RSS Feed

Another “Classic Post” From My Not-To-Classical Friendster Blog

Posted on
It's about to rain on them Chocos...

It's about to rain on them Chocos...

It’s either I couldn’t think of anything to write or my brain’s too stressed out to do so. That is why I’m now republishing another blog post that I wrote from (25 May 2006) my not too legendary blog in Friendster.

I really didn’t write too many posts for that Friendster blog because I somehow got JB Lazarte’s attention too soon. But whatever precious stuff I wrote there, I better transfer all of them here in FILIPINO SCRIBBLES. For all we know, Friendster might end up in smoke, just like what’s going to happen to Geocities. It’s because Facebook has been pounding Friendster mercilessly for months!

OK, I’ll shut up now. Here’s another crazed-up essay written during one, bleak rainy day (and what a coincidence… it’s raining outside!).

Here it is…



‘Tis the season I love, ¡ese!

Our country is visited (as if it’s a casual one) by 15 to 25 typhoons a year. Just recently, Caloy left the country devastated, leaving around 40 souls bodiless and hundreds of families homeless and traumatized. About P8 million worth of crops and properties were damaged, and transportation was petrified, creating a wacky domino effect on the nation’s already WASP-plundered economy. It’s still summer (NOTE: this piece was scribbled on 05/17/06), but already, we’ve got one hellacious storm.

And it left me with an impish, craven smile. Don’t get me wrong, dear reader. It’s not the destruction that I’m jovial about. It’s the freakin’ winds, the surging waves, the icy air, the menacing dark clouds, everything that a typhoon has to offer a thirsty soul.

Well, it’s not exactly the typhoon I’m excited about, but the season every school kid loves: the rainy season (¡woohoo! ¡ualáng pasoc!)!

When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.

-Bill Shakespeare-

My heart pounds with excitement during the dying days of a simmering summer whenever the unforgiving heat of the summer sun cowers to the chilly embrace of the darkest of nimbus clouds. The hair on my sordid skin feels wolfish whenever the hot, still air suddenly crawls onto my skin and whispers feebly into my ear psychosomatic words brought upon by an unholy amalgam of cold and heat (“it’s happening again, m0theRfu©k€r! you cannot escape, it’s happening again, you’re a marked sonuva bIt©h! it’s happening again…”), spiralling up into the sick air full of human incorrigibilities (what disturbs me is that it stops me on my tracks because I see it — oh, mighty butterburgers on a politician’s a$s, I FU©K!N’ SEE IT!!!)

The jolly perturbation of my wild blood surges when the soft whispers of the wind climbs each decibel scale, transforming itself into a howl so lovely you can no longer hear what mortals call urban realities. Nothing but the Genesiacal sounds of the wind pervade the serotinal social dyslogia of a fabricated, sh!+ty culture.

The shrillness of the wind continues, mocking the tempestuous skies to break.

And so the skies do cave in.

A torrent of immortal waters explode, displaying a force that has so moved music and literature and the unconscious self throughout the centuries. Indeed, a vulgar display of power is unleashed (…five minutes alone!!!).

It’s happening again. I could never get away. The talons, the claws, the grip on my neck, my head (muh humps, muh humps!), pressing even harder, like a fu©k!n’ vice…

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts and hurricanes, spout

Till you have drench’d our steeples.

-Bill Again-

The tempest continues. I raise my drenched, sickly arms up into the sky, as if to embrace a world that is about to end in water. One couldn’t tell if the tears falling from my eyes (that has set a thousand luscious chicks, but my countenance sank em’ all…) are due to an upheaval of an unbearable melancholy, or the intensity of rational madness — or if I am just my unemotional self, welcoming this force of nature that I so dearly love.

Yesterday’s rains have come again,

Come, my damsel, revel with me.

But due to the iciness of the surroundings,

You might as well do me, do me! DO ME!!!



O, Tempora! O, Mores! Poe must have screamed in fervent fervor, if, a long, long time ago, he did share this rainy season euphoria with me.

The “Seattle Spirit” has at last come back, and I’m gaining wet ground. Suffice to say that this is exactly what the Muse had been wanting from me for months — not official letters, scraggly and mundane notes, multifaceted communiqués, and other worthless stuff (as if these terminological ejaculations are normal). Yup, she’s been whippin’ my a$s and disturbing my brain to get up, stand up (STAND UP FOR YOUR RIGHTS! — oh, will ya’ please SHUT THE FU©K UP FOR A WHILE!!!), and detonate myself as do the skies do here in Filipinas from June to October (sometimes, oddly, in May), Yes. It’s happening again, psycho. There’s no turning back. There’re no locked doors. This destitute ink must find its existence in any dried up papyrus before the storm in my head destroys them all (NOTE: this is when I was still writing this piece the old-school way).

I have dawdled too long. Gotta stop pretending who I was, or who I am now. Or who I gotta be. I’ll never know for now. I’ll only know when I get there. But how will I realize it? I don’t know. For now, hadda obey what the Muse has been prodding me to do. Ostentation may be the keyword here, the hidden desire of each and every artist (thou shalt not deny lest thou be a hypocrite!!!). Hadda do something about it. Obey the Muse, the b!+©hy, pr!©k-hungry Muse, before madness overtakes me.

Freud’s a wuss. He’s “talkin’ out” method won’t work for me. Shoulda consulted a Smith treatise on the economic impact of his lie-down-on-the-couch-as-I-rape-yer-mind method. Besides, I couldn’t talk. Cannot talk. Better “write it out” instead.

The fervidity in me fades out as soon as the stinging bullets of rainwater slows down to mere droplets of prism. And in this crystal-like, technicolor world after a heavy downpour, the once merciless sun peeps sheepishly through the exiting clouds, although the wind still blows. The incorrigible air has lost its scent. Everything — the air, the vista – has been purified.

The rainy season has just begun. And I come undone.


Please share your thoughts about this article.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: