Move.

By Pol Arellano

It’s eleven o’ clock and all the fight ran out of me like a schoolboy being chased by six-foot bullies.

I just had about enough of waiting.

I’ve been waiting for her to come out of her room, that oftentimes putrid and sometimes haven of a room. She stayed in for hours without coming out for air. I ordered Chinese food and waited for her. I ordered hotdogs, hung out, and suppressed my pee. I curled up on one corner and stared at her yellow green door and let sleep come to me.

I didn’t think that apologizing would be this hard. Or this perilous to my health.

It’s my second day outside her dormitory room. Students living on the same floor as hers looked at me like I was a rat whenever they passed by, maybe because I already smelled like one. I couldn’t care less.

I stared at her door for how many tick-tocks now and whenever I close my eyes, her door lingers inside my head. It has become more than a memory. It is now a state of mind; a reality that mocks me and my powerlessness to open it. The yellow green door with the pink knob for me is, at this point in time, the most insensitive thing on the face of the earth.

I didn’t think that falling in love would be this hard. Or this perilous to my health.

Before the second day came to an end, I heard a creaking sound.

The door opened at last. Though not particularly wide enough for me to enter, but big enough for me to peer into. I scrambled to my knees, and stood up. I squinted hard and held my breath.

I went in.

I walked past her kitchen. Roaches were swimming in gray and yellow sink water, jumping on unwashed plates and cups and saucers. The refrigerator door was wide open, the dim yellow light cast shadows on three pieces of eggs, two of which were broken.

Her table was upside-down. Clothes were piled atop her LCD television screen. Her computer was an understatement of a mess, if there ever was one.

Her chihuahua lay stiff on the floor. I watched in fascination as two thousand ants tried desperately to pick the dog up. Saving for winter, I believe. Or probably for a big birthday party.

The house probably looked a lot like hell right now. She must have been really high.

And she didn’t even think of inviting me for a shot.

Women. They’re like freakin’ circles. They’re hard to freakin’ draw. Even when you’re sober.

I went inside her bedroom.

That’s when I saw her lying on the floor. Her eyes were like deep wells, empty and dark. Her arms and legs were moving frantically, moving up and down and sideways. She was convulsing. She was moving rhythmically, fast and violent.

I felt scared.

I felt the color fly swiftly out of me, escaping from my every crevice.

I ran towards her, pulled her head up, and tried to see what was wrong.

WHAT’S WRONG?? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?? WHO DID THIS TO YOU??

She continued to move, almost gyrating to an impossibly fast-paced tune, undecipherable to human ears.

She moved, and moved.

I asked and asked.

The fight ran out of me like a sissy schoolboy, running away from six-foot bullies.

Inside her room, the floor spinned as she convulsed.

She was screaming now.  I held her head and stared into her face, looking for answers in her pale being.

As I peered into her eyes, a scream escaped me, ripping my tonsils out of my throat.  It escaped faster than a bullet train, faster than time itself.

I screamed.

For her deep, empty eyes mirrored my own.

And so I convulsed next to her. Like a pair of coked-up dancers, we gyrated.

As I spasmodically moved, I wished that there were enough ants in the world to carry me to salvation.

Move, a short story.

Inspired by Andres Barrioquinto’s Dead Can Dance Exhibit at the Tala Gallery.

Love, Illustrated.

Illustrations by Pol Arellano, 2009.

Inconvenience, Stored.

By Pol Arellano, 2008

Hello, sir. Fine morning isn’t it?

Hm, yes, quite.
Will it be cash or card sir?

Card. Here.
[BEEP]
I see you’ve found the new 17-in-1 coffee. It’s all the rage nowadays. Haven’t tried it out yet, though. Is it any good?

Uh, I really don’t know.
Oh, good, good. That’s okay, sir. Good. Trying out new things is good. That old brand must have taken it’s toll, huh?

Hm.

[BEEP]
[BEEP]
[BEEP]
[BEEP]

I’ve actually tried this brand of shaving cream and let me tell you sir, it sucks mightily. I’m not punching this in sir. To buy this would be a crime, a heinous crime.

Wait, that’s my favorite brand! What are you doing??
Believe me sir, I’m doing you a service. I’m here to serve sir. It says right here on my button, sir. See?

Yes but please put it back.

Besides, I know for a fact that you’re sick of this shitty thing’s smell anyway.

This is pointless. I give up. Don’t punch the damn thing in.

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

Ooooh, I see you’ve got the missus’ favorite bubble bath. She hates it when you buy the floral kind. Says it reminds you of your old secretary. Yep, the one you spent ten fun-filled days with on Bo-raaa-cay! That’s her alright.

HEY! How the hell did you know that?

That’s why vanilla’s her preference. It reminds her of your first date.
Who are you? HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

Well, to be honest sir, I was there.

HOW COULD YOU HAVE BEEN THERE?

Sir, you may want to keep it down a bit, my manager is eyeing us. Can’t have the big boss snooping in on us, can’t we?

How could you have been there? What are you talking about?

You see, sir, I was there. Like I told you.

[BEEP]

I was the pavement you fell on when you crashed your neighbor’s bike when you were 13. I was the ice cream cone you threw away because it leaked and it didn’t look too good on your first date. The matrimonial bed, that was me, and let me tell you sir, I didn’t enjoy that all too much.

[BEEP]

I had been your sink, where you lost your wedding ring, while trying to wash away blood on your hands. You killed a small boy when you were out hunting for geese. By accident, of course. You hid him underneath the velvet sea.

[BEEP]

I was the pen you used to sign illegal documents. I was the desk you made love on with your sexy, exotic-looking secretary. I was the sea, the one you skinny-dipped in with her too. Five out of ten days, your dangling sex punctured my aqua.

[BEEP]

I was the second-rate bouquet of roses that you got for your wife when a girlfriend of hers saw you feeling your mistress up. I was the bathroom door you waited in front of when she refused to talk to you.

[BEEP]

To appease her, you gave her me, for I was a pricey diamond ring. You bought another me and gave it to your secretary/mistress on your anniversary.

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

[BEEP]

You owe me P 2350.50, sir. Let me swipe your card. Ooh, that tickles.

Thank you for shopping at [BEEP], have a nice day!

The Long Trip to Itay’s Heart

By Pol Arellano, 2008

Inay woke me up early today.

She wiped the sand off my eyes and told me to get up. She went to my wooden closet and took out one of my prettiest dresses, the ones I wear to special occasions, like when lolo died last summer. My dress is so pretty, so red, like a mad asteroid. Or that yummy-looking apple in Inay’s old recipe book.

She told me to get up, and stop pretending to sleep already, because she wasn’t “in the mood”. I was a good pretender. She just won’t admit it.

Get up, she yelled, we’re going on a trip.

But I’ll ruin my pretty dress on the trip, I mumbled. Our old car has very lumpy seats. I sometimes think that all my lost things ended up underneath its icky green seats. Like my striped fat cat, Ninglat, and my pink and purple spin top.

It also smells bad. Like bagoong, pandan, eucalyptus leaves and Inay’s cologne gone wrong.

No worries, the trip won’t be long, Inay said as she pulled me out of my three-legged bed. Get up, she said, her nostril slightly dancing.

Where are we going? I asked.

We’re taking a drive to your Itay’s heart. We’re going to look for something there. Inay said as she fixed my blanket.

Okay. I said. But it sounded like Hohkhaay because my yawn got in the way of my okay.

We got in the lumpy car and drove for an eternity. Inay lied. I guess she was a better pretender than me.

Our car moved like an old man, walking with a stick in one hand, on the bumpy, crisscross road.

Inay gave me a plastic bag just in case I had an “accident.” I made a face and pretended to make puking sounds but stopped when I almost vomited my pan de sal and salted eggs.

After singing “Bahay kubo” a hundred thousand trillion times, Inay told me to knock it off. She said we were near Itay’s heart. Finally. But Inay was a good pretender, so I started to sing a made-up song about pretending. In the song, a black, furry and gassy dog named Jun-Jun was peeing everywhere. In the end he married and got kittens for kids. Inay laughed and told me that I could be the next Lino Kamo. I told her that it wasn’t a very funny joke.

We’re here, Inay said.

I stirred. I fell asleep. I was about to say something but my throat felt scratchy. I looked out the window and saw nothing but darkness and outlines of willowy trees. Their branches seemed to be dancing to the tune of some elegant music. I wish I were a tree. So then I could hear.

Inay went out of the car. I went after her. She held my hand and in the darkness, I saw her eyes. They were luminous than fireflies, fierier than the sun. Inay has very pretty eyes.

We walked. And walked. And waaaallkkkkeeeeddd.

I hate walking.

We saw giant roosters, three of them were dead. The living ones were making noises like a backed-up toilet.

We passed by a row of beer soldiers. Thousands of them lined up the path, with cold piercing stares. But it wasn’t too long before they softened up to us. Their eyes smiled as they sang a song about a man who’s celebrating his birthday. They weren’t good singers.

We went inside a house made of cards. In it was a dog made of chips. The dog was cute but he made too much noise.

After walking, and walking and waaaallkkkkinggg, Inay stopped.

She announced that we were going home.

She pulled her hair back, smiled at me, and led the way back to our lumpy car.

I wish I were one of the trees. I wish I could hear the music. I closed my eyes to make the wish come true. I read that in a nursery book. In school. I closed my eyes. I promised not to take coins from Inay’s wallet. I promised to do all my homework. I promised to eat yucky ampalaya.

I opened my eyes.

But I still can’t hear the music.

The trees, they were still moving lines in the darkness.

But Inay’s eyes looked like dead fireflies. Like a cowardly sun.

I closed my eyes and wished that I were never born.

The Two Deaths of a Business Woman.

 

The Two Deaths of a Business Woman.

By Pol Arellano, 2007

I saw a woman in town today. She parked her bicycle in front of a shabby-chic café. On her bicycle was an attached basket. On the attached basket there was a box. She took the box out of the basket and sat on one of the tables outside the café. Her table was next to a couple kissing passionately.

A waitress approached her. The waitress had bangs of gold. The rest of her hair is shaved. She wore an apron that smelled like bacon, sweat and coffee. She smiled automatically at the woman like she knew her forever.

You look tired, dear. Nothin’ like a cup of tea to calm the wires and odds.

Yes, a cup of tea would be lovely.

The woman thought of how she hated tea. She thought of its green, dried leaves and she thought of how much she loathed green, dried leaves. She thought of how she wanted to drink a Bloody freakin’ Mary instead. Yet she held her smile even after the almost bald woman called her order up and attended to the famished-looking obese man who came in with an oversized umbrella.

I saw her. She held her box like it was an infant. She sat primly and stared at nothing.

The waitress came staggering through the crowded aisle of the café. The sun shone on her apron and she looked almost ethereal with her gold bangs and sweaty nose. She held a large tray, in it were a family of five’s orders, complete with a vegetarian pizza for the elder daughter and a meatball pasta for their sweet brat. She held the woman’s cup of tea on a smaller tray in her other hand. The obese man called her attention and as she turned around and miscalculated her step, she knocked-over a salt shaker. Miraculously, the food and tea were spared. She really must have been ethereal.

She apologized profusely to the lad. The lad smiled and said,

Hey, it’s nothing. It’s supposed to bring me luck, right?

That, it’ll do, sir.

She placed the tea in front of the woman. The woman stared at her cup of tea and requested for a small amount of milk. A child was throwing a tantrum and was yelling,

BUT YOU PROMISED! YOU PROMISED WE’LL SKATE TODAY! YOU NEVER KEEP YOUR PROMISES!

The waitress smiled her automatic smile and nodded. She turned her back on the woman to get a cupful of milk. The lad placed his hand in his right pocket and took out the small box. It looked as if he was keeping it in his socks drawer for several months now. He kept it under the table, of course. The café was still too damn noisy.

The woman thought of how milk disagreed with her system. How it made her want to throw up and pass gass and piss all at the same time.

The lady who was with the lad had roses for lips. She was all a-bloom, almost like she was springtime herself. She looks ready to burst with repressed joy. She stroked her trim tummy and laughed at the lad’s joke.

The vegetarian daughter talked about how much she liked the new boy in town because he wears Save the Kangaroos shirts to school. The sweet brat talked about getting a new hamster for his pet collection.

The wife talked about a luncheon she’s going to host for the senior citizens in their block.

The husband said nothing and ate his steak with gusto.

The woman sat there, the cup of milk now in front of her.

She thought of how much she hated milk and tea stirred together.

The obese man asked the waitress for another slice of their wonderful cake. He asked her not to skimp on the whipped cream too.

The woman stared at the building across the café. It was where she spent 14 of her precious hours in. She literally slaved there.

She talked. She sat. She nodded. She made coffee. She wrote. She read. She ran errands. She received paychecks. She typed. She got courted. She lost her positions. She dated. She gained new positions. She did this for twelve years.

The lad held the lady’s hand in his. She stared at her eyes and told her she looked radiant. The lady flushed and told him that he was a royal kiss-ass.

The waitress cleared the tantrum-thrower’s vomit. The father, mobile phone in hand, promised to give the waitress a good tip. The waitress thought the father looked cute.

The woman stirred her cup of tea with milk. She stared at the building in front of her.

She thought of how much she loathed tea and milk. She thought of how much she loathed the building in front of her.

She wasted twelve years there. She lost many things in that building.

She lost her father. She lost her beauty. She lost her mother’s pearl earrings. She lost her virginity. She lost her sex appeal. She lost her freedom. She lost her husband. She lost her dreams. She lost her dignity. She lost her fingernails on her husband’s paramour’s head. She lost her car. She lost her job. She lost custody. She lost her family.

The vegetarian daughter asked the waitress if she knew Bjork. The waitress nodded enthusiastically. The daughter said the waitress looked so much like Bjork. The sweet brat asked for a cup of water. If they had goldfish there, he added, just place it in the glass of water. The mother laughed. The father smiled in spite of himself.

The lady excused herself to go to the washroom. The lad smiled. He rehearsed the lines in his head over and over. He wanted it to be perfect after all.

The woman drank her tea with milk. She felt calm.

She thought of buying a box of prepared tea bags. Then she laughed her small laugh.

She opened her box.

The lad held the small box in his pocket. She looked at the woman. The lines in his head vanished. He held the small box in his pocket for what seemed like an eternity. He thought of how much he loved the lady. The lady in the washroom. How much he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

He thought of the salt on his shirt.

He thought of how a buttload of shit it was to believe that it was supposed to bring him luck.

The woman took the pin out.

There was a loud noise. In a fraction of a second, the noise seemed to be in harmony with the blinding light. In that perfect frame of time, everyone in the café venerated the feeling of shock and animosity. They swam in fiction-like fear and wallowed in it; they did that for there was a lack of place to find solace.

 

I felt as if my chest exploded with the blast.

I felt correctly.

This is exactly how I felt a decade ago.

 

Ang Dakilang Wala

Ni Pol Arellano

Nung mga bata kami, may mga pangarap kami.

Si Bajoy, yung tatlo ang baba, gustong maging engineer. Gagawa siya ng mga gusali. Mga tulay. Mga bahay ng artista. Lalo na sa Alabang.

Si Mila, yung laging nakabukaka, gustong maging doktor. Gagamot siya ng matatanda, mga bata. Mga buntis, mga sanggol. Mga mahihirap at mayayaman.

Ako, gusto kong maging wala.

Sa totoo lang, ako ang may pinakamahirap na maabot na pangarap. Paano, alam kong sobrang galing ko. Ang galing kong kumanta, magsayaw, magsalita, mag-math, magtikol, manligaw, magpaiyak ng babae,  magpatili ng babae, magpasaya ng babae, at magpasaya (kindat, kindat) ng babae.  Sa lahat ng talento ko, mahirap maging wala. Kumbaga destined for greatness ako e. Kaya sigurado akong hindi ako magiging wala. Kaya yun ang pangarap ko, kasi alam kong ang pangarap, lalo na sa Pilipinas, mahirap abutin. At yun lang ang bagay na naiisip kong hindi ko maaabot. Maging wala.

Kasi naman ang galing kong magdrowing. Dati lagi akong pinapagdrowing ng titser namin. Sasabihin niya,  “Pepe, magdrowing ka nga ng batang naglalaro. Ayan, ang ganda! O tapos magdrowing ka naman ng mag-asawang kumakaway. Oo, ganyan nga! Tapos lagyan mo ng magandang bahay sa likod. Sige, pati puno. Ay, aso din. Hm, dagdagan mo pa. Mga labingisa. Ayan, ayan! O sige lagyan mo ng tangke. Sa gilid lagyan mo naman ng astronaut. Lagyan mo na rin ng Playboy Bunnies sa taas, hindi, hindi, kunwari nakasabit sila sa buwan. Si Donald Trump gawin mong mas matangkad. Oo, pati si Oprah gawin mong mas maputi ng konti. Konti lang, baka maiba na masyado. Ayan, ayan! Ang galing mo Pepe!” Lagi akong pinapagdrowing. Puring-puri ako lagi e. Ang galing ko kasi maghalo ng mga kulay. Sinasabi ko sa’yo, kapag nakakita ka ng gawa ko maluluha ka e. Ganon ako kagaling.

Nabanggit ko na bang captain ako ng Basketball, Softball, Volleyball, Baseball, Swimming, Polo, Chess, Bowling, Table Tennis, Rollerblading, Ice Skating, Quiditch, Hangaroo, Diner Dash, Counter Strike at Dama teams sa school? Pwes ako lahat yan. Kapag may laro ako, yung mga babae sa gilid, inaabangan yung pagpapawis ko. Binobote nila tapos binebenta nila sa Quiapo. Katabi nung mga pamparegla pati mga bloke ng tawas. Nakakagaling daw yung pawis ko e. Parang magic oil ng El Shaddai. Kaya lang mas mabango ng di hamak yung pawis ko. Pati mas efektiv.

Galing ko din magsalita. Lagi akong panalo sa mga debate sa school. Edi ipapakilala na ako ng host. Tilian yung mga tao, grabe. May mga naghahagis pa ng panty. Minsan may brip, pero minsan lang yun. Tapos ipapakilala yung kalaban ko. Ang daming nagbu-boo. Para mong nakita yung pumatay kay Bambi na biglang pumasok sa meeting ng PETA e. Ganong-ganon. Alam na ni gago na wala siyang binatbat e.  Tapos pinagbigyan siya, pinauna siya ng moderator matapos sabihin ang tapik – Tingin mo ba’y tama ang same sex marriage o hindi? Sinabi niyang kasalanan ang same-sex marriage. Sinabi niyang hindi yun Biblikal. Sinabi niyang hindi ginawa ang babae para sa babae, at ang lalake para sa lalake. Wala daw ito sa naturalesa. Madami siyang sinabing batayan: mga science journals, mga philosophies. Iba’t iba talaga. Madami siyang pinakitang patunay sa mga sinasabi niya. Madaming tao ang tumutulo na ang laway at may mga naglalako na ng mani sa gitna. Tinawag na ng commentator ang pangalan ko at biglang nagising ang lahat! Slow motion akong naglakad papunta sa stage at mga labinlimang minutong naghintay na humupa ang palakpakan at hiyawan at ang wave na ginawa ng mga manonood. Handa na ang lahat sa matindi kong istilo ng pagsagot sa kalaban ko. Ito na ang hinintay nila ng matagal. Sino ba naman ako para biguin sila? Gwapong-gwapo kong sinabing “E sa okay lang sakin e, paki mo?” NAGSITAYUAN yung mga tao e! Sobrang bilib sila sa katalinuhan ko nun. Nakakabingi yung palakpakan pati hiyawan! Pahiya yung kalaban ko! Akala mo nanalo yung Ginebra sa ingay e. Akala mo nanalo si Erap ulit e.

Sa sobrang galing ko, pati mga kaaway ko napabilib.

Ganon ako kagaling. Magaling ako sa lahat ng bagay. Hindi mo pa naiisip, alam ko nang magaling ako dun sa bagay na iisipin mo pa lang. Galing no?

Ngayon matatanda na kami nila Bajoy at Mila.

Si Bajoy, wala na yung tatlong baba. Pumayat na si gago. Engineer na siya. Siya yung gumawa ng bagong Cultural Center sa maynila. Sobrang ganda nung gusaling yun,walang binatbat yung luma. Binisita yun ni Angelina at ni Brad Pitt nung nakaraang buwan. Tapos may inampon silang bente-siyeteng mga batang kalsada nung napadaan sila sa Ermita. Yung kalsadang dinaaanan nila, inayos ni Bajoy. Pinakinis. Ginawang bago.

Si Mila,  mahilig pa rin bumukaka. Pero doktora na siya. Naka-assign siya sa Benguet. Doon siya naggagamot ng libre sa mga matatanda na kabilang sa mga tribo. Kailangan niyang bumukaka dun. Kapag tumatalon siya sa pagitan ng mga lawa at umaakyat ng bundok, kailangan niyang bumukaka.

Ako, ito, magaling pa rin.

Hindi ko nga lang maikwento sa Amerikanong kausap ko kung gaano ako kagaling.

Ang importante lang sa kanya e yung maling bill na dumating sa kanya kanina, dahil hindi naman daw siya nagsubscribe sa pay-per-view nung nakaraang linggo.

Magaling pa rin ako.

At mukhang dahil sa sobrang galing ko, nagawa ko yung inisip kong hindi ko magagawa.

Tulad nila Bajoy at Ana, natupad ko ang pangarap ko.

Ako ngayon ay isang dakilang wala.

Forgetful Me.

FORGETFUL ME

By Pol Arellano

Geraldine lives across the street.

She has been my neighbor for almost six years now.

She’s quite easy on the eyes – Slim, a gorgeous brunette.

Her almond shaped eyes are taupe. I know this because my favorite baseball cap is in that same exact shade.

She has a beauty mark on her left brow. It grows bigger when she smiles.

Her dark hair frames her rosy cheeks, and hides her scar, at the right side of her forehead.

She’s a looker, alright.

One day she painted her whole house pink.

Pink, of all colors! Not the delightful shade of pink, the disastrous kind – a cross between metallic and something else horrid. It’s the kind that makes a passerby think that he’s lost in an alternate universe. A horrifyingly pink alternate universe.

Thank goodness she doesn’t have plants.

Or dogs.

It took me about three days before I had the courage to push her wooden pink gate.

And stare at her pink brick pathway.

And ring her little pink doorbell.

“Just a second!” as always, she shouted.

Hey, her voice is sultrier. It’s almost as if it’s sexier. I swear, she sounds like someone famous.. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I..

She opened the door.

But I’m not quite sure if she is Geraldine.

“Uh, I’m looking for Geraldine. Is she home?”

“Billy.. You silly, silly man! It’s me, Geraldine!”

She can’t be Geraldine, she just can’t be!

Her eyes, they’re no longer taupe, they’re astoundingly blue.

Her beauty mark is gone.

Her hair is blonde. Short, with bangs.

And highlights, even.

“But, you’re not her.” I said.

“No, Billy, it really is me.” She said, full of confidence and conviction. She even smiled a bit wider, which emphasized her cute dimples.

Geraldine doesn’t have dimples.

“But I’ve known her for six years, she looks nothing like you.” I said, starting to frown at the attractive looking woman in front of me.

“Billy, listen, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea? You need a warm cup of English tea to warm you up and bring you to your senses.” She smiled even broader this time.

I didn’t think it was possible to smile that wide.

Aghast at my own abandon, I walked inside the little pink house.

Maybe it was the inner Bond in me, or maybe it’s the inner Depp that pushed me to come with her inside Geraldine’s house.

My shoes trampled a pink runner. Hah, serves Geraldine right for putting a pink runner on top of a pink floor. This place is ridiculous!

The lady made me sit on a large, Victorian couch, which is needless to say, pink. She left me for a while at the company of Geraldine’s pink coffee table and pink television set.

And pink walls.

And pink cabinets.

And pink duck ornaments.

I was beginning to suffocate with all of the pinkness.

She came back, finally, with a tray. (Pink, of course.)

In the tray, there were two small tea cups, intricately designed ones. (Which happened to be pink, by the way.) There was also a tray of English muffins.

Need I say the color of the muffins?

“Here, Billy, have a cup. And please do try the muffins, I made them myself.” She said proudly, her smile permanently tattooed on her pretty face.

“Thank you for the tea, miss. But I really, really need to see Geraldine. I have to ask her something.” I said as I slowly took a sip of the tea. When I noticed that the tea was also pink, it was too late. I already took a couple of swigs. Spitting it out is futile.

“Billy, I really am Geraldine. What must I do to convince you?” she said, starting to look hurt.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that I really know what Geraldine looks like, and sounds like. You look nothing like her. Your voice is different too. Please tell me where Geraldine is, I really need to ask her something. I’ve known her for six years. I know her. And she’s not you.” I slowly said, staring at her face, gauging her facial reaction.

She just sat there, nodding her head as I spoke.

She was freaking me out.

“What makes you so sure that I’m not Geraldine, Billy?’

Her forehead was creased with lines now, but the smile never left her face. I noticed that she wasn’t drinking her tea anymore. She just sat there, staring at me intently, gauging my facial reaction. Is she studying me or do I have bird shit on my hair?

“Just tell me where Geraldine is, okay lady? I just want to ask her a question alright? Just one question. If she’s out, tell me where she is and I’ll fetch her.” I was beginning to lose patience. She was getting on my nerves.

“I can’t, Billy.” She said, almost apologetically.

Yes, that’s when I lost my temper. The woman is a complete weirdo. She was freaking the hell out of me! She started to look more sinister by the minute. Her eyebrows became furrier; her eyes were a couple of shades less stunning. She was aging right before my eyes.

“Tell me where she is or I’m calling the cops! I mean it! Tell me where she is lady, or heaven forbid, I’ll carry you to the police station!” I stood up, forgot about the pink cup and spilled pink tea on the pink hardwood floor.

The lady smiled at me, but her smile is laced with apparent melancholia. Her eyes grew dim. She looked tired. She looked so tired.

The deep dimples were gone. I searched her face and blinked my eyes. But the dimples were gone!

Her short blonde bob is not blonde at all. It is gray! Why did I only notice this now? My eyes are playing tricks on me! Why did I ever go inside this house?

“Who the hell are you?? Who are you, lady??” I shouted, moving backward, trying to look for a door, a pink door or any of the other grisly pink windows! I need to get out of this place! My hands were trembling uncontrollably, I don’t know why, but I can’t make them stop, I can’t make them stop! The room was getting pinker and pinker. I hate the damn color! I screamed to make everything stop.

To make everything right.

To push away my fears.

Just like a damn fag, I screamed.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Billy, hush.. Listen to me..

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

“Geraldine is dead, Billy.

Must we go through this week after week?

She’s dead – Like the way she was dead last year, and the year before that..

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, LADY?? WHERE IS SHE??

..She’s dead Billy, I’m sorry..

..But it is good that you now truly realize that I am not Geraldine.

It is a noticeable improvement. You were able to reason out this time; defend that I am not, and could not be Geraldine, and it is a very, very good improvement..

YES, YOU’RE NOT HER! YOU’RE NOT HER!! SHOW HER TO ME!

..Please do come back, Billy. Three days from now.

I HAVE TO ASK HER SOMETHING! PLEASE TELL ME WHERE I COULD FIND..

BUZZ. BUZZZ. BUZZZZZ.

“Yes Doctor Greene?”

“We’re through.”

Carpe Diem.

By Pol Arellano

Come smile with me on this putrid day

Smile at the blinding sun.

Look, isn’t that your mother

Holding twelve paper bags in her hands?

Why don’t you go and help her?

Come smile with me some other time

Maybe come back after an hour

Or after you see Mr. Procs win at checkers

But let me remind you that the sun won’t shine for you, love.

It won’t shine again for you.

So what are you going to do?

Mahal Kong Tampalasan.

Ni Pol Arellano

Binuksan ko ang puso ko sayo’t

Tinikman

Ang pawis mong maalat-alat

Hinawakan ko’t hinagkan

Ang agaw putik-abo mong kakisigan

Kinilatis ko ang pagtitig mo

At ang bawat kurba ng iyong pagkatao

Tumawid ako’t lumapit

Lumapit hanggang sa sumikip

Hanggang sa hininga man ng nagaagaw-buhay na sanggol

Ay maluwang pa kay sa pagitan

Ng pawisan mong wangis at ng nakadukwang kong dibdib

Gabi-gabi’y inaawitan ko

Ang larawan mong

Umiikot sa aking hapag

Tinitingala kita

Habang lantad sa iyong harapan ang

Mababango kong mga kandado

Kandadong kalag para sa iyo

Ngunit sa paghaba ng leeg ko

Upang ika’y mapagmasdan

Hinatak mo ako at ako’y

Napatitig

Sa iyong mga nakaunat na palad

Nakaunat

Nakatikom

Nakaramdam ako ng pagsikip

Pagsikip ng hininga

Nagkaroon ng marubdong pagtutunggali –

Nagpapaunahan ang dugo, luha ko’t pagiisip

Sa paghimlay sa nakadukwang kong

Dibdib

At nagpapadausdos

Sa lupang kinasasadlakan

Ng hubad kong likuran

Ang puso kong binuksa’y

Niyapakan mo, mahal ko

Ngunit

Ang luha kong tuyo

Ang malansa kong dugo

At ang isip kong hapo

Ay patuloy na titingala

Titingala

Baka sakaling maramdaman mong

Ang pagangat ng leeg ko’t

Ang pagdukwang ng dibdib ko’y

Para sa iyo, mahal

Wala ng titikim

Sa iyong maalat-alat na pawis

Alalahanin mo mahal ko

Alahanin mong kapag wala nang tulad kong sa pawis mo ay titikim

Hindi na magkakaroon kailanpaman ng tagapunas

Tagapunas ng pawis mong maalat-alat

Maalat-alat at maitim.

Isang tulang iniaalay para sa mga bayaning pinaslang, sa anomang paraan, ng kanilang ipinaglalaban.

Ang kumurap, makasarili.

Ang Kumurap, Makasarili

Ni Pol Arellano

Binabati kita, Ginoo/Binibini, tao ka.

Ang sabi ng titser ko noon, tayong mga tao daw ay nagmula sa mga unggoy dahil sila ang may pinakamalapit na ugali at pamamaraan ng pagkilos sa atin. Sa madaling salita, galing tayo sa hayop na may buntot. Pero hanggang ngayon, ayoko pa ring isipin na sa hayop ako nagmula. Ayokong padapuin sa isip ko na kinuha ako mula sa tadyang ng lalakeng unggoy. Hindi naman porke’t mukhang unggoy ang ibang tao ay nararapat nang sabihing galing tayong lahat sa unggoy. Baka murahin pa ‘ko ng nanay mo kapag sinabi ko sa kanyang mukha kang tsonggo. Isa pa, ayokong isiping dati tayong may buntot. Para sa akin sobrang pang-aapi na ‘yan sa mga ninuno ko. Abot-langit na nga ang habag na nadarama ko para sa kanila dahil pa naimbento ang sanitary napkin noong panahon nila. Eh hindi lang naman ngayon nauso ang regla, ‘di ba? Kalabisan na kung iisipin ko pang may buntot sila. Bilang respeto sa mga ninuno ko, sa mga nakapanganak na, kapapanganak pa lang at sa mga manganganak pa, ayokong isiping ang tao ay hayop. O nagmula ang tao sa hayop.

Pero tingin ko hindi naman kabastusan sa mga ninuno ko kung sasabihin kong may mga taong mala-hayop. Tumitig ka lang sa kanto, sa labas ng sementeryo, o sa harap ng salamin ay siguradong may makikita kang ganito. May mga taong umiihi sa hindi dapat ihian, nag-iingay sa hindi dapat pag-ingayan, dumudura sa hindi dapat duraan, nakikipagniig sa hindi dapat pagniigan. Sila ang mga taong may sa-hayop. Ito ‘yung mga taong tinatawag ng matatanda na kinulang sa hilot. Tao nga, oo. Pero may karakteristik silang nakuha sa aso, pusa, baboy, kamelyo. Kumbaga, pinaglihi sila sa hayop, ngunit sa halip na magkaroon sila ng nguso ng kabayo o gilagid ng balyena, nagkaroon sila ng mga ugaling kapag hindi nila binago, maaaring makahawa ng iba. Mga taong astang hayop, sila ito.

Lalo namang hindi ko pinabubulaanan na walang taong hayop. Hindi puwedeng mawalan ng ganitong uri ng tao sa mundo. Sila ‘yung mga taong hindi narararapat tawaging tao. Sila ‘yung mga hahayaang mamatay ka sa isang sulok ng ospital dahil, gago ka ba, wala ka namang pera eh. Sila ‘yung mga handang pumatay ng tao para ‘wag malaman ng ibang tao na pumapatay sila ng tao. Sila ‘yung mga taong papapaniwalain kang banal kuno sila pero sa totoo lang, silang sinasamba mo mula ulo hanggang paa ay pinagsasabay ang yosi, alak, panloloko at pandarambong kapag hindi ka nakatingin. Sila ‘yung mga nangangakong hindi na tatakbo, pero ayun, matulin pa sa hinahabol ng asong ulol sa pagkandidato. Sila ‘yung tuturuan ka ng sandamakmak na bagay na wala namang maitutulong sa pag-asenso mo bilang tao, at ililigaw ang atensyon mo sa mga bagay na dapat pinagtutuunan mo ng pansin. Sila ‘yung mga nakikibaka kuno na buong-pusong tinatanggap ang iba’t-ibang uri ng tao, kahit alam naman nila sa sarili nila na ‘yung pakikibaka nila ay plastikan lang. Parang “Uy, bago ‘tong Keffiyeh ko, brod. Kita mo naman checkered ‘to. T***ina, sali kaya ako sa rally?” Siyempre sasali siya sa rally, kahit na ang Keffiyeh na binili nila ay simbolo ng mga bayolenteng terorista sa ibang bansa. Sila ‘yung mga taong hayop; mga pasosyal na binabalutan ng taong naka-corporate attire, mga pekeng hiphop na kalbo, ‘yung mga may kotseng bigay ng tatay nila na bumabayo palagi ang music, pati sige ‘yung ibang naka-Kefiyyeh. Ito ‘yung mga hindi lang basta karakteristik ng aso, pusa, baboy at kamelyo ang nakuha. ‘Pag pinag-crossbreed mo lahat ng hayop na ‘yan, idagdag mo pa ‘yung mga extinct na, itong uri ng tao na ito ang kalalabasan.

Kung matino ka, maaring iniisip mo kung ano ka nga ba; kung saan ka napapabilang. Maari mong itanong kung paano mo malalaman kung tao ka. Simple lang: Tao ka kung nagiisip ka.

Ang pagiisip ay isang tanda na tao ka. Nagiisip ka kapag nagtatanong ka, nagsasalita ka, nakikinig ka. Sa bawat pagtaas mo ng kamay para magkomento, sa bawat paghatak mo sa palda ng nanay mo para magtanong, sa bawat pagbabasa mo ng mga libro ng kuya mo, sa bawat pagsusulat mo sa notbuk mo, sa bawat litratong kinunan mo, sa bawat konseptong binubuo mo, pinapagana mo ang isip mo. Tandaan mo lang ito: ang taong inuudyukan kang magisip, mataas na uri ng tao ‘yon. Ang taong kinakahon ka’t inaaring pipi, gago ‘yon.

Isa pang tanda ng pagiging tao ay ang pagkakaroon mo ng pananampalataya. Tao ka kung may sinusunod kang paniniwala sa buhay mo. Sinusunod mo hindi dahil sa uso o dahil ‘yun ang trip ng crush mo. Sinusunod mo ito dahil naniniwala kang doon nagiging mas mapula ang dugong dumadaloy sa katawan mo. Sumasampalataya ka wala man itong materyal na kapalit o mahirap man sa pisikal mong katauhan. Isa kang tao kung marunong kang umasa, manalangin at magtiwala sa isang Lalong Makapangyarihan pa sa iyo.

Tao ka rin kung may pakiramdam ka. Kung nakakaramdam ka ng habag, panibugho, pag-ibig, libog, ligaya, hiya, takot, lungkot at sakit. Tao ka kung marunong kang makaramdam at makiramdam sa nararamdaman ng iba. Tao ka kung nararamdaman mong naghihirap o natutuwa ang iba dahil sa iyo. Tao ka kung nararamdaman mong kailangan mo nang tumigil o magpatuloy sa ginagawa mo. Tao ka kung nararamdaman mong nagkakamali ka, at mataas kang uri ng tao kung alam mong tanggapin at isaayos ang mga pagkakamali mo.

Tao ka kung may pag-ibig ka; kung marunong kang magmahal hindi lang ng mga magulang mo at ng mga taong malapit sa’yo, kundi ng mga taong hindi mo aakalaing dapat mo ring mahalin. Kasama na dito ‘yung mga taong tinukso kang Kirara nung bata ka pero hindi lang sila ito. Sila ‘yung mga nanlilimos, paralisado, preso, puta, tindero, kartero, barbero, basagulero, haciendero, doktor, abugado, bisor, embalsamador, tambay, basketbolero, senador, at higit sa lahat, ang propesor mong binagsak ka dahil, wala lang, pangit ng apelyido mo eh; at ang propesor mong binagsak ka dahil lagi mong kinukuwestiyon ang awtoridad niya.

Ang tao, marunong makinig. Alam niya kung sino at ano ang dapat pakinggan. Alam din niya kung kailangan magbingibingihan. Ang mga bagay na pinapakinggan niya, itinatanim niya sa puso niya’t pinaninindiganan niya. At dahil marunong siyang makinig at manindigan, hindi siya kailanman magiging balimbing. Ang balimbing ay hindi naman hayop, prutas ‘yan e. Kaya kung balimbing ka, ikamusta mo na lang ako sa taong pipitas sa iyo. Pipitasin ka, kakainin ka, at itatae kang durog-durog.

Higit sa lahat, kung tao ka, alam mo kung ano ang silbi mo sa mundong ginagalawan mo. Alam mo kung bakit ka itinalaga bilang tao. Alam mo na hindi ka pwedeng mabuhay mag-isa. May ideya ka kung bakit pinapalibutan ka ng iba pang mga tao, ng maraming mala-tao, at ng sandamukal na mga taong-hayop. Alam mong bilang parte ng isang konektadong grupo, kailangan mong magmasid. Magmasid ng walang patid. At magagawa mo lang ito kung hindi ka kukurap.

‘Wag kang kukurap.

‘Wag kang kukurap. ‘Wag mong hayaang ipikit mo ang mga mata mo sa katotohanan. Kung ikaw na tao ay kukurap, bibigyang-puwang mo ang pagpasok ng mga kahayupang ideya sa iyong sistema. Mapaparami ang pagkurap mo, hanggang sa tuluyan nang lumamlam ang mga mata mo’t makatulog ka na. Kapag tulog ka na, wala ka ng kamalayan, wala ka ng koneksyon sa kapwa mo.

Kasalanang mabigat ang pagkurap. Dahil sa isang saglit na pagkurap mo, isang libo’t isang daang hayop na ang nakapagsayaw ng kundiman sa kalsada. Sa paghalik ng mga pilik mo sa iyong balat, isang libo’t isang daang tao ang pinabayaan mong mag-isa’t walang karamay. Sa pagkurap mo, naipapakita mong mas importante sa iyo ang pansariling kaligayahan – ang kaalwanan ng paghimbing – kaysa matiyagang pagbabantay. Sa pagkurap mo, nagiging makasarili ka. Sa pagitan ng ga-segundong pagpikit mo, naipagdamot mo lahat ng maaari mong maibahagi sa lahat ng nasa paligid mo. Ninakawan mo sila ng karapatang matuto, magmahal, makadama, at maging tao. At dahil dito, isa kang makasariling nilalang. At ang pagiging makasarili ay pakikipag-alit, hindi lamang sa tao, kundi lalong-lalo na sa Lumikha sa ating lahat.

Nakita mo bang binati kita kanina?

Hindi?

Kumurap ka yata eh.