side of an old woman waiting for a cab, utterly concern for no more than her grocery bags. One of the kids in the group lashes behind, his fidgety hand carefully reaching for the purse. When the deed was successfully done, each of the positioned ally dispersed into all directions. After few episodes of what seemed a well rehearsed play, I came up with an improvisation that will change the gears of my life.

The Dilemma of Triangle

Man to 1st Woman

woman 1

 

 

 

 

 

Tonight I share the bed with you.

Same as every night and other nights for infinite years.

You lay whizzing rested in beasty eerie ways,

Guarded and arrogant even in deep taciturn.

 

Oh, I desire to strike you!

To bend the unfortunate fervour.

Hoist that hair around your neck.

Perhaps lance a sword behind the frailties back.

 

But of course, a thought is just a thought.

Such frivolities I cannot concur.

I’m only held by atonement born with.

And I continued to be held, despite the queered rage.

 

While you were once a moistened bud,

And I was once among the bees.

What is left less the comely part,

A malediction of wisdom

A megalomania among the fickle mind as I am.

Hence, I refuse to leave.

 

to be continued..

Chapter 3-The Case of Maria

beggarI have learned that there’s an ultimate bliss in running without the dense weight of baggage, neither a pebble worth on my palm. There was just heavy storm of burning heat and dry spasms of asphalt on my thinning soles. I walked and turned, past through the tombs of civility, then through the desolated remains of old city. It was a long stretch of buildings and houses with blotted walls, nearly familiar as my old house–my Aunt’s old house.

This part of the city has more traders of indigent kind. Across the fast food chains that stood from corner to corner, are miniscule stores that open all day and night, indiscriminately to all customers. Most kids hike next to their doors, strewed like lost cats and dogs. I wonder where they emerge from, where they come in and out. I guess I’m not alone in this pursuit, except that they have found a constant space in this street to squat when they tire. There’s an old woman waylaid behind the glass door of Ministop. Although her presence riled those who pass by and by those of the store’s crew, she knew it was her place. It was the safest to be and the 5 year old child she carries. Her pallid face, drying from the throes of heat and noise, occasionally looks up in hope for someone to look back. I decided my place is going to be close to hers. I sat down, my feet still holding against the weight on the floor, waiting for whatever they’re waiting. My knees, now quaking from starvation, supported the slowly nauseating head. The daylight fell in total darkness.

I woke up sopped in sweat and cold at the same time. A hand poked gently on my stiffened neck, it’s hard to tell if it was just a dream. My concept of time had become confusing that tonight seemed 2 nights ago or few hours passed.

“Are you hungry?” Her brown dyed hair dangled in place, nails tinted in shimmering black and skin glowed like a sun-kissed satin. This time, I refused to talk given the premises an utterance had brought me through. She waved a plastic of bread teasing for a sign of response. I held my tongue, waiting for her to give up. Oh I long for her to give up that bread. “Where’s your family?” I could decipher the old woman’s panting next to me, wishing it had been her. The attempt paid no heed so the food ended laid for my picking. She was gone in few seconds, right to the alley I have not been. I picked up the plastic and slowly gnawed the food with bare soiled hands, hoping that in doing so, I could remember the feeling of fullness when starvation hits again. An ominous watcher now pleaded in more obvious observance, hoping the generosity will not abandon her as it did on me. My hand extended 2 sheets of bread and watched as her eyes blazed like a fire. A fire greater than happiness—like happiness ashed with sprinkles of pain.

“Thank you,” a faint sound overcame a strange feeling. Power dwells in me.

Rêver

I’ve only started watching lectures on Introductory to Ethics under Philosophy and the first few minutes already piqued my interest with dilemma questions. A professor from Oxford gathered examples of conflicts in values among her students. She asked–how you would react if a friend inquired for your opinion on her hideous haircut. Would you say “Yuk!” or “Oh, that’s nice!”? Would you be truthful? Or be kind?

I thought of one dilemma since I was a kid—retelling a conditional truth. You be the judge and tell me the difference between, ”She hit me with a baseball bat and I hit her back with an axe” and ”She hit me with a baseball bat.”

From where I am at, the area is often hit by monsoon rains and typhoon. Despite the regularity in conditions, people couldn’t just be ready enough. Social Media becomes a humdrum pool of people needing help. Your heart peals for the earnest will to give aid. Tell me how this would sound if they write you back a thank you note that says, “We spent the money in building the house, bought some relief and clothes for the kids,” as oppose to, “We spent the money in building the house, bought some relief and clothes for the kids, while the rest on a hair cut, new cellphone, bags and shoes.”

There is one truth I know and that—I knew barely. I only see what is perceived within reach. Reason is sometimes not enough to bring us to an understanding, not even hearts bestirred by passionate logicity. Even so, our pride vociferate like a tinging smoke blinding us and others. The truth is, we would never know enough.

I wish I’ve existed when the Earth was young. My feet could wallow through eddied bounds of water and soil. My eyes could praise the towering stars through dead, yet so alive darkness. I could alienate and watch tenaciously other souls asunder by distance.

I could only assume there is much to bear when the world realizes it has known much and greed to know more. After all, we are once a walking wily beast who fed on weaknesses of animals and ailing brothers. My hope. Our only hope. Is to warn the younger ones of fib and mistakes we’ve been through. To find solace in silence and being alone. To preach and honor the will of others. To find wealth in health and fruits of hard work. To forgive and accept the grievances of conflict. To love whatever the odds are. Sought for equanimity and justice. To believe we are equal in all respects, (as an entity conceived and will expire) despite the differences in wealth, occupation, principles, experience and gender.

Resolved

During the latter quarters of last year, I had unofficially committed to goals which were religiously abode. I took a 15-minute workout (at night given my sleeping pattern), learned french (which I’m still currently in progress), listed new American English vocabulary terms, and read American and British literature from renowned writers. Because the use of communication gadgets less interest me, I took the time to mark the days I have achieved so on my planner. I’m aware that all compulsions, addictions and habits start in conscious premeditation of actions, reason for the staunch note taking.

This year has given some sense of direction to provide reasons for my doing. Now that the first set of habits were established, I added a few more on the list by widening my education. I intend to partake and rectify an already solid principle by studying biographies of national and foreign personalities, and by studying philosophy, sociology, theology, applied physics and biochemistry (a degree I have invested in for many years). I crave to satisfy my hauteur taste for bountiful menu, hence, I started cooking again.

Another tenet that fascinates me since are sartorial artistry, painting, sketching and music, which could maybe wait for another year. At an early age, I have indulged in these things, a world I have created for myself when family’s financial premises limited my capacity to explore. A loving Aunt who had passed away few years ago, taught me the fiddling and sewing which I have applied so on old garnished garments my grandmother kept (without her consent of course) to a scarred vodoo-like dolls among my collections. Her masterful music degree taught me the once tingy vocal orientations, that eventually had grown musty because of smoking.

Growing up, I dreamt of bigger things. I studied relentlessly not because of those dreams but because I have to get scholarships. I heard one say, “I have to do what I have to so I could do what I want to” When I mature realizing that this world is not a wonderful orb of delight, those dreams changed to philosophies. I guess, life truggles lead you to an end and start of your lifetime. You decide the only 2 opposing geographies that exist—the good and the bad pursuits. Your bad actions cannot justify good intentions. Your good actions cannot justify bad intentions. It is always just either one of both.

Today, I have heard the passing of a good friend. His milestone made me question further my own.

Biography of a Whore

As I had always been fascinated by biographical theme of women in my stories, this short story came easy by observing the nature of social interactions through web.

 

I woke up and there was nothing new to ponder. There’s no news to bring about significant feelings. There was no food to tatter my teeth against, hence, my stomach started to grumble.

My hands are sweating at noon, reliving the spot it had been the night before. Even now, I feel the starry eyed faces cemented against the small screen, asphyxiated by their own breath. Few hours and 3 days waiting. That’s what it takes to live. I checked my account once again to make sure they paid what they owed my time for. My precious time is their precious time.

Being in this business for years, I have learned the dark endeavors of human pathetic life, not even a psychiatrist could have figured out. No one gets satisfaction from being superimposed. No one gets off from telling a life story. It only but reminds you of what is there not to live for.

To be the top in my league requires ingenious marketing strategy. Clients inquire for the value called “appealing.” Let me tell you that appealing could be vaguely subjective. The niche, flitted in various distinctions, specifies a physique and behavior supplemental to an effective masturbation. Oh I’m so glad they invented the net. My subtle rakish pursuit is definitely less competitive than the warriors of street business.

Unlike any other money-making scheme, clients in this business are quiet easy to bait without the fuss on key marketing words, except for an occasional tone of reinforcements the dictionary didn’t have to know. Hot, wild, pussy, BJ, MILF, chat, show for pay, etc. Opening clauses and acronyms are usual, preferable than a statement with subject and predicate. There are explicit sites open for an easy-done-deal transactions and negotiations while there are some that opens an opportunity for obligated sponsorship. I could definitely stand an old man, contracted with muscular spasms and aging blotted skin than younger or middle aged-men, mostly chaffing for a discount.

It is essential to update snapshots of the merchandise every time. I prefer to work alone in that area. With a pimp, exposure and fashion paraphernalia can be bagged for free but that would take out 70% of your actual earnings—if you get lucky. Then there’s the waiting time. You eliminate the free loaders and chatters from “serious takers” as they put it. There are newcomers and not-so-sure-about-this-shit-but-I-intend-to-try mediocre that need some guiding sometimes. Special holidays slow the pace of usual business hours because men, no matter how uncontrollably cavernous prick they are, have little veneration for family ties. Yep, most of them have families too. Kids who use their parent’s credit cards, husbands who have to turn over pay checks to nagging wives, and the antisocial nerds who disproportionately spend their entire addictive life online (but the biggest spenders, I have to commend)–all have lapsing moments, not good for my business.

It’s a skill to make both my client’s and mine’s time lucrative for progressive negotiation. Dress up for the night and say the right words. Establish an atmosphere mutually stimulating by creating a pleasing image.

“Wana have fun tonight baby?” He’d grin and challenge you back.

“What do you have in mind?” he says.

“How about I show my kind of fun?” my fingers slowly skinning the bare garment.

“I would love to watch you babe.” his hands travel down the unseen place, boisterous and palpitating.

Now I’m ready for a bit of theatrical coquetry. Eyes frown bidding with slight tears. “I know you think I’m just a whore.” My voice innocently reverberates like a breastfeeding woman. “But I touch myself to forget about my worries. I like to go back to school when I made enough money from this and support my younger sisters.” I have to warn you to never over-fuckin’ do it. Too much sentiments could squash down the blood in his groin. If the conflation of human elements were expressed right, you could get paid in an instant. A sadist favors the role of abusing an oppressed woman. A regular guy would love to think he’s helping out while helping himself.

Like I said, most women prefer an old man. They are often repeating customers with an eye for attachment. They often hand you a ticket to an early retirement in return for elephantine attention and adoration. They suck young blood for eternal youth while their wives found a menopausal grand place in a wheelchair knitting shirts for their grandkids.

You think I enjoy doing this? I consume insurmountable ATP of energy every time, extracting a squirt out of my aging body. If efforts are hopeless, I fuckin’ pee. That’s right guys. Women pee when desperate measures call. Nympho who claims she squirts all the time is an absurd analogy for pallid business management. They want attention more than anything else. It’s like using the merchandise for own use, instead of profiting by selling it. If you haven’t figured out, to live is extenuated by making money, rather than making money to live.

As long as I live, I cannot be loved without the chains of my past. Not by a patriarchal decent man in every girl’s dream. MY men dogged at seeing the opportunity in my skills. As I age, there’s little bask of freedom left, only resentment and isolation. Although I have gone used to posing as a haughty whore , gaiety and in control, there’s a sheepish little soul wanting to take it back. Oh well, we are all but stuck in this mud hole called world.

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