Monday, August 31, 2009
Because it's Mission Control's Birthday
Yesterday, Gabby was quietly typing something out on his iPod touch in the car. Unprompted, he wrote this--his first poem--all by himself. Mission Control is his (imaginary) friend mouse. Gabby is four-and-a-half years' old.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Scariest Vampire (and Zombie!) Dream. Ever.
If you knew me well enough, you'd know that I have two types of recurring nightmares. Well, there are a few typical ones (coming to school unprepared for exams, getting caught half-naked in public) but of the absolute worst nightmarey variety, there are two types: (1) those that involve hamsters (hamsters that died years ago are still alive but i've neglected and not fed them all that time, too many hamsters to control and keep from fighting) and, (2) vampires (usually of them trying to get into the house and me trying to protect my parents and sisters).
The ONE time I had a vamp dream that wasn't scary, it was mixed with a school/exam dream. I was going to school at this amazingly beautiful old castle on top of a mountain (and when I say beautiful, think one of the elven sets in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies). It was a remarkably vivid dream, and as I was trudging through the cavernous school halls, I realized all the students were vampires.
Anyway! That was a couple of years ago. I wanted to talk about last night's dream. I was in the courtyard of what kind of looked like the Sorbonne, post-apocalypse. I was part of a motley crew of vampire fighters. Now before I go on, I need to specify that Buffy was NOT in this episode. Still, I wasn't the leader, I was just one of the followers. I didn't even know how to kill a vampire. It was still dusk but I suddenly realized that there were a couple of vampires among us and I shouted a warning. I couldn't understand how they were able to survive sunlight but they were definitely evil and had infiltrated our group. I scrambled around for a wooden stake or something and somebody handed me an arrow. I tried to pierce it in the heart but it didn't work--I only made a neat hole in its chest. Somebody handed me a knife and told me to decapitate it. I did that, but to my horror, it didn't turn into dust. I realized that I had killed a human by mistake.
There was no time to process what happened--night fell suddenly and we were attacked by vampires. A lot of them. We humans ran into the building. I went up a few flights of stairs and along corridors until I found a smaller group of people. We holed ourselves into one of the apartments. This is where it gets familiar. I kept trying to secure the perimeter and fumbled over the door locks. Anyway, even if the wood of the doors were good and thick, the locks were flimsy: just these slim metal hook locks that wouldn't keep little old ladies out much less creatures of the night. So I yelled at everyone to start barricading the doors and windows with furniture. The apartment itself was huge, with a lot of rooms and corridors. I started to push anything I could find against the place's many windows. There weren't enough hefty cabinets or tables, and there were too many vulnerable spots. Nobody seemed to be helping me effectively, everyone was in a mindless panic.
I realized that the rear of the apartment opened up to a rooftop terrace. I rushed to the door but I was a little too late. One vampire managed to claw its way inside. The people I was with finally seemed to wake up from their trance and we were able to keep the other ghouls at bay outside while holding down the vampire inside. I tried staking the vampire: first by puncturing its chest with a knife and second by shoving the handle of a hammer through. But I missed its heart. I found a knife and, with some trepidation, sliced its head off. To my relief, it turned into dust. In the struggle, I also realized that there were zombies outside too. And as I started to wake up, I thought with relief that, earlier, I hadn't killed a human after all. It must have been a zombie...
I shook off the dream and Gabby kissed me a good morning.
But you, Sheriff, can haunt my dreams anytime...
The ONE time I had a vamp dream that wasn't scary, it was mixed with a school/exam dream. I was going to school at this amazingly beautiful old castle on top of a mountain (and when I say beautiful, think one of the elven sets in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies). It was a remarkably vivid dream, and as I was trudging through the cavernous school halls, I realized all the students were vampires.
Anyway! That was a couple of years ago. I wanted to talk about last night's dream. I was in the courtyard of what kind of looked like the Sorbonne, post-apocalypse. I was part of a motley crew of vampire fighters. Now before I go on, I need to specify that Buffy was NOT in this episode. Still, I wasn't the leader, I was just one of the followers. I didn't even know how to kill a vampire. It was still dusk but I suddenly realized that there were a couple of vampires among us and I shouted a warning. I couldn't understand how they were able to survive sunlight but they were definitely evil and had infiltrated our group. I scrambled around for a wooden stake or something and somebody handed me an arrow. I tried to pierce it in the heart but it didn't work--I only made a neat hole in its chest. Somebody handed me a knife and told me to decapitate it. I did that, but to my horror, it didn't turn into dust. I realized that I had killed a human by mistake.
There was no time to process what happened--night fell suddenly and we were attacked by vampires. A lot of them. We humans ran into the building. I went up a few flights of stairs and along corridors until I found a smaller group of people. We holed ourselves into one of the apartments. This is where it gets familiar. I kept trying to secure the perimeter and fumbled over the door locks. Anyway, even if the wood of the doors were good and thick, the locks were flimsy: just these slim metal hook locks that wouldn't keep little old ladies out much less creatures of the night. So I yelled at everyone to start barricading the doors and windows with furniture. The apartment itself was huge, with a lot of rooms and corridors. I started to push anything I could find against the place's many windows. There weren't enough hefty cabinets or tables, and there were too many vulnerable spots. Nobody seemed to be helping me effectively, everyone was in a mindless panic.
I realized that the rear of the apartment opened up to a rooftop terrace. I rushed to the door but I was a little too late. One vampire managed to claw its way inside. The people I was with finally seemed to wake up from their trance and we were able to keep the other ghouls at bay outside while holding down the vampire inside. I tried staking the vampire: first by puncturing its chest with a knife and second by shoving the handle of a hammer through. But I missed its heart. I found a knife and, with some trepidation, sliced its head off. To my relief, it turned into dust. In the struggle, I also realized that there were zombies outside too. And as I started to wake up, I thought with relief that, earlier, I hadn't killed a human after all. It must have been a zombie...
I shook off the dream and Gabby kissed me a good morning.
But you, Sheriff, can haunt my dreams anytime...
Friday, August 07, 2009
Do not touch the life in the pond
An old man plays a harmonica while we dance our youth and inebriation around him. He is 72 but he shares our waking dream, as we move like an organism of 30 heads, 120 arms and legs red yellow and green. Anjeli told me that the last few times she was at Rub-a-Dub, he had been there too. He didn't seem to drink and he wasn't sleazy or creepy. He just enjoyed reggae same as everyone else at the bar.
Drinks were emptied by a thirst in the room that diffused into a warm, slow and syncopated beat of undirected happiness. The music resonated off vinyl records--so old school! The cramped little basement transformed into a beach (an underground, dark and dank one). We carefully plan the sequence of our poisons of choice: Caribbean Queens, Mojitos, Rum&Cokes, Mint Juleps, Piñacoladas. 40 sticks of cigarettes between the two of us.
Anjeli and I staked a claim at the corner of the bar so she could stare at Ichiro, the hottest and nicest among the four bartenders. 'You've been here three times', he tells her in Japanese, 'but we've never talked. What's your name and what do you do?' They have a running conversation in snatches all night--in between, he tends the bar while we gossip and giggle about him. But we never find out what his origin story is so we invent a few for him. He is kept by his lover, an older woman, whose car keys he has strung on his belt. He was orphaned at 17 and left school to work and bring up his younger sister Mariko. His is a samurai's noble beauty with the bushido-grade honor that goes with it, Anjeli argues, and therefore we agree on the Mariko version (plus we give her cerebral palsy).
Eventually, the lights went on and a very jarring Banana Boat song told us that daylight come and we had to go home. The whole bar sang along with some of the me-say day-oes before dutifully stumbling up the stairs to the exit, blinking in the sudden and incongruous sunlight.
And this is how I spent 7 of my 24 hours in Kyoto.
Photo credit: Anjeli via fb
Drinks were emptied by a thirst in the room that diffused into a warm, slow and syncopated beat of undirected happiness. The music resonated off vinyl records--so old school! The cramped little basement transformed into a beach (an underground, dark and dank one). We carefully plan the sequence of our poisons of choice: Caribbean Queens, Mojitos, Rum&Cokes, Mint Juleps, Piñacoladas. 40 sticks of cigarettes between the two of us.
Anjeli and I staked a claim at the corner of the bar so she could stare at Ichiro, the hottest and nicest among the four bartenders. 'You've been here three times', he tells her in Japanese, 'but we've never talked. What's your name and what do you do?' They have a running conversation in snatches all night--in between, he tends the bar while we gossip and giggle about him. But we never find out what his origin story is so we invent a few for him. He is kept by his lover, an older woman, whose car keys he has strung on his belt. He was orphaned at 17 and left school to work and bring up his younger sister Mariko. His is a samurai's noble beauty with the bushido-grade honor that goes with it, Anjeli argues, and therefore we agree on the Mariko version (plus we give her cerebral palsy).
Eventually, the lights went on and a very jarring Banana Boat song told us that daylight come and we had to go home. The whole bar sang along with some of the me-say day-oes before dutifully stumbling up the stairs to the exit, blinking in the sudden and incongruous sunlight.
And this is how I spent 7 of my 24 hours in Kyoto.
Photo credit: Anjeli via fb
Sunday, August 02, 2009
A Farewell of Sorts, Madame President
Corazon Aquino, 11th President of the Philippines, died early Saturday morning, 1st August.
Yellow ribbon on the car antenna, flashing Laban signs and smiles at random people, my sister's Cory doll, singing Handog ng Pilipino sa Mundo in school...
The point of people power was that it wasn't delivered by one single person--it was the Church leaders and workers, the renegades in Marcos's military, the two million people who streamed into the streets. But Cory Aquino was a focus and symbol that mobilized all these individuals; and while not a sufficient condition for democratic transition she was necessary, essential.
As a nation, this was our defining moment. Our historic crisis against which events in the future will forever be compared.The unfortunate after-effect is that someone like me, whose formative years passed during that moment of history, will always look at life and politics through this good-vs.-evil leitmotif. The lines were so easily drawn then between the politicians you could trust and those that can never be trusted. How one behaved under Marcos was a litmus test of human courage and dignity.
Even after Cory's tenure as president, the messianic force of her belief in democracy (or at least in her mission to protect it) continued to mobilize people against any hint of tyranny, echoing the shouts of "never again!" against Marcos.
Her presidency was flawed, however.
We raged when she waffled over securing a moratorium over paying for Marcos's debts (a burden passed on to generations of our people).
We were dismayed that she stood by while Congress riddled the Agrarian Reform Law with loopholes, and we were baffled by the Mendiola Massacre.
We marched against the renewal of the US bases treaty, shouting "Imperialista, Ibagsak!".
I was a child in all of this, trying to mediate my understanding of what was happening around me through imitation: in the Third Grade, I staged a people-power revolution to depose my English Teacher (a temp, who didn't know the difference between proper and common nouns).
When I think of Cory and those times, I can't help but think of my Dad. Hanging out at his office after school, I was once "interviewed" by a journalist (who was there I suppose to actually interview my Dad) on how I felt about Marcos. He told me that my Dad and I were very brave for speaking honestly. I couldn't sleep that night, expecting to be arrested and brought to Camp Cramé. I was about seven.
Then there was the time, post-86, my Dad was doing some consultancy for the Aquino government, specifically the Office of the Executive Secretary. As he was leaving for Malacañang, he asked me to write a few recommendations to the President. I think I came up with about five, written in pencil on a sheet torn from a notebook.
My generation of Filipinos was too young to really grasp the horrors of Martial Law or even remember how Ninoy Aquino's assassination sent a shudder through society. We knew people, people's sons and daughters, who were abducted by the military and tortured but this didn't really mean much at the age of five or six. We could only parrot what our parents said over coffee and cigarettes.
What we will always remember is the heady joy of February '86. The liberating impact of the end of the Marcos regime and the sensation of empowerment that buoyed us along. The crowds cheering. The smiling strangers.
In our mind, yellow will always color the triumph of justice and democracy. And Madame President will always be that lady in yellow.
From the Iglesias Film Vault. Camera work by my Dad. Everyone's so blurry, it looks like a motion Renoir painting.
Yellow ribbon on the car antenna, flashing Laban signs and smiles at random people, my sister's Cory doll, singing Handog ng Pilipino sa Mundo in school...
The point of people power was that it wasn't delivered by one single person--it was the Church leaders and workers, the renegades in Marcos's military, the two million people who streamed into the streets. But Cory Aquino was a focus and symbol that mobilized all these individuals; and while not a sufficient condition for democratic transition she was necessary, essential.
As a nation, this was our defining moment. Our historic crisis against which events in the future will forever be compared.The unfortunate after-effect is that someone like me, whose formative years passed during that moment of history, will always look at life and politics through this good-vs.-evil leitmotif. The lines were so easily drawn then between the politicians you could trust and those that can never be trusted. How one behaved under Marcos was a litmus test of human courage and dignity.
Even after Cory's tenure as president, the messianic force of her belief in democracy (or at least in her mission to protect it) continued to mobilize people against any hint of tyranny, echoing the shouts of "never again!" against Marcos.
Her presidency was flawed, however.
We raged when she waffled over securing a moratorium over paying for Marcos's debts (a burden passed on to generations of our people).
We were dismayed that she stood by while Congress riddled the Agrarian Reform Law with loopholes, and we were baffled by the Mendiola Massacre.
We marched against the renewal of the US bases treaty, shouting "Imperialista, Ibagsak!".
I was a child in all of this, trying to mediate my understanding of what was happening around me through imitation: in the Third Grade, I staged a people-power revolution to depose my English Teacher (a temp, who didn't know the difference between proper and common nouns).
When I think of Cory and those times, I can't help but think of my Dad. Hanging out at his office after school, I was once "interviewed" by a journalist (who was there I suppose to actually interview my Dad) on how I felt about Marcos. He told me that my Dad and I were very brave for speaking honestly. I couldn't sleep that night, expecting to be arrested and brought to Camp Cramé. I was about seven.
Then there was the time, post-86, my Dad was doing some consultancy for the Aquino government, specifically the Office of the Executive Secretary. As he was leaving for Malacañang, he asked me to write a few recommendations to the President. I think I came up with about five, written in pencil on a sheet torn from a notebook.
My generation of Filipinos was too young to really grasp the horrors of Martial Law or even remember how Ninoy Aquino's assassination sent a shudder through society. We knew people, people's sons and daughters, who were abducted by the military and tortured but this didn't really mean much at the age of five or six. We could only parrot what our parents said over coffee and cigarettes.
What we will always remember is the heady joy of February '86. The liberating impact of the end of the Marcos regime and the sensation of empowerment that buoyed us along. The crowds cheering. The smiling strangers.
In our mind, yellow will always color the triumph of justice and democracy. And Madame President will always be that lady in yellow.
From the Iglesias Film Vault. Camera work by my Dad. Everyone's so blurry, it looks like a motion Renoir painting.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Last Night in Three Acts
Act 1. Exposition
....................
In an open vehicle,
dusty roads
winding down a mountain
toward Athens.
It is daylight--
long road, bumpy ride
bright sun.
Sudden night.
Manila.
The house is full of people.
Party.
I try to figure out how much to pay driver,
write it on a piece of paper.
I don't have enough cash,
go to my room on the ground floor.
Mom has done something,
the walls are now of different texture.
Where are my notes?
I find a scrap of paper again at the bottom of the trash.
It's sludgy from party offal,
just drawings.
Where are the numbers?
Look at my watch.
With all the searching
an hour has passed, maybe two.
Poor man, still waiting.
I never even got him a glass of water.
Party noise starts to fade.
Act II. Revelation
....................
I go up to the indoor garden,
give him some water
and realize that I forgot the cash.
He starts speaking in a booming, strenuous voice
I don't understand what he says.
I don't understand his language.
First I'm scared, he's clearly insane.
I just want to give him his money--
finally, he seems to appreciate the gesture.
I go back to my room.
I find the money
but I realize I should put the money in an envelope.
I find an envelope but lose the money again
and I'm searching
through my bed, my table and things.
Someone is behind me in my room.
It's the driver.
He starts speaking in tongues again.
Here is your money, I tell him.
I'm sorry you waited so long.
Sudden silence
and the camera pans to his face.
He is Javier Bardem
and speaks in english.
That was a month ago in Athens, he tells me gently.
And I stagger.
In my heart,
I know that this is truth
and everything clicks into place in my head.
I've lost a month of my life.
He is someone I love or who loves me,
someone I care about
but I don't know why--
can't remember.
The wall in my room has changed again.
He shows me these beautiful carvings that he's made
for me.
A gift.
We lie in bed together,
him only in his underwear.
He talks to me qiuetly in an attempt
to restore the life that I lost.
Act 3. This is Where it Gets David Lynched
....................
Two women, my mother and the housekeeper,
are watching us on some closed circuit camera.
My mother is incensed.
Has he touched her, she bellows.
Has he?
The housekeeper silently shows her the footage in affirmation.
My mother says: he has to be killed.
Johnny Hallyday
swaggers in,
joins the unholy chorus on how
Javier Bardem must die.
I fly out of the room, enraged.
How dare you?
If you lay a finger on him
(I find a weapon, a fireplace poker)
I will kill YOU,
I will KILL you.
I'm weeping, I'm dead serious.
I want to scream louder,
make myself more believable,
more dangerous.
I am aghast, mocked by Johnny Hallyday.
I ask my mother who he was.
She admits that he has shacked up with her,
he's someone that she settled for
after my dad had died.
The loser taunts me
by showing off how he's comfortably esconced
and he has his own den in our house:
black and white floor,
outsized, primary colored furniture,
and a Phoca Groenlandica lounge sofa.
A what?!? I ask.
A baby seal, he says smugly.
That makes me angry again.
I brandish the poker and tell him:
I can't believe you have a baby seal
as a sofa.
You're a horror
and I will end you.
This time it's not an empty threat.
But then I see the thing.
This giant, soft-eyed baby seal.
I lie in its fur
and all my hatred dissipates.
Scene cuts to
darkness all around.
Velvet red curtains.
Spotlight on empty green stage.
THE END
Sometimes I have these vivid dreams.
....................
In an open vehicle,
dusty roads
winding down a mountain
toward Athens.
It is daylight--
long road, bumpy ride
bright sun.
Sudden night.
Manila.
The house is full of people.
Party.
I try to figure out how much to pay driver,
write it on a piece of paper.
I don't have enough cash,
go to my room on the ground floor.
Mom has done something,
the walls are now of different texture.
Where are my notes?
I find a scrap of paper again at the bottom of the trash.
It's sludgy from party offal,
just drawings.
Where are the numbers?
Look at my watch.
With all the searching
an hour has passed, maybe two.
Poor man, still waiting.
I never even got him a glass of water.
Party noise starts to fade.
Act II. Revelation
....................
I go up to the indoor garden,
give him some water
and realize that I forgot the cash.
He starts speaking in a booming, strenuous voice
I don't understand what he says.
I don't understand his language.
First I'm scared, he's clearly insane.
I just want to give him his money--
finally, he seems to appreciate the gesture.
I go back to my room.
I find the money
but I realize I should put the money in an envelope.
I find an envelope but lose the money again
and I'm searching
through my bed, my table and things.
Someone is behind me in my room.
It's the driver.
He starts speaking in tongues again.
Here is your money, I tell him.
I'm sorry you waited so long.
Sudden silence
and the camera pans to his face.
He is Javier Bardem
and speaks in english.
That was a month ago in Athens, he tells me gently.
And I stagger.
In my heart,
I know that this is truth
and everything clicks into place in my head.
I've lost a month of my life.
He is someone I love or who loves me,
someone I care about
but I don't know why--
can't remember.
The wall in my room has changed again.
He shows me these beautiful carvings that he's made
for me.
A gift.
We lie in bed together,
him only in his underwear.
He talks to me qiuetly in an attempt
to restore the life that I lost.
Act 3. This is Where it Gets David Lynched
....................
Two women, my mother and the housekeeper,
are watching us on some closed circuit camera.
My mother is incensed.
Has he touched her, she bellows.
Has he?
The housekeeper silently shows her the footage in affirmation.
My mother says: he has to be killed.
Johnny Hallyday
swaggers in,
joins the unholy chorus on how
Javier Bardem must die.
I fly out of the room, enraged.
How dare you?
If you lay a finger on him
(I find a weapon, a fireplace poker)
I will kill YOU,
I will KILL you.
I'm weeping, I'm dead serious.
I want to scream louder,
make myself more believable,
more dangerous.
I am aghast, mocked by Johnny Hallyday.
I ask my mother who he was.
She admits that he has shacked up with her,
he's someone that she settled for
after my dad had died.
The loser taunts me
by showing off how he's comfortably esconced
and he has his own den in our house:
black and white floor,
outsized, primary colored furniture,
and a Phoca Groenlandica lounge sofa.
A what?!? I ask.
A baby seal, he says smugly.
That makes me angry again.
I brandish the poker and tell him:
I can't believe you have a baby seal
as a sofa.
You're a horror
and I will end you.
This time it's not an empty threat.
But then I see the thing.
This giant, soft-eyed baby seal.
I lie in its fur
and all my hatred dissipates.
Scene cuts to
darkness all around.
Velvet red curtains.
Spotlight on empty green stage.
THE END
Sometimes I have these vivid dreams.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Bearably Lonely
Drink from the bitter cup
of my imperfect love.
I have held you fast to my chest
and will let go even faster.
I am more honest in hate;
with enemies there is no pretense.
Them I could kill,
you I will hurt.
People search all their life for love;
my quest is indifference.
I will cast my heart in iron
and seek a cold harbor.
I'm in a foul mood.
of my imperfect love.
I have held you fast to my chest
and will let go even faster.
I am more honest in hate;
with enemies there is no pretense.
Them I could kill,
you I will hurt.
People search all their life for love;
my quest is indifference.
I will cast my heart in iron
and seek a cold harbor.
I'm in a foul mood.
Friday, July 11, 2008
The Citadel Chapter 3. Hunted
Twenty steps. Thirty steps. Fifty. Third lamppost. Seventeenth Why-Wait?-Let's-Procreate poster. Two blocks until the next food rationing outpost.
Pili Gazan kept walking, counting out the distractions.
Eight broken walkways. Two black cats. Five bus stops.
She had spotted a pack, almost full, under a park bench.
A pack! She'd been lucky some times before with a half-smoked butt, surreptitiously hidden in one of a few uncartographed places in The Citadel for secret smokers who cared to share.
She was always ready with a small box of matches in a pocket or handbag for times like this. But a pack was worth its weight in gold.
Three streets to cross. Two. One. Finally at the park. Public and open, it was safer to find a secluded bench or corner for the smell to dissipate and where no one would notice. Safer than home or any building.
With the slim cigarette between her lips, she fumbled with the matches, hands shaking. The flame burst yellow in the dark, burned the cig orange at the end before dying out.
She dragged slowly as she tried to unclench herself and savor the flavor. It was a little bitter, probably old. She inhaled, letting the smoke escape a little from her mouth before drawing it back in; the nicotine spiked her mind. The intangible caress of exhalation was a slow goodbye. She tried not to be greedy. To let it last. It might be another week before she could score.
Pili was suddenly on the ground, sprawled and uncomprehending. The quiet space was suddenly a whirl of guns being cocked in her direction.
She was pinned down by the full weight of a cop, she realized, and her left arm behind her back shot a searing pain up to her shoulder.
A shiny boot appeared in front of her, stubbing out her cigarette and grinding her fingers into the ground. Pili whimpered and craned her neck to see a woman in uniform. Dark glasses obscured the officer's visage. Weak chin, dark red lipstick.
"Filthy habit", the officer said. "You're under arrest."
The boot then flew at Pili's head and everything went black.
The fog was heavy, thick and gray inside the room. Sweet and tenacious. The silverware and wineglasses clinked discordantly as people argued, laughed, murmured and ate with gusto. These people were falling in love with each other, marveling at having found common cause and kindred in these dark days. But among them were also the cautious whispererers, unaccustomed and unwilling to raise their voices. Outcasts, rebels, hunted. But in this moment found, saved and protected--even if briefly--to savor a moment of freedom.
The conversation slowed and halted as the bald, tall man at the head of the table stood and waited, lighting a cigarette and drawing in the first drag deeply.
"A woman was arrested and executed today in Grid A20-34 for violating Proclamation 1081."
A babble of anger, terror, confusion and shock immediately rose from the table. Two people fainted, a quarter of the audience fled the house. A man was flattened by an over-excited obese woman who tripped.
At the head of the table, the bald man surveyed the mayhem with his sunken, unfathomable eyes and calmly turned to a petite woman with ruler-straight black hair cut diagonally across her face and framed at her jaw, whose lips were set tightly in consternation.
"Imagine what would have happened had I announced that the FP bombed the nicotine shipment from India before it reached the harbor" he said drily, as he took another drag.
The man was Xaris Noz, the last scion of The Citadel's capitalist past. The woman of the angular lines was Mina Chiresh, his right hand woman from time immemorial (the ageless quality of her unchanging demeanor and fashion sparked speculation that she was the 6th or 7th model in a line of Mina Chireshes over the decades) and rumored paramour.
Xaris was also known in more esoteric circles as Frankenstein's monster. Ravaged by cancer and other diseases, 30% of his body had been replaced by extremely expensive stem cell repair and cloned organs. Xaris had been a notorious chain-smoker for 40 years. Xaris was, by reputation, a zealot and megalomaniac with a penchant for wearing flamboyant neck-ties.
"Perhaps you might have waited until after dessert before dropping that bombshell", Mina observed in an even tone, ducking briefly as a rack of lamb, medium-rare, flew above her head.
Xaris laughed, bemused at the mayhem. "Look at them. Terrified. I'm sure Yesu will blow his brains out before dealing with the prospect of living without his nicotine fix. Bolan is probably on the Net now, denouncing our nightly soirées and everyone he can identify that's ever been to one."
"And you, sir? Will you go into hiding?"
"No, my dear Mina. I have a plan."
The ashen-faced prisoner faced his captor, trembling. Various thoughts raced through his confused mind. Rumors of secretly-installed smoke detector alarms in every housing unit throughout The Citadel were true. How else would they have known?
Before he knew what was happening, an electric jolt coursed through his body.
"Do I have your attention now, Mr. Corgan?"
Yesu Corgan was still reeling from the shock, literally, before another jolt was administered.
"You are a self-confessed smoker, Mr. Corgan. There couldn't be a baser crime. With a wife and children at home?" Jolt. "And a dog, too?" Jolt.
"Yes, yes", he stammered. "I was wrong. I'll tell you anything you want." His chest heaved. "Please! Don't hurt me!"
His captor smiled, teeth glinting like a shark's fangs.
"Tell me then", she said dangerously, in silken tones of artifice, "Who's your dealer?"
Corgan's eyes grew wide then blank as a spot of crimson suddenly appeared on his forehead. He slumped forward.
The interrogator whirled around in time only to see the red laser line disappear. She raised the alarm, barked terse instructions to her subordinates, cursed well beyond anyone else's vocabulary.
But she didn't find the assassin. Mina was far too good to be caught.
The rain came heavy, hard and fast.
When it rained in the city, the streets were emptied of people. Acid-proof coats didn't come cheap and were suffocating, the smell of sulfur stultifying.
Reev loved the rain. He prayed for it every day. He rejoiced in the monsoon months, despaired in the summer.
For the storms that engulfed the city, while feared by most everyone else, were his shelter. Not even the Freedom Patrol would present themselves in great numbers.
Under a roof in a narrow alley, Reev carefully unwrapped a cigarette that he'd been saving for weeks. He lit up and closed his eyes.
"Smoker!" A shout roused Reev from his reverie. Without waiting to see what it was, Reev began to run in the direction opposite.
"Stop!" A gunshot rang out and Reev felt the heat of the bullet streak past his face.
Reev ran, ran hard. He saw other police officers running toward him from different directions.
With an anguished scream, he slipped on the street and plunged forward. Tears streamed down his face, snot dribbled down his nose. His life was over. He thought of the women that he never got to fuck. He sobbed and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
Gunfire. Shouts. Screams.
Silence.
The rain beat in staccato on the ground. He knew nothing but the pounding in his ears and the ceaseless downpour. Acrid steam filled his nose and mouth.
When he finally had the courage to open his eyes, what he saw made his brain stall.
Four dead police men. Blood bloomed redly throughout their pristine white uniforms.
A bald man and a tiny woman stepped out of the shadows.
"A war has begun," the man said. "A new nation born. Spread the word."
Reev gaped wordlessly as the two disappeared into the deluge.
Singapore, July 2008
Pili Gazan kept walking, counting out the distractions.
Eight broken walkways. Two black cats. Five bus stops.
She had spotted a pack, almost full, under a park bench.
A pack! She'd been lucky some times before with a half-smoked butt, surreptitiously hidden in one of a few uncartographed places in The Citadel for secret smokers who cared to share.
She was always ready with a small box of matches in a pocket or handbag for times like this. But a pack was worth its weight in gold.
Three streets to cross. Two. One. Finally at the park. Public and open, it was safer to find a secluded bench or corner for the smell to dissipate and where no one would notice. Safer than home or any building.
With the slim cigarette between her lips, she fumbled with the matches, hands shaking. The flame burst yellow in the dark, burned the cig orange at the end before dying out.
She dragged slowly as she tried to unclench herself and savor the flavor. It was a little bitter, probably old. She inhaled, letting the smoke escape a little from her mouth before drawing it back in; the nicotine spiked her mind. The intangible caress of exhalation was a slow goodbye. She tried not to be greedy. To let it last. It might be another week before she could score.
Pili was suddenly on the ground, sprawled and uncomprehending. The quiet space was suddenly a whirl of guns being cocked in her direction.
She was pinned down by the full weight of a cop, she realized, and her left arm behind her back shot a searing pain up to her shoulder.
A shiny boot appeared in front of her, stubbing out her cigarette and grinding her fingers into the ground. Pili whimpered and craned her neck to see a woman in uniform. Dark glasses obscured the officer's visage. Weak chin, dark red lipstick.
"Filthy habit", the officer said. "You're under arrest."
The boot then flew at Pili's head and everything went black.
The fog was heavy, thick and gray inside the room. Sweet and tenacious. The silverware and wineglasses clinked discordantly as people argued, laughed, murmured and ate with gusto. These people were falling in love with each other, marveling at having found common cause and kindred in these dark days. But among them were also the cautious whispererers, unaccustomed and unwilling to raise their voices. Outcasts, rebels, hunted. But in this moment found, saved and protected--even if briefly--to savor a moment of freedom.
The conversation slowed and halted as the bald, tall man at the head of the table stood and waited, lighting a cigarette and drawing in the first drag deeply.
"A woman was arrested and executed today in Grid A20-34 for violating Proclamation 1081."
A babble of anger, terror, confusion and shock immediately rose from the table. Two people fainted, a quarter of the audience fled the house. A man was flattened by an over-excited obese woman who tripped.
At the head of the table, the bald man surveyed the mayhem with his sunken, unfathomable eyes and calmly turned to a petite woman with ruler-straight black hair cut diagonally across her face and framed at her jaw, whose lips were set tightly in consternation.
"Imagine what would have happened had I announced that the FP bombed the nicotine shipment from India before it reached the harbor" he said drily, as he took another drag.
The man was Xaris Noz, the last scion of The Citadel's capitalist past. The woman of the angular lines was Mina Chiresh, his right hand woman from time immemorial (the ageless quality of her unchanging demeanor and fashion sparked speculation that she was the 6th or 7th model in a line of Mina Chireshes over the decades) and rumored paramour.
Xaris was also known in more esoteric circles as Frankenstein's monster. Ravaged by cancer and other diseases, 30% of his body had been replaced by extremely expensive stem cell repair and cloned organs. Xaris had been a notorious chain-smoker for 40 years. Xaris was, by reputation, a zealot and megalomaniac with a penchant for wearing flamboyant neck-ties.
"Perhaps you might have waited until after dessert before dropping that bombshell", Mina observed in an even tone, ducking briefly as a rack of lamb, medium-rare, flew above her head.
Xaris laughed, bemused at the mayhem. "Look at them. Terrified. I'm sure Yesu will blow his brains out before dealing with the prospect of living without his nicotine fix. Bolan is probably on the Net now, denouncing our nightly soirées and everyone he can identify that's ever been to one."
"And you, sir? Will you go into hiding?"
"No, my dear Mina. I have a plan."
The ashen-faced prisoner faced his captor, trembling. Various thoughts raced through his confused mind. Rumors of secretly-installed smoke detector alarms in every housing unit throughout The Citadel were true. How else would they have known?
Before he knew what was happening, an electric jolt coursed through his body.
"Do I have your attention now, Mr. Corgan?"
Yesu Corgan was still reeling from the shock, literally, before another jolt was administered.
"You are a self-confessed smoker, Mr. Corgan. There couldn't be a baser crime. With a wife and children at home?" Jolt. "And a dog, too?" Jolt.
"Yes, yes", he stammered. "I was wrong. I'll tell you anything you want." His chest heaved. "Please! Don't hurt me!"
His captor smiled, teeth glinting like a shark's fangs.
"Tell me then", she said dangerously, in silken tones of artifice, "Who's your dealer?"
Corgan's eyes grew wide then blank as a spot of crimson suddenly appeared on his forehead. He slumped forward.
The interrogator whirled around in time only to see the red laser line disappear. She raised the alarm, barked terse instructions to her subordinates, cursed well beyond anyone else's vocabulary.
But she didn't find the assassin. Mina was far too good to be caught.
The rain came heavy, hard and fast.
When it rained in the city, the streets were emptied of people. Acid-proof coats didn't come cheap and were suffocating, the smell of sulfur stultifying.
Reev loved the rain. He prayed for it every day. He rejoiced in the monsoon months, despaired in the summer.
For the storms that engulfed the city, while feared by most everyone else, were his shelter. Not even the Freedom Patrol would present themselves in great numbers.
Under a roof in a narrow alley, Reev carefully unwrapped a cigarette that he'd been saving for weeks. He lit up and closed his eyes.
"Smoker!" A shout roused Reev from his reverie. Without waiting to see what it was, Reev began to run in the direction opposite.
"Stop!" A gunshot rang out and Reev felt the heat of the bullet streak past his face.
Reev ran, ran hard. He saw other police officers running toward him from different directions.
With an anguished scream, he slipped on the street and plunged forward. Tears streamed down his face, snot dribbled down his nose. His life was over. He thought of the women that he never got to fuck. He sobbed and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
Gunfire. Shouts. Screams.
Silence.
The rain beat in staccato on the ground. He knew nothing but the pounding in his ears and the ceaseless downpour. Acrid steam filled his nose and mouth.
When he finally had the courage to open his eyes, what he saw made his brain stall.
Four dead police men. Blood bloomed redly throughout their pristine white uniforms.
A bald man and a tiny woman stepped out of the shadows.
"A war has begun," the man said. "A new nation born. Spread the word."
Reev gaped wordlessly as the two disappeared into the deluge.
Singapore, July 2008
Sunday, June 01, 2008
shit i am never acting again
unless:
1/ christian bale is in the cast
2/ joss whedon is writing/directing
3/ i get to be a cylon or a vampire slayer
see this review of last year's Project Chiaroscuro performances.
it was actually a very fair and correct review.
but man does it hurt.
that's what i get for googling my own name!
1/ christian bale is in the cast
2/ joss whedon is writing/directing
3/ i get to be a cylon or a vampire slayer
see this review of last year's Project Chiaroscuro performances.
it was actually a very fair and correct review.
but man does it hurt.
that's what i get for googling my own name!
thought for food
12 years ago, independent analysts warned that World Bank and FAO projections of today’s world farm output were higher, and price increases slower, than they should have been. The World Bank recently reported that overall global food prices increased by 83% in the last three years. Food price inflation could rapidly push at least 100 million people into poverty. Looking at Asia, since January this year, rice prices have gone up by 141%.
Naturally, rising food prices will have various effects on the different Asian countries, which are politically and economically diverse. Rising food prices should benefit farmers and, in the medium-term, spur agricultural production. A recent study by World Bank economists found that the short-run impacts of higher staple food prices on poverty differ considerably by commodity and by country. Nevertheless, they found that poverty increases are much more frequent, and larger in scale, than poverty reductions. For example, in Indonesia, more than 75% of the poor are net rice buyers, and an increase in the relative rice price by 10 percent will result in an additional two million poor people (or 1% of the population).
Even if recent news reports, as of this writing, indicate that an infusion of supply from countries like Cambodia, Vietnam and Pakistan will ease the rice crisis, this does not detract from three serious problems that the last few months have exposed: a resounding dissonance in government responses that does not auger well for the future; the failure of global energy security efforts to arrest the accelerating price of oil; and, the shocking gaps and tatters in the safety nets—especially for agriculture—that governments assured would accompany trade liberalization.
Firstly, the events have revealed fissures in East Asian integration and the limits of its crisis management capacity. Given government reactions such as a proposal to start a rice cartel or the imposition of rice export restrictions by key producers, it is obvious that governments might take policies seemingly in the national interest that hurt the region, and the world, economically. In contrast, regional coordination and sober management of export and import flows as an extraordinary and time-limited step could have buttressed confidence in the food market (instead of further driving prices upwards).
Secondly, Asia has been unable to curb its reliance on oil for energy security despite lessons from the oil shocks of the 1970s. Oil prices have again quadrupled over the last five years. While some headway has been made with renewable energy, Asia has been slow to develop such alternatives and attract large-scale investment in this sector. Surging fuel prices and, hence, transportation throughout the food supply chain, contribute to food price inflation. To complicate matters, incentives for biofuels—while part of climate change mitigation and improving energy security—divert land and crops like wheat, soy and maize from the food market. Governments should consider temporarily suspending subsidies or re-channelling crops to food supply.
Thirdly, trade liberalization in the developing economies of East Asia necessitate social safety nets. These should be designed to brace vulnerable sectors, like agriculture, for the crush of opening trade and globalizing competition. It seems that these safety nets have very wide holes through which the region’s poorest have fallen through. The current situation uncovers a disconcerting absence of effective mechanisms to attenuate trade-related disturbances. Direct cash transfers, food relief (as well as its variants) and hoarding are unsustainable options; medium-to-long term planning is required. Agriculture has weakened in some Asian economies; moreover, there has been an increasing shift from subsistence to cash crops. Policies to improve farm output and attain food supply targets will be integral to attaining food security for the future.
The potential human cost of unguaranteed food security is staggering. The current troubles have already sparked protests, work stoppages and other forms of civil disobedience as well as riots. With scarce natural resources becoming scarcer in the coming years, in the absence of any stunning technological breakthrough to feed the world’s hungry, the prognosis is bleak. Furthermore, East Asia needs to consider approaching future crises in a coordinated way at the regional level.
I'm still thinking about that half-eaten sandwich that I left for garbage last Friday...
Naturally, rising food prices will have various effects on the different Asian countries, which are politically and economically diverse. Rising food prices should benefit farmers and, in the medium-term, spur agricultural production. A recent study by World Bank economists found that the short-run impacts of higher staple food prices on poverty differ considerably by commodity and by country. Nevertheless, they found that poverty increases are much more frequent, and larger in scale, than poverty reductions. For example, in Indonesia, more than 75% of the poor are net rice buyers, and an increase in the relative rice price by 10 percent will result in an additional two million poor people (or 1% of the population).
Even if recent news reports, as of this writing, indicate that an infusion of supply from countries like Cambodia, Vietnam and Pakistan will ease the rice crisis, this does not detract from three serious problems that the last few months have exposed: a resounding dissonance in government responses that does not auger well for the future; the failure of global energy security efforts to arrest the accelerating price of oil; and, the shocking gaps and tatters in the safety nets—especially for agriculture—that governments assured would accompany trade liberalization.
Firstly, the events have revealed fissures in East Asian integration and the limits of its crisis management capacity. Given government reactions such as a proposal to start a rice cartel or the imposition of rice export restrictions by key producers, it is obvious that governments might take policies seemingly in the national interest that hurt the region, and the world, economically. In contrast, regional coordination and sober management of export and import flows as an extraordinary and time-limited step could have buttressed confidence in the food market (instead of further driving prices upwards).
Secondly, Asia has been unable to curb its reliance on oil for energy security despite lessons from the oil shocks of the 1970s. Oil prices have again quadrupled over the last five years. While some headway has been made with renewable energy, Asia has been slow to develop such alternatives and attract large-scale investment in this sector. Surging fuel prices and, hence, transportation throughout the food supply chain, contribute to food price inflation. To complicate matters, incentives for biofuels—while part of climate change mitigation and improving energy security—divert land and crops like wheat, soy and maize from the food market. Governments should consider temporarily suspending subsidies or re-channelling crops to food supply.
Thirdly, trade liberalization in the developing economies of East Asia necessitate social safety nets. These should be designed to brace vulnerable sectors, like agriculture, for the crush of opening trade and globalizing competition. It seems that these safety nets have very wide holes through which the region’s poorest have fallen through. The current situation uncovers a disconcerting absence of effective mechanisms to attenuate trade-related disturbances. Direct cash transfers, food relief (as well as its variants) and hoarding are unsustainable options; medium-to-long term planning is required. Agriculture has weakened in some Asian economies; moreover, there has been an increasing shift from subsistence to cash crops. Policies to improve farm output and attain food supply targets will be integral to attaining food security for the future.
The potential human cost of unguaranteed food security is staggering. The current troubles have already sparked protests, work stoppages and other forms of civil disobedience as well as riots. With scarce natural resources becoming scarcer in the coming years, in the absence of any stunning technological breakthrough to feed the world’s hungry, the prognosis is bleak. Furthermore, East Asia needs to consider approaching future crises in a coordinated way at the regional level.
I'm still thinking about that half-eaten sandwich that I left for garbage last Friday...
Thursday, May 22, 2008
synecdoche
there was this girl
this really fucked up girl
she put her mind into a box
stuck a handle on the thing
cranked it and, hey presto,
it started chugging.
she put her hands to labor
to create a certain form;
re-ball, re-mold, re-ball, re-mold
a swan, maybe an ashtray.
her feet walked the miles
between then and now
across never, again and always
among other extremes.
she let her heart float like a bubble
upwards until high
where it silently burst
into a thousand words.
she stands at the close,
watching thoughts as they fall
unshaped.
gabby's art material comes in handy at 5:17am
this really fucked up girl
she put her mind into a box
stuck a handle on the thing
cranked it and, hey presto,
it started chugging.
she put her hands to labor
to create a certain form;
re-ball, re-mold, re-ball, re-mold
a swan, maybe an ashtray.
her feet walked the miles
between then and now
across never, again and always
among other extremes.
she let her heart float like a bubble
upwards until high
where it silently burst
into a thousand words.
she stands at the close,
watching thoughts as they fall
unshaped.
gabby's art material comes in handy at 5:17am