Lightning will never hit the same place twice

Top: My Lola Mama, Auntie Jo, my Tito Nono's wife, mom of youngest apo and my cousin Noynoy, me with pink polka-dotted umbrella, mom.
Bottom: Inday, Tito Nono, Auntie Jo, Manoy Biboy, me, Manay Nic-Nic, Manay Virgie

These two pictures were taken on the same day that a terrible surge of lightning hit Mom and Dad's house and friend the electricity, the appliances and even the clothesline. This was like, if I was two years old here, more than 20 years ago. Nobody was home because I was visiting (remember I didn't live with them for like the first 18 years of my life?), and Noynoy Deoseph Barcelo Lamzon the cutest newborn was also in the house "sa takas" so picture2x sa "balay sa takas," and at the LIST amphitheater with Nono and Auntie Jo. Timay just went back to the house to get the camera daw when that lightning struck. It was crazy scary daw. 

So, ikaw? Did you duck down this afternoon when that terrible, terrible flash of lightning lit up the sky? Did you shriek when the thunder that followed scared the bejeezus out of you? Well, I did, too. 

And so did Mom and Dad and my nephew Toto Vince who were the only people at home when lightning hit the house again after 20+ years TODAY, as in this afternoon, and chunks of concrete flung into the "humba2x" where Dad or Mom would usually sit.

bBut this afternoon, Mom was sitting on the table with Toto Vince, who just came home from DELMES waiting for his Tatay to come get him, urging him to eat more food, and Dad was in the kitchen just a little bit away from the circuit breaker which exploded and blew apart and scattered the old toaster and some bottles which were in front of it. 

Mom said the flash was so bright she thought her coffee mug exploded and Dad said the thunder so loud that it was several times double a "granada" explosion (what's granada by the way, is it flashbomb or Molotov cocktail? I'm not sure). Toto Vince ducked under the table daw but then his cockiness soon resumed a few hours later when he asked Mom, "Ano, Mommy, kaagi si Daddy guro pangawat sang gamay na hay? Insa kilatan kita haw?" ("Mommy, I bet Daddy has stolen something when he was a kid, ano? Is that why lightning hit us?")

Hehe. :) When we're all home, Vince was super-duper enthusiastic in telling about his experience absorbing all of Mommy's "Abi ko mapatay dun kami!" ("I thought we were going to die!") exclamations. When Timay came, his greeting was "Mama Panen, kalag dun kami!" (Mama Panen, we're already ghosts!")

How scary yet surely unreal and unforgettable. How I wish I was there. Really. I'm sure it was like witnessing something that you're not supposed to see, like that weird broadcaster guy in the movie "2012" who went to the top of the mountain to welcome the end of the world, or maybe like when Thor hit the Earth when he fell from Asgard. Like Death. Cool.

My only thought this afternoon when that lightning hit and cut the school's power off was "Oh no, I can't print and photocopy my exam for my next class." Wow. Mom and Dad and my little nephew could have been embers now, thank you dear God for not letting that happen and for giving Toto Vince an experience that I hope he will never ever forget and that someday will fuel something creative from him. Yey!

#neversaynever #lightningandthunder #scary #cool #morbid #unforgettable #wishiwasthere

If I were a rock star, I would be very, very afraid now

Morbid thoughts on becoming (Forever) 27

 

If I were a rock star, and not just any rock star but a superstitious rock star, I would be a shivering, nervous piece of wreck by now. My thoughts would be plagued by the inevitable tragedy (becoming part of the special group called Forever 27 Club) that's going to befall me any day from two days to 365 days from now --my 27th year in this world, an age when most rock stars who are true to their music choose to die, with tragic as their preferred approach to dying.

Two dark thoughts and a light one

(otherwise titled, "The actual state of things")

These two darker drawings would basically reflect the general feeling of utter discord that I feel nowadays. Now, don't feel better for me yet because the light floral watercolor was from better times, just uploaded late.

As you can see, I started with a flower, and from there proceeded to hair which looks like a flower or a flower which is actually hair (however you see it, it's of very little importance) and to just, hair-- crazy hair.

Oh, well.

There WAS nothing

I haven't written a single blog post for May and June because there were things I had been busy about. Or there was just nothing. Nothing at all.

To stick to the busy excuse, believe me that I had gone up (or down) to several towns, did a lot of research for a writing assignment that I haven't yet finished, attended meetings and interviews here and there. I've also gone home and attended to some important business there. And I also took care of a job interview in a university, where I sat in an interview, did demo teaching, and after a few weeks, was informed ('regrettably,' as per the university HR officer) that I didn't get the job. So that's it, apart from all the other boring blah.

On the other hand, I also had pretty much a great time with a lot of wonderful people -enjoyed the rides going to and coming home from the towns I visited (and the moving window pictures on the buses and jeepneys), watched movies, went on walks, ate at different restaurants, ate lots of ice cream and crepes and blueberry cheesecakes, finished several bottles of beer and glasses of tequila as well. There was a trickle of parties all through May which I somehow enjoyed, a couple of them maybe I enjoyed too much, because I got drunk horridly. It will never happen again. And then of course, there were those times with :). It would be unfair to say I did not enjoy those.

Anyway, after all those running around for a whole month, it's like as if I was done living. Like I have reached my quota for having fun and for doing essential things such as going to work/doing work, like any mature, responsible person ought to do. I was attacked by this terrible case of anti-social behavior that pinned me on my bed for hours every morning, on my chair in front of my computer for several more hours after I've woken up for the day, and then a few more hours staring at nothing, punctuated by instances of going to the CR or to eat and drink. All I wanted to do is read a book or watch a movie or post comments on my Facebook page, or chat with whoever online. And in all instances, I don't know if I was even completely 'there' at all.

I don't know if it's a seasonal kind of disorder, or if it's any disorder at all; or maybe it wasn't and it was just a terrible case of good ol' bout of laziness. But it's crazy. I was going crazy about being that crazy. I've never been this inutil! A whole month and a week running?

There was just nothing. Nothing at all. No poems, no drawings (maybe one which is too dark and sad, and which I might post if I feel morbid enough), no diary scribbles (there were only dates, and what I did on those dates, and maybe timelines and short anecdotal comments on encounters with you-know-what). Other than that, nothing more.

I was like a zombified me. Only my basic survival and instinctual drives were working.

Hopefully writing in past tense would mean I'm through with all that and that I'm ready to rejoin the living world.

Hopefully.

A poem for people I never knew, but watched as flies tickled their noses and bellies

Why were you there on November 23?

To the young girl of twenty four or twenty five:

The hem of your bright green panties peeps

on top of your yellow jeans

as men in black t-shirts pull you up,

desperately but carefully

as if you might tear too soon.

They are afraid their hearts will tear, too,

if you do.

But would you speak, please?

Who were you and why were you here?

Didn't you have a boyfriend waiting in the city?

Weren't you suppose to be wondering when he'd propose?

To the power lady at thirty five or forty-two:

Ma'am, your golden watch stayed still at the hour

when your rolled-up basic white long-sleeved shirt

ceased to be white.

Its buttons now burst open.

Same with the fly of your black, serious-looking jeans.

For sure, you looked a lot crisper the morning before,

while, perhaps, you turned on the TV to the local channel

as you prepared sinangag and eggs

for your husband and children.

But who were you, ma'am? And why were you here?

A can of sardines in the cupboard

was what probably your girl opened

for her father and brothers' dinner last night.

To the big fat lady who looks thirty five-ish:

It's a shame that your size 40 pants tattered

at the touch of shovels and hands,

and failed to cover your white, flawless butt

as men grasped you wherever they could.

Had you even dreamed of this scene?

Perhaps you did, just a weekend ago,

while you rolled in bed

reading a Tagalog romance novel

waiting for your maid to call you to dinner.

But who were you and why were you here?

You probably have nephews and nieces

who are waiting for you to send them their tuition fees.

To the sixty-something gentleman:

Sir, your kasimanwas felt shamed

to have to meet you in these circumstances.

They only have to look at the further receded hairline

on your clammy head,

and your famous name easily slid out of their mouths.

Words had spilled out of your mouth so easily back then-

which was probably only two days ago,

when you sat in a soundproof studio

on top of a tower somewhere in the city,

grasping the microphone with your powerful hands.

Now your hands are still powerful, grasping air with resolute stillness.

We know who you were, but why,

your estranged, now deranged, wife asks, why were you here?

There's a new scoop, and you could have been the one airing it.

Instead, that newly hired reporter would be the one,

and he'd look uneasy, sitting in your place.

To the good looking twenty-nine or thirty-two year old guy:

Damn!

If you still could, you could have sued them

for humiliating you this way--

your surfboard abs are no more

thanks to the bacteria that gave off gases inside you,

making your stomach balloon.

And now your Levis and your silk boxers has come off,

but thank God he gave you an enormous gift.

Your wife and your girlfriend will surely miss it,

especially since your editor has sent you to this place last week,

and you haven't phoned either of them.

You actually could have.

Your Blackberry is still in your pocket.

But you forgot about it when you started pissing in your pants.

Like that old man, we have an idea who you are.

But why, oh, ladies man of the papers, why were you here?

Why were you all here?

Did God tell you to go here?

Did He send you here?

What for?

Was it for you to hear the chorused voices of friends and strangers and gunfire?

Or to breathe the metallic smell of blood?

Or was it to feel the cold caress of a backhoe?

We could maybe feel better

if God brought you here to feel the warm embrace of the earth.

*Sometimes you have to see to feel. But when what you see is too much, it numbs the senses. The illegal DVD I have recently watched is a CSI episode's opening part multiplied several times. If it was not real, if it was a movie, it would be boring. But then, this is real. The sight of distorted corpses with their distended bellies and bleeding noses and burst heads and bulging eyes and flaked-off skin numbs me, yes. But think: These people used to have lives. They used to spend time with their families, go to work, attend a meeting, go to school, check their Friendster and Facebook, forward text quotes.Now they are no more. Thanks to those assholes that rule the place as if they are gods. May God bless these poor people's souls. And may He not show mercy to the souls of their murderers.