As we speak inflated

Dear Tina,

E. Yevtuchenko once said that each poet is a farm worker if even a little bit. Well, this farm worker has been tilling the fields again after a very long drought. If not for anything, the pieces refusing all this time to hatch oblivion in my drawers may once again get another chance at life. Having said that, achieving transcendent emotional and cosmic heights in the process, shall we then continue with our newly-revived correspondence?

And now the ugly subject of Bubot is broached. Going back now, I feel that time was the lost footnote of astropheric idealism--a time when we had the luxury to pursue noble causes. But I guess the subtitle for the book, tatlong dosenang sundot ng damdamin, is just that: three dozen small jabs and merely a foretaste of thunderous outpouring in the future. All three of us are just waiting for it to become a self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps? At any rate, we should be thankful for the measly trickles of the moment. Judging from recent conversations we've had as a group, I could safely deduce that we are all still deeply committed to presumptions and tedium. There may be hope for us as poets yet.

I was quite flustered by the fact that you find my pieces worth a second (or more) reading, but the comparison with Murakami may be stretching it just a wee bit. Yes, I'm quite elated that I somehow regained my Muse but, as is usual, I feel that what I've written so far are but a futile exercise to display new words of arranging boredom. My poetry are just journal entries in summary--sufficiently intellectual but possess deranged verbiage just the same. So I'll hold off on the ecstatic celebration for now. It's not the Cosa Nostra after all.

I'd like to disagree with you though on the getting on each other's nerves aspect. I am aware I sometimes still get on your nerves. But you have always been the impatient one. I, on the other hand, have come to terms with the fact that your whims can sometimes be likened to a pop-up book from hell. I've accepted you for who you are, eccentricities and all. Either that or I just refuse to let you drive me up the wall ever again. And now I'm ready for rehab.

More anon. With love always.

Peacemeal

Dear Anak Tintin,

Between the unbearable silence, almost cosmic solitude, and vacillating bursts of passing vehicles, I somehow lost the desire to flee. It's now half past nine on a very slow evening here at GCS (the koisk my older brother and I put up with some friends to build capital for a potential coffee shop). Late perhaps, but welcome just the same, the rains have started to trickle in. It began drizzling at four this afternoon and didn't stop until an hour ago. It left a pleasantly cool atmosphere that promises restful slumber. No wonder it's a slow night. Our regular customers may all be snoring at this moment.

The artistically slapdash concentric oranges, yellows and browns of the kiosk's interior now serve as the cocoon cushioning my tired soul. The haze has cleared a bit and revealed emergent patterns where I'm rooted to one spot, probably lying down in utter surrender like an awkward protagonist in a major motion picture. I finally understood dear old Gertrude when she wrote, there is no there there. For here is where I found myself, and here I shall ultimately remain. And for once, it didn't seem such a sad prospect.

You said you were looking for peace. I might just have found mine. And you will too.

More anon. With love always.

Nostalgia as substance of choice

Dear Jazz,

At a time when every known (and those less so) celebrity has been compelled to produce a book, autobiographical or otherwise--and yes, I'm currently reading an Ethan Hawke novel (gasp!) entitled Ash Wednesday--I regained my Muse. By now, you may have seen my recent poetry. If not, do check out the staccato, tangential, and stop-go ramblings at http://babblingpoetry.blogspot.com.

Now as to our recent cyber conversation. We were, as is typical, one-upping each other with witticisms, yet I could sense your misery almost as if it was emanating from the keyboard. But I do understand where you're coming from. I do know how it feels to drudge through the daily routine. How of itself, each was trivial; yet, after a time, they coalesce to form a dreadful personal incubus. I myself am surrounded by clods with whom any meaningful conversation would be impossible. It was fated that I be doomed to a life where provincial stupidness, consummate laziness and lack of imagination abound. Yes deary, sometimes it does feel like life is sucking honey from a thorn. (Louis Ginsberg) But I have aways been a pluralist or an eclectic, seeking the best in all types and seeing the good in all things. There's just so much perpetual neuroses that a person can take. So for now, I proceed pursuing the even tenor of rural ways. It's as fascinating as the Monkey Habitat. And I say that with absolute contempt.

Now back to the witticisms of yesterday. I felt I haven't teased you enough so I'm giving you a peek of our collection of books. Just a few I deemed to showcase out of 2 boxful. These of course will be under your care soon. But it would all depend on whether you finally come up with fare to come home or I get a VISA to go there. For now, salivate.

More anon. With love always.

Hope springs eternal...or so they say

Dear Stella,

Well, today the world is inexorably evil; I suppose tomorrow it will be better.

-- Eugene Ginsberg

Stuck as I am here in Quezon, the possibility of existential conversation is close to none. Lately, I am feeling urge to take flight again, but the pull of responsibility is yet too strong. I have work to do here for the family and I've spent too much time in my youth trying to ignore them that I don't have it in me to disappoint them of their expectations of me one more time. In the end, I would have to make do with occasional visits there for last minute patches to my psyche. Thanks, by the way, for doing just that when I was there last. You gave me a better perspective of my current rut, with an extremely large helping of a much-needed Grapes and Greens to boot. You cannot imagine how thankful I am.

And upon your urging (inferred quasi-permission at that), I finally made the jump and rode the summer fling bandwagon. Unfortunately, the subsequent event only strengthened my resolve not to do one-night stands. But "do," I did. And it left me an even bigger vacuum, both emotionally and sexually, perhaps psychologically even. It wasn't as tragic as a trauma from the past, mind you. It was just plain uncomfortable, for lack of a better term. There I was, naked in bed, restless as hell, and deeply uneasy while the brute beside me snores in complete satisfaction. I had nothing to say for myself at that moment except I should have known better. Then again, I just commiteed the supreme act of self-censorship when I deleted a comment on the guy's physically features. It's just that he was really kind and honest, albeit a "top." So what exactly was I expecting? A little consideration perhaps. I mean, he should at least have been concerned by the fact that I did not come. But no. He slept. Then I paid for the room. Now, why does this sound all too familiar?

Oh well, I suppose tomorrow it will be better.

As we speak

Dear Tina,

This is nothing new to me--untouchable ennui lodged in my throat. But it grows steadily and becomes more and more difficult to ignore. Motivation is my sofa bed, a cadaver in mid-autopsy, the sole survivor of my well-to-do years. Time is kinder now but the future is an unpenetratable fog atop a sheer cliff. This morning, getting out of bed was harder than usual. Several proddings, speciously veiled threats, from my older brother eventually compelled me to get up and start the day. But during my morning coffee and cigarette breakfast, the half-breeds commenced their attack. One was taking a very public bath beside the well, which is located just below the window. The rest were on TV. My world gets smaller and smaller, and I have no choice but to go inward. Have I become a snob of collosal proportions or is it just that more and more people are evolving into abrasive and self-absorbed creatures? Why do I persist on a radical optimism of seeing the good in just about everyone yet wallow in the pessismism of a world going to hell in a hand basket?

Now, I shall again effect self-flagellation for my pell-mell, tumultuous chaotic style of writing. How this, as is my wont, will be a series of half-truths, verbal cleverness, and dangerous ideas expressed in specious and dexterous verbiage. Again, nothing new there. My letters would typically be incredibly short yet rambling, totally bereft of details, and are written entirely in the stream-of-consciousness rifts. Of course, I am fully aware how I sometimes come out rambling, an unbridled and confused outpouring of echolalea, tacking sentence after sentence ad infinitum. I just couldn't stop. Maybe I'm really afraid of clarity, not finding clarity in life. But I refuse to apologize for this anymore. My problems are as external and real as they are internal and rise out of weariness and disgust.

Ultimately, it's not the writing that I find myself apologizing for these days. It is that I'm just an average Juan who has amorphous mediocrity written all over Himself; a semi-competent fool who is as set in his neurosis as any could; and with brilliantly myopic eyes, proceeds to draw his own confusions, like Camus wrestling sanity and order from an absurd universe.

I have never really left the clouds. And on a clear night like this one, I'm nowhere. If only I didn't have to go back. So when do we really leave?

More importantly, whatever happened to Bubot? Rusting on our faux laurels, perhaps?

Fussed

Dear Glenn,

Blue balled without the pain, a curious absence of feeling, originating from my balls, began to spread slowly until i'm almost fully enveloped by an egg-like shell of numbness. It's wierd. What should have sent me spiralling towards the emotional roller-coaster ride that is the dating scene made me withdraw even more inward. Conscious thoughts may prove otherwise, as my desparate messages begging for a date would undoubtedly atttest. Yet, I just realized that this is just another exercise at going through the motions of wanting something other than what I currently have (or don't have for that mattter). I admit that there has been a lot of contemplation regarding trying out the dating scene again. But yet unfounded fears and compelling motivations have coalesced to form an interminable incubus thereby leaving me bereft of the required energy and gripping desire to do so. What is wrong with me?

I'm not trying to be ungrateful. I'd have to admit that the few days spent getting to know your recent referral had its giddy, I-feel-so-alive moments. But whatever optimism I regained from that phase completely went down the drain after the actual sexual intercourse. Worse, I may have lost my phallic fixation in the process. The vacuum has progressed from emotional to sexual. Should I be alarmed?

More importantly, whatever happened to Bubot? Rusting on our faux laurels, perhaps?

Backwoods Sortie

I once read that love letters are the campaign promises of the heart (probably a Hallmark card, now that i think about it). Conveniently, it is the campaign season, where you see the beginnings of face collages on any given vertical solid space. And although, I do not intend to make promises (there'd be enough of that in the next couple of weeks to last us until the next election), this blog would perhaps serve as a repository of my love letters to friends who care enough to wonder what happened to me, or at the very least, those curious to know more than what my Friendster profile provides.

I know I have made this promise a long time ago never to start anything with the noxious phrase "To begin with...." But to begin with, I now reside in Gumaca, a bustling town in Quezon, which is the province of my birth.

In a lot of senses, I'm back.

Following now is an excerpt from a journal entry made June 24, 2006:

Back is the proverbial sound byte of my life as a journal keeper. I have lost count of the number of times I left and returned to the page without rhyme or reason. Nothing has changed. Back from almost two months of silence aggravated by transitions: from eventologist to school administrator; urban guy to rural boy; fast-pace marathoner to laid-back freak. Back to Quezon where I was born. Back to teaching (my mom would be proud) at my aunt's school which I helped put up. Back to a simpler lifestyle where rules/superstitions/prejudice are clear-cut. And for all intents and purposes, back in the dark caverns of the closet, only this time I view the world outside with amusement and derision....Back now to two and a half decades later. Scarred, jaded, and tired as hell, I keep on--slower now--still treading towards an interminable buildup to the ultimate finish.

And speaking of back, over the last couple of months, I have turned my back on a lot of things. But the ultimate rejection was when I turned my back on love. After almost four years, Paul and I decided to call it quits. In the end, the distance led to our ruin. Most people say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Unfortunately, a relationship requires more than fondness. Love wasn't there anymore, so we ended it.

Which brings us back to the beginning. This would be a series of love letters to friends and a documentation of sorts of my life here in Quezon. Now, as to the title. It may be read in any number of ways, but knowing how my life usually is, "inaction" instead of "in action" may prove to be more appropriate in most cases.