ACHIEVEMENT
Apr 24, '08 5:08 AM
It would have been a heated argument if I weren't that tired and drolling for sleep, when me and my good friend B on the same barandilla near the same Karangahan Blvd., but a little late in the night, talked and came to the point of talking about silly things again. That night it was about achievement and envy--or achievement-envy, whatever. I guess this was a relapse brought by, I don't know, certain feelings of un-appreciation.
Related Digression: Last night was Tabaco City night at Magayon Festival in Legazpi, Krear Bathala performed their, I guess, best work yet, KAHADEAN. Somewhere in the 7 minute song, a certain disgruntled Provincial official in the audience, texted the organizers to cut us out. The organizers "mercifully" waited for us to finish our second song before they did, and resumed the song and dance variety show...yehey! So there.
Back to achievement. Issue: Profile pictures showing high-rise buildings, snow, scenic spots, desert, white sand, a foreign person, etc. in a place other than the Philippines, has developed to a form of showing-off achievement. Warning: this will sound bitter. Okay, I told B that there is this trend in most friend network sites of showing off achievement using the context of the "abroad." B told me, so what? So what?, I would have asked (with matching spitting look), my blood rising. Can't you smell the garbage (I didn't say this, as I was tired and aching for bed, and a heated argument may make me not want to go to bed). But I might have had, for I was able to confess that I hate them-- yet I envy them. And it was B's turn to swing at me with a spitting look--you envy them? Maybe just a bit, but that's not the point. The point is achievement. I may be bitter, but achievement is the point. So we moved along to discussing what achievement is. Blah, blah, blah, we had arrived at this conclusion or more like an amicable settlement: achievement is relative to what you are (all that cliche), so even if there are people who upon waking up wants to make money they have achieved something worthwhile regardless of how much as long as they have been the best money-grabber or businessman at that moment. This also goes from the lowly eskinita tong-it grand champion to the greatest artist of the land. At least we have agreed that cars, mansions and saudi gold bling-blings are not the gauge for success. And because I cannot tolerate my own yawning anymore, I told him this is useless because I am not even affected by the photos anymore, and suggested to him to go someplace else, like Le Club Silencio or something where insomniacs can bathe each other in philosophical spit.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Justice
April 24, 2008
For a few days now, that word has been constantly in my mouth. Justice. There has to be justice in the end. I was drinking with my old friend B. one night when I mouthed it. I had my first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere; he was already drunk from waiting at a bar where he was supposed to have his first solo performance, because the supposed organizer had his first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere.
It was a Saturday night in a lonely town where if you have nothing much to do, like having sex with your girlfriend or writing an obra maestra or something, it's better to drink. So we did. The philosophizings started early. I wasn't having a buzz yet when that word came out of my mouth: Justice. There has to be justice in the end. We were staring at some big sub-urban houses from a far, partly hidden by the inability of the lampposts to shed light on everything. Our drunken words were just abbreviations of what we had gone through. He even counted the years we had been friends. He told me 1994; I told him it was the summer we first learned wordstar. Blah, blah, blah. I can't remember where the word justice arrived, but I can see now that it was a highlight. A roman numeral in an outline. My words were roughly like: for all we have suffered there must be a reward or something, even not here. I don't know if I had mentioned Van Gogh as an analogy. I might have, as I usually do. What I am sure is it was about suffering. B. asked me if he could kiss me in the lips, and it rained, so we had to go inside, and I laughed so hard I thought I'd die. That was a good one I told him. Inter cut to other tangible scenes: B. vividly (by my request) told me his first experience with a girl. Blah, blah, blah we both had a hard on. I congratulated him, but because he was way over 20 the time he was devirginized I consoled him: mine was with a hoar, sob (no offense to our brothers and sisters in the pleasure industry).
A few days later, we got to talk again. Red dusk at the side of Karangahan Boulevard, we were sitting on a barandilla, and the word came out again. I learned from him that his present occupation was with what Beauty is. I told him mine was Justice. He was slowly puffing at his cigarette, I was waving his smoke away. Many years ago, when we were young I was the smoker and he was the waver. I'm afraid of dying of stroke or a heart attack so I quit my most beloved pastime. I'm afraid of many things. Many things I can't do because I'm afraid. Like smoking a joint might cause me a nervous breakdown. All these sufferings and the others I have already endured. Abstinence from the things I love, e.g. fatty food and getting lost. Justice. There has to be a reward in the end. Like when I have stood for hours in the sunken garden every Sunday till my vision turned white, in a charoled pair of boots and a stupid mass-produced cap, and my face a catch pan for our sergeant's spit I knew I was doing it for the love of my parents, for graduation and a piece of parchment. I just hope this is something like this. I hope each remarkable hurt whether it be a pinch or a genuine shattering of heart is being audited and someday be reimbursed or something. When my turn in the band practice came, I went in, and B. just puffed on. He was in no hurry to spend his time alone.
For a few days now, that word has been constantly in my mouth. Justice. There has to be justice in the end. I was drinking with my old friend B. one night when I mouthed it. I had my first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere; he was already drunk from waiting at a bar where he was supposed to have his first solo performance, because the supposed organizer had his first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere.
It was a Saturday night in a lonely town where if you have nothing much to do, like having sex with your girlfriend or writing an obra maestra or something, it's better to drink. So we did. The philosophizings started early. I wasn't having a buzz yet when that word came out of my mouth: Justice. There has to be justice in the end. We were staring at some big sub-urban houses from a far, partly hidden by the inability of the lampposts to shed light on everything. Our drunken words were just abbreviations of what we had gone through. He even counted the years we had been friends. He told me 1994; I told him it was the summer we first learned wordstar. Blah, blah, blah. I can't remember where the word justice arrived, but I can see now that it was a highlight. A roman numeral in an outline. My words were roughly like: for all we have suffered there must be a reward or something, even not here. I don't know if I had mentioned Van Gogh as an analogy. I might have, as I usually do. What I am sure is it was about suffering. B. asked me if he could kiss me in the lips, and it rained, so we had to go inside, and I laughed so hard I thought I'd die. That was a good one I told him. Inter cut to other tangible scenes: B. vividly (by my request) told me his first experience with a girl. Blah, blah, blah we both had a hard on. I congratulated him, but because he was way over 20 the time he was devirginized I consoled him: mine was with a hoar, sob (no offense to our brothers and sisters in the pleasure industry).
A few days later, we got to talk again. Red dusk at the side of Karangahan Boulevard, we were sitting on a barandilla, and the word came out again. I learned from him that his present occupation was with what Beauty is. I told him mine was Justice. He was slowly puffing at his cigarette, I was waving his smoke away. Many years ago, when we were young I was the smoker and he was the waver. I'm afraid of dying of stroke or a heart attack so I quit my most beloved pastime. I'm afraid of many things. Many things I can't do because I'm afraid. Like smoking a joint might cause me a nervous breakdown. All these sufferings and the others I have already endured. Abstinence from the things I love, e.g. fatty food and getting lost. Justice. There has to be a reward in the end. Like when I have stood for hours in the sunken garden every Sunday till my vision turned white, in a charoled pair of boots and a stupid mass-produced cap, and my face a catch pan for our sergeant's spit I knew I was doing it for the love of my parents, for graduation and a piece of parchment. I just hope this is something like this. I hope each remarkable hurt whether it be a pinch or a genuine shattering of heart is being audited and someday be reimbursed or something. When my turn in the band practice came, I went in, and B. just puffed on. He was in no hurry to spend his time alone.
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