In Poetry, I Sing My Soul

In poetry, I sing my soul free;
Let gods know, how bleeds my heart-plume;
And mortals see love by the daylight view.
For made I not from humus, nor from winds,
Nor from dust, if my lyrical being reduced be;
But by the passing clouds and fragrant fields
And morning lilies and the singing of the hills.
(Scream shall I from the top of my remaining
breath, lest I not be heard)

I sing Passion, my song, unbounded---
Not of Time, nor morality, nor affairs of men.
Let those phrases of old pass by unshadowed,
Make them Infinite, wake the slumbered many.
For my soul aches, as it meanders sleepless
Through mountain springs and foliage green,
Not to forget the many things I hold dearest.

And most of Everything, I sing of You,
You whom the world has unloved, but I.

A Writer's Admission

First, I am no writer. I was not born with a talent other than to stay awake for insanely long hours(even that I can feel symptoms of physiologic decline); and even during elementary and high school I was not especially blessed with a blue thumb(the rough equivalent of a green thumb, see Oxford's compilation of new idioms, if you can find it). Sure there were attempts of poetry as an outlet for juvenile romantic emotions, which eventually I learned were just hormones raging trying to find the right biological titer, but writing was just a hobby and I intend to let it stay that way. In this country where everybody is a nurse and writing a novel is the new sentence they give for inmates on death row, being a writer is not really practical, much more economical since you do it with electricity-hungry computers now rather than the trusty, rusty old typewriters of old our lolas use, with all that carbon papers and Touch-and-Go magic editors. Besides, there's the intricacies of verb-subject agreement and all that trivial, meaningless points on correct punctuation --- I can't remember all that. I'm just a wanna-be physician.

*****

However just a couple of years ago, I found out that I can write, that I can string words and phrases and produce poems, short stories and essays. It felt like I discovered a new planet, or a new dimension, or perhaps, a new mole at the back of my neck hiding there since I was a baby(not that exciting, I know, I just ran out of similes). At first, it was only a trickle: one work a month, twice at most. But just recently, after not writing for 2 months, I developed this weird sickness of words popping in and out of my head, floating around waiting to be picked. I'm also having these weird flashes of thought whenever I see something that strikes me, from the most mundane to the most extraordinary of things, and from there I seem to be able to develop tales or poems at my whim. So much so that I have written 4( I really can't remember) short stories this month, 2 poems and 2 essays and several others still floating inside my head--- all unedited and as fresh as they come. It my be a small amount compared to what professional writers put out but this is way above the quota for me. Weird.

******

One principle though that applies: Quantity over quality or vice versa but can never be both. My works I see are derivatives of my influences: Hemingway, James, O. Henry, Yeats, Poe, Whitman and several other great artists. Perhaps that is why writers become great--- they find their own self. My mind has become an open faucet of ideas; either the water was distilled, or just plain tap water is definitely inconclusive.

******

I don't care. Anyway I just write for writing's sake. Writing feel's like therapy for me--- a buffer from all this mind-numbing parade of medical charts and technicalties of my chosen vocation. Words proved to be cheaper than seeing a psychiatrist, or taking anxiolytics to calm my nerves--- and less weirder than watching hamsters play in their cage all day. They say words have a way of fixing the soul. If so, then I must have a need for some major carpentry.

A Lunar Escape

Night waters warmed, rippled tides lapped
Against white sand-stars free-falling endless,
Softly nestling on firelight-emblemed bodies.

We are equidistant---- yet lightyears apart
You in aphelion, and I in perigee; yet love---
Let Love be known not in inverse proportion
( as once plotted by Astrophysics,
and by Hubble's cyclonic eyes)
To Distance--- but of yearning tenderness.

For tonight, your pale-glow touch
My llucent wavelets--- restless and wanting.
Many solstices waited I, at last you are near.

Let breathe our last words in orbit, for seconds passed.
This void in between, this darkness that separates us,
(Where love letters in a vacuum read, but not heard)
Soon shall be two astral heart's solitude---

My Dearest--- Near, and Far we are,
But never a sweet caress, till the gods say so.

Coffee on 10 Hygiea

We stared, lightyears distant
Between two crumpled, coffecups
Half-filled with thoughts unspoken.
Behind glass-paned walls reflecting
Random passerbys, unknowing
Of our black-holed emotions
And caffein-fueled symphaties,
We spoke of dimensional theories
On how stars die in a vacuum,
Or how nebulaic clouds form rain

.... And you said, “No regrets”
There's my time machine, I replied.
If you need it.

The Life of the Party(a Study in Description)

First, an iron-clad rule in any parties: Never invite a writer. Or to be more specific, never invite a fictionist. Second: never trip twice on a same mistake, for on that fateful warm summer night, when birds were sleeping snugly on their nests of dry twigs and the rest of the country was busy watching the evening telenovelas, enduring the hot humid nights of the tropic, a mistake was made. A mistake the oblivious hostess of a garden party will not know of but would ultimately pay the price --- she invited Steven King.

Steven sat in a chair by the corner table, silently munching his catch from the buffet which consisted mostly of one piece each of every dish served on those stay-warm metallic chrome plates. He winced at the texture of young corn, now at room temperature, clashing against what appeared to be a mixture of caldereta and roasted beef in mushroom sauce. Why don’t they give out lunch plates with one of those tiny separators, he thought to himself. It would be more practical that way, with the grease from lechon cleanly isolated from the fruit salad they served without my consent, so as not to appear as if he’s eating high-yield animal feed. He drank his soda from a wine glass to drown his disgust. He smiled, a thin smile which would have scared the roving waiters had they seen it. Appetizer has been served. The main course was about to begin.

As a writer of several books both in fiction and non-fiction, the non-fiction part being nowhere near a book but a collection of gossipy tales compiled from a celebrity magazine with him as the editor, he had developed this perverse nature of objective voyeurism, looking not for naked grace and equally bare beauty most of his kind hunt for to satisfy their compulsion. No, he is not sick that way, but only much worse: he seeks out the flaw in every detail of the human character. And parties, being full of his quarries, were his favorite crime scene.

Steven winced as the hostess of the party approached his table. She reminded him of big. bloated marshmallows when you forget them bursting inside the microwave oven. He closed his eyes and tried his best impersonation of a celebrity on the hot seat, ending each sentence with po and opo.
“So how do you find the food, Mr. King,” inquired the hostess, her dentures clicking just decibels below hearing level.
“Good,” replied Steven with a smile. “You have such a fine taste for dining, Mrs. Arillo.”
“You’re so kind.”
“ I should hope to invite you sometime to a lunchtime with Cathy.”
“Ah, you’re wife!”
“I’m alone and single, Mrs Arillo, but she’s special to me. She’s a little picky with her fish though.”
The bewildered hostess, being showered full of gracefulness and a natural lack for humor, quickly recovered her composure and proceeded with introducing the other people in the table.
“Mr. King, I would like you to meet Senator Casiete, with his friend Mr,” the hostess hesitated.

“Pamien,” corrected the muscular guy in dark sweatshirt. “ Just call me Ricky, for short.”
“I see,” said Steven with an understanding smile. Every minute of this evening proved to be more interesting than he anticipated. He knew Mr. Ricky Pamien here is a male commercial model who opted for a sex change in Thailand. Being deficient of financial prowess and general failure to adhere to the prescribed one-year estrogen therapy required for such a delicate procedure, he ended up with two sets of gender parts courtesy of a rural optometrist claiming to be a plastic surgeon. Talking about enjoying both worlds, Steven thought; nonetheless with the help of the honorable Senator, he suspected.
“So Senator,” blurted Steven, shifting his thoughts to the politician. “How’s the bill coming?”
“It’s doing fine now that it’s done,” replied the politico with much self-importance. “The Food Subsidy Bill will be the answer for our nation wallowing in pitiful poverty.”
“Well that makes me feel secured. My taxes are indeed, well-spent.”
“I can assure you, Mr. King. I am not the usual Filipino politician.”
“I gathered as much. You freak-out, so to speak, those who corrupt us.” replied Steven suppressing a laugh.
The hostess, moments before pulled a vacant chair to join the conversation, finally realized his unusual guest’s cruelty and went the other way.

When the Senator and his friend decided to engage their own conversation to audible whispers of endearment, Steven moved on to deliver his coup-de-grace to other guests of the party. One particular couple who caught his interest was on the next table. His former, aging professor in Theology, Mr. Dela Cruz, PHD, was sitting across him, with his crumbing fingernails curling against the smooth knees of a nubile, young teenage moviestar. He knew this teacher of his was married, seeing that Mrs. Dela Cruz is on the carpet dancefloor dancing with a teenage boy to the tune of London Bridge as played by a sleepy band; and based on the preference of teenage girls plotted against the age of men, this particular moviestar is a high-class hooker. He had vivid memories of sedated hours induced by God-shall-smite-thee-if-ye-sinneth type of lectures. He is a pedantic, pseudointellectual egomaniac who don’t know squat about God even if He sends him to Hell, Steven muttered to himself.

“Your great old Professor is here,” declared the returning hostess, interrupting his thoughts. “I saw him doing an interview with Boy Abunda. How was he in class?”
“He’s a pedantic, pseudointellectual egomaniac who don’t know squat about God even if God gives him sulfur to gargle,” replied Steven, realizing too late he was thinking aloud.
“Mr. King! You disgust me!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Arillo. Did I irritate your sensibilities.?”
“Right you are, young man!”

Most of the guests nearby heard the commotion and started approaching the table where it all started. After a while the band stopped playing, the crowd thickened around where Steven were, now standing calmly in front of a visibly flushed fat female of forty.
“You uncultured, evil-tongued blasphemer,” yelled Mrs. Arillo. “You who do nothing but trouble the guests I have here.”
“I was only being candid.”
“To think, I invited you to this party!”
“I thank you. The menu sucks, by the way.”
“You ingrate…”
The hostess screamed so hard her dentures broke off, obviously due to deficiency in adhesives, clanging loudly as it splashed inside the wine glass with soda owned exclusively by the senator, currently being intimate with his companion. The crowd laughed a nervous but unbridled sort of laughter as the embarrassed woman picked up her dentures and swiftly departed towards her house.

Amidst the roaring scene, Steven eased himself stealthily out of the mob and went outside the gate. His whole appearance was that of composure no matter what the circumstance, concealing his mischievous inside quivering with anticipation on tomorrow’s headline for his non-fiction gossip column: Middle-Aged Socialite Dropped Her Teeth; Writer the Life of the Party.

The Responsibility of a Writer

Whoever said that a writer is the biggest liar but is the reflection of his time, must have spoken truth more than he intended to. It cannot be helped; it is a necessary evil, not exclusive to literature but in all of art, to lie, to make events more dramatic--- to create life and make it larger than life. The method of premeditated confabulation, for lack of fancier term, is a writer’s weapon of choice, his sole lifeline, his only tool to further his art; and the better the artist lies: how he fashions reality according to his own perceptions--- the better his creations will be.
******
Plato often shuns himself from reading or watching the dramas of his time( although his famous dialogues read more like screenplays) saying they were poisons for the mind. If Plato were alive today, he would run for the mountains and live in a cave, now with all the unrelenting bombardment of mindless telenovelas and badly written scripts. I wonder if he could last an hour watching Marimar or Lupin.
******
Personally, as I have posted before, being a writer is the loneliest profession a soul can have, and the most painful--- more so for a Filipino writer. In this country where people don’t care much about literature, where majority of the reading population either buy textbooks or tabloids, and where writing a novel is a death sentence, it is hard for someone as lazy as me to ask of a writer to stay true to his responsibility. What is a writer’s responsibility, one might ask. I say, the responsibility to lie.
******
Or more precisely, to lie better. Better than the one before you. Better than the previous generations of Sionil Joses, Poes, Hemingways, Dimalantas, Villas, Rowlings and Kings. A writer’s responsibility is to improve on his predecessors’ works, not to imitate another one’s genius, like what’s happening to the Philippine cinema lately with all the Asian horror copycats or 70’s loveteams inertia. Never fear to experiment, be it prose or poetry, or else you risk turning yourself into one of those formulaic writers of local comedy. Of course, for starting writers, it would be natural to make your influences shine through your work, like a compass, but only for a time. Eventually evolution will take place, and that’s the time your lies become truths.
******
Why am I saying these? Because it is my sole wish to see a great Filipino writer in this generation or the next to come. It is my foolish dream to see a Filipino writer finally take that elusive podium in Stockholm. When that time comes, I’ll finally realize that a Filipino’s soul is not without hope.

A Time of Relativism

A soul living in our time would probably look more like a vortex--- spinning uncontrollably, its axis shifting depending on the weight or force applied on its cone or cylinder, whichever way you see its dimensions as a whole. The factors behind such adapted shape cannot ever be assigned with absolute, empirical, numerical values, as it relates to the soul, that can be calculated using the same way astrophysicists calculate vortices and wormholes in space. No, because the soul is a stretchable fabric, or a gelatinous substance taking on its container, or at the most, a spinning, dark, nothingness produced by little micromachines in your brain called neurons. This is essentially relativism.
******
A friend, in one of our enlightening conversations, said to me we live in a time of relativism, but he had some reservations, which made me think about the reason behind these reservations. Relativism posits that truth is not absolute: one truth that applies for one individual may not be applicable for another. Now as men of science this makes sense at first glance. In many therapeutic studies in drug regimens or clinical intervention, or I otherwise call an euphemistic term on turning groups of people into lab rats(a necessary evil actually, for sponsoring drug companies to earn their income), there are certain drugs or procedure that may provide treatment to a majority of people but may not treat the overall population. That's why we say “it showed significant difference in providing treatment to” so and so--- which only means this drug is true for most but not for all.

*****
Relativism may be reasonable and logical, but the assumption of truth as a flexible matter is somewhat non-appealing, troubling even. Eventually, science will provide all the answers to all the questions man's existence anchored on since the beginning of his newfound self-awareness; and truth will be a simplified process of absolutism without any degress of doubt provided by palpable and reproducible proof: A True or False and a Yes or No--- Why are we here? Is there meaning to our existence? Is there God?

*****
The point is, even if I try not to bother myself with one, there are answers out there to questions we ask for ourselves, we just don't know it yet; either due to lack of method or lack of questions. Truth is independent of man, but it is inherent in him to know it and search for it. And truth, is always absolute once simplified, stripped of all its distracting excesses. These points basically makes Relativism into a syllogistic fallacy. No, far from it. It has its applications in the study, explanation and observation of human behaviour and development of a society. But what I found troubling is its increasing frequency of subconscious misapplication on people we see everyday: Husbands leaving their families because they were being “true” to their feelings; Politicians lying through their political teeth in pursuit of a higher “truth”; People killing each other to hold on to their “truth” that prosperity is everything; and me making everyone around me suffer because I always believe I'm right.
Socrates was right. Inside of us, we already know what is right or wrong.

And God Said Let There Be Children

We usually start our summer day by sitting on our wooden bench, carrying a plastic bag of salt and a handful of rocks, and me trying to see if she's in a good mood or just wants to keep it quiet as it is. We spent many days here in our backyard garden just looking at the endless stretch of sugar cane fields, trying to imagine how clear the river during sunny days judging from how blue the faraway mountains are. It was all I could ask for to spend my vacation. With Tina beside me, I'd always feel I'm safe and everything would be alright, even if her ideas oftentimes end up Mang Tasyo chasing us with his leather belt. She always has this crazy mood; one time, she really wanted the biggest and sweetest santol on that tree that Mang Tasyo has been caring for since Marcos was president. We threw stones at the tree until every santol fruit fell down to the ground but one--- the biggest santol I've ever seen in my life. Tina, I tell you, was a good shot she could hit a chicken smack right in between the eyes even if its running at full speed; but at that moment, she got frustrated she couldn't even scratch a fruit as big as a volleyball. We had our pack of salt ready but the moment we heard the poor old man scream and saw his famous leather belt he said he bought from a salesman from Manila, we ran for our lives but not without a few santol in hand. I ate alone that afternoon. Tina still seems to be pissed at the fruit she couldn't hit. When I said even Allan Caidic couldn't hit triples all day, she left me altogether. She has a crush on him, I suppose.

When her moods get better, she would chat all day just like those girls in my class do. She would talk about how Aling Bebang slept with Mang Tasyo, and how Mang Tasyo's wife Aling Maria caught them in the act and chased them both down the streets beating them with his own leather belt. We would laugh our hearts out until our bellies ached. Girls just love to gossip, that's why I hate them, but with Tina it was funny and interesting. I wonder why she's not out buying pink-colored ice candies with girls her age. Perhaps, she's beautiful, too beautiful for a typical rural girl. Tina has this light brown hair that reminds me of steamed sweet corn when you open them, and eyes the color of rocks when you can see through a flowing stream. I like it when my mother has nothing to do, and just spends her siesta combing Tina's hair and tying them into a centipede, they call it. I think its more like a longganisa side by side. One problem I have aside from Tina's moods was her skin. She's as pale as coconut flesh so she can't stay out under the sun for long. One time when we were fishing down the river with Uncle Ben, she was gossiping so hard about who was sleeping with who that she forgot we've been under the sun for hours. She had this weird reddish patches on their skin that got me and Uncle Ben worried. We tried to apply first aid the health center taught us but Tina insisted she's alright. We suggested we bring her to my father who must know how to care for her better, but she declined. She's brave that way: crazy and stupid.

I take it back. She's not stupid. She crazy, yeah, but she's the most intelligent girl I know. She's the top of her section, I heard. Often I ask her about those homework in fractions I've been staring at for the last 3 hours, she would breeze through them within minutes. When it comes to counting numbers, nobody can beat her in speed and in accuracy. She said she love Math because it cannot lie.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I told her when I got irritated with her talk about Algebra.
“Then you will be lost in more complicated things,” she would reply smugly.
I've seen boys brag but when Tina brags, she brags like a girl. When we brag, who could piss the longest or who could fart the loudest, we end it with a fist-fight so that no one forgets.

“Well, I'm better in spelling and memorizing the dictionary than you,” I screamed.
“You're in grade 3, what do you know,” she said, smugly, again.

“Hey, lovebirds,” shouted a boy from Tina's class with a snot always dripping from his nose even when he takes a bath, “look there, two abnormals talking.”

We heard a chorus of laughter and shouting of words I couldn't understand. I only stood there thinking of running away when more and more boys taller than me surrounded Tina, mocking and spitting at her on something I could barely grasp. Then it happened. She punched the boy with a snot right on his snotty nose, the snot replaced with fresh, red blood flowing like an open faucet. She kicked and bit with her teeth as some of the boys started punching her and pull her hair. When the dust settled, I found Tina standing up with blood from her lips and bruised arms. Some of the boys cried, the snotty boy was wailing like a girl, but Tina was weeping without tears. I know she's hurting, and all a grade 3 boy can do is take Tina home to my father. He's a rural doctor. All I could think of while we were walking was how I afraid I was. I will be lost in more complicated things in Grade 6.

“Father, what is an abnormal?”
“It means, not normal.” My father replied while he was busy applying peroxide on Tina's cuts and bruises.
“Those boys kept calling Tina that way, I hate them.”
“You should not use that on another person, Jim,” my father replied. “And you should stop asking about it.”
“It's alright, Dr. Garcia,” said Tina. “ I knew my weaknesses before they did.”
My father smiled at Tina. I knew that smile of admiration of his. I often saw that one when I did my homework well or when I say something really, really smart--- like the time I answered correctly that the capital of Philippines is Manila.

After that incident, Tina was always beside me, as if I needed the extra protection. She would teach me on math, I would teach her how to catch a bigger fish. She would come up with all her crazy ideas, like steal one of Mang Tasyo's chicken, and I would obey her like a scared but reluctant kid brother. She taught me carpentry she learned from school but I end up hammering my fingers, so she made a big backyard wooden bench all by herself. She never seems to want to go home until it's late in the evening. I asked her one time:
“What do you do at home, Tina.”
“I study.”
“Don't you play with your brothers. Talk to your father,” I knew her mother passed away a year ago.
She did not reply.

This afternoon, here now in our backyard on our handmade wooden bench where we shared many gossipy tales of this town, and where I threw my first pebble on our neighbor's backyard tree, I sat beside her with a pack of salt and pieces of stones on my hand, expecting another unexpected afternoon, intently searching for clues as to what Tina might be thinking for today. When I saw her face, I knew she wouldn't be chatting, or make up one of those crazy things I'm scared about. At first I couldn't open my mouth. But after an hour I became restless so I asked:
“What's wrong, Tina?”
I heard nothing from her.
“Did one of those boys called you abnormal again? I could punch one in the face if you like, now that I'm going Grade 4 I'm stronger this time, like you.”
She smiled. I'm glad she smiled, but I would very much want her to laugh.
“We're going to Manila, Jim,” she said suddenly.

I could hardly believe what I heard. I was happy. I knew Manila is a beautiful country with lots of beautiful buildings and bright kids. Not like the mean boys in this town. I knew she would be happy there.
“Hey, they have Jollibee there. You can eat as much as you want, I heard.”
“Yeah, but I like that santol, better,” Tina replied pointing at the one fruit she couldn't hit.
“You'll be happy there, Tina. I know you will.”
“Jim, I don't want to grow up,” she said. I saw tears beginning to form from her eyes.
“I...” she continued. “ If I grow-up, I might see how ugly I am.”
“You're making me sad, Ate Tina.”
“ No. Please stay happy. For me. For your Ate Tina.”
“ But you're not ugly Ate Tina. I think you're an angel.”
She smiled and kissed me long and sweetly on the forehead. I could smell her fragrance that reminded me of flowers and sunny days after rainy season. She embraced me and I felt her tears falling down on my neck and small of my back. She's shaking I embraced her so she would stop being lonely.

And just like that, she left.

When I woke up, at breakfast my father said Tina came by and left me a letter. I didn't eat my rice and longganisa Mother cooked( which funny, reminded me of Tina's hair), opened her letter and read it till the end. It was a happy letter, although she had misspelled some words. I kept it under my pillow, and promised myself that every night from then on, I would read it before I sleep. I promised myself, I would never let Tina fight the world alone ever again.

Sa Tula ng Dalampasigan Ako Nahimlay

Sa tula ng dalampasigan ako nahimlay,
Yakap ang makatang liriko ng aplaya.
Mga marahang taludtod-- isang pagniniig,
Ng buhangin at alon at mga pusong tugma.

At sa bawat saknong, buhay ang pag-ibig---
Damdaming nakaukit, kailanma'y bibigkasin,
Kasabay ang saliw ng hangin sa karagatan
At paglapat ng pluma sa samyo ng alapaap.

Ang awitin ng baybayin---aking pagmamahal.
Na bawat salita'y musika sa pandinig ng mga tala.
Pangako ko'y di ito mabubura; katulad ng halik
Ng buhangin at alon at mga pusong nakatadhana

A Return to Innocence

By the tree-lined shade, where our cabin, moss-covered, lay---
Where clear streamlets glistening caress the moonlight serene,
There my Spirit floats on sweet-laced poplars and Evergreen,
Careless, like the evening breeze rolling across the everglade.

And I shall find rest there, for worn souls ever rarely find one.
Whispering at a passing star's hymntunes of days long gone,
Beneath feathersoft clouds, where Youth runs young and free,
I shall spend my days--- reminiscing dewdrops and sand pearls.

At daybreak, in purple flight and orange peel colors it comes,
When fireflies aglow go dim, and the night finally laid asleep,
To the beckoning horizon returns my soul, calm shall it keep.
But forever I shall wonder, why we left this place.

Potion 88

A distinct confusion one feels when someone, unaccustomed to the worldly wares and bustle of the noisy bazaars that line the century-old Quiapo church, venture alone walking the brick-layered streets with utmost exposure to street-smart hustlers and cunning vultures in the venerable art of haggling. A moment’s hesitation, a sudden flick of the eye, and the uncontrollable twitching of the hands, are signals for prices to fluctuate like gasoline to either side’s favor, all depending on each other’s read. Such is the trick of the trade, and for the uninitiated, more often a feeling of loss is his sole companion when one bought an overpriced magical shrinking shirt, and for the oblivious, an empty pocket.

“How much for this amulet?”

“500 pesos.”

“What?”

“It can make you dodge bullets. 450.”

“No, thanks.”

For someone growing up on books detailing man’s history and eventual technological sophistication, Armand found a little humor in his current predicament. Surrounded by endless stalls run by snake-oil merchants and camphor-smelling faith healers, it came as a surprise to him that with all the current advancement of chemistry and applied science, one only need to come in this God-forsaken-place-beside-a-church to make impossibility a reality with just a few of your hard-earned allowance money. Instead of buying a Kevlar vest, why not buy a bulletproof agimat for 50-100 pesos; want your business to take-off?--- buy a gold-plated cat statue instead of having a degree, that should do it. Fancy a girl? Buy a love potion with food-coloring as an additive. What am I doing here, he smiled to himself.

“You’re a high school student,” shouted an old woman beside him.

“How did you know,” Armand asked, surprised.

He tried his best that day to appear as mature as a junior high school can, both for anonymity and practicality. Nobody takes a comedo-faced adolescent seriously in this snakepit.

“I drank the Amon Ra potion yesterday. Potion 15. Here, you need one?”

“No thank you, it’s obviously 1 part cooking oil, 2 parts water and whole lot of lie.”

“Ah, a skeptic. Irritable one too. It’s a girl isn’t it.”

“I… uhm…”

“Oh relax, young man, I’ve been in this for years. I know my customers.”

Armand, impressed as he was for the old woman’s acuity of wise deductive thinking or luck-powered intuition, eyed the woman with suspicion. You can’t trust anyone in these streets. Though here he was, after days of doing research asking his most trusted confidants about potion 88, this is the woman many referred to only as Madam Norma. Most claimed the efficacy of her potions but every one swore their life on Potion 88. Her description fitted perfectly: the decaying front teeth, the smell of analgesic balms, and the surprisingly youthful eyes accompanied by an ever-ready smile. Of course, there’s the uncanny ability of irritating perception.

“I need Potion 88,” Armand said at length.

“Oh here’s potion 10, said to bring success on business.”

“Potion…”

“Potion 2, my best-seller. For you, I’ll give it for half the price.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Ahhh, potion 4, intelligence is essential, don’t you think?”

Armand, famished by days of eating shrimp-flavored noodles to fatten his savings, felt his desperation welling inside him. He saw images of himself sitting alone at lunch, with his highlighted books on physics, trigonometry and literature on the canteen table, completely mesmerized at the angel-faced beauty with long flowing hair of dark silk sitting across him. He could almost recall how powerless he was whenever he tried to talk to her, thinking how many have tried, the richest and the coolest guys in class, only to walk away with broken hearts. He remembered one instance, summoning all of his wire-framed strength, approached her and uttered those words:

“Hi, Nikka.”

“Hello.”

“Are you familiar with the Quantum Entanglement Penomenon.”

“The what?”

“It states, simply, that even if two objects do not exist on the same space or dimension, they still affect each other.”

“Is that true?”

Armand could still feel the tinge of embarrassment brought about by the foolishness of his apparent amateurish approach. Why he didn’t opted for one of the pick-up lines taught to him by an infamous Casanova friend was beyond him, for he found it a feasible strategy rather than discuss atomic particles with the girl of his dreams. So here he is, trudging the mid-afternoon heat of Manila surrounded by rotting vegetables, shouting palengkeras and a weird old woman standing between him and the love of his life.

“Potion 88. It’s all I need.”

“Hijo, it’s a love potion, and it’s priceless, needless to say very effective and not without danger.”

“I don’t care. It is what I’m here for.”

“You a rich kid?”

“No.”

“How much do you have?”

“500 pesos.”

“Hmm, an average kid’s weekly allowance.”

“It’s all I have.”

“You must really love her,” continued the old woman. “I went to high school too, you know. Are you familiar with the theory…”

“The potion please, Madam Norma.”

Armand reached inside the pocket of his tattered jeans and brought out the 500 pesos he’s been saving for a whole week. The old woman handed him a miniscule vial of reddish liquid labeled Potion 88, pausing momentarily as if she would say something as important as life itself.

“A word of caution, young man,” the old lady said. “This formula’s potency lasts for 8 years. So you better be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“One more thing,” the old lady grinned. “If you see the effects of this potion, you need to pay additional 500.”

“What the…”

“If you don’t, its efficacy won’t last. You have a choice, see.”

“Alright,” Armand said in contained frustration. “I’ll come back.”

“Good, so long then.”

******

A week later, Madam Norma gingerly offered her open palms as she reached out for a crisp 500 peso bill, blowing stiffly with the monoxide laden atmosphere of the plaza. She stared smiling as another satisfied customer has returned, confirming the mastery of her craft in making these mystical concoctions. She looked at this silent, mysterious girl-woman, with an angelic face and a long hair of dark silk, happier now than the week before.

“Thank you,” said the girl.

“You had your rich guy then, or a celebrity perhaps.”

“The man of my dreams.”

The Price of Living

Everything else was irrelevant. By the river Valencia where weed flowers blossomed full and fragrant grass hills grow untended, two souls shared their love not with inhibitions of reason and civility of structured society, but with a wildness youth was intended for--- intended for warm, humid, evenings like this, blanketed by starlit, cloudless skies lighted only by the moon’s full, pale glow. Without a care for the world outside, it is youth’s sole purpose of being--- and for long, acute evenings of goodbye, it was intended for also.

“Tell me once again, Fernando.”

“You are as lovely as the night sky.”

“More, please.”

“Somebody might hear us.”

“Let them, I want them to hear how beautiful I am.”

As such, everything else faded into the background. Fernando struggled for words as her smile teased him to a dimension of herself. He saw everything graceful, as if beauty poured forth from some ethereal plane he could not reach no matter what he does in his power, except when she’s near, like this--- her long, black hair fading imperceptibly towards her full hips; her brown eyes forever gazing at his soul never once blinking; and the warmth of her breath slowly embracing him, begging him to only listen to the beating of their hearts. If love and lust be shown in an infinite struggle inside a man, it is not tonight. For tonight love wins. Love always wins.

“I love only you,” said Fernando.

“I know.”

“I made a poem for you.”

“Not the one that started: ‘For all things fade like clouds’”

“No, this one’s different.”

“Really!? Just for me?”

“For you only.”

Fernando smiled and brought out the dry leaves where he wrote the words that afternoon, while she was busy dancing on the rocky bed of the clear river waters. He closed his eyes, summoning all his will, as if to infuse his phrases with his strength necessary to make a woman’s heart listen to his plea--- a plea his own heart has been aching since the day they met.

“The Lady by the Pond”

“The Lady…”

“Sssh…listen.”

Embraced, they slept with fragrant willows by,

On hammocks, the autumn breeze gently rocking;

Prairie birds’ choir swayed the rusty leaves fly,

Slowly blanket a lover’s vow in silent whispering.

And they danced Infinite, for time comes untouched;

Untold emotions dropping slow on lips wanting.

With the lapping waters attuned, moontide caressed;

Two world’s love oblivious of a season’s parting.

But at heartbeat's end, as the night cricket sings,

The Lady walks to where sweet wild lilies bloom’d.

Under the pale light shone the veil, soon forgotten;

Droplets of tears fell—let the pond calm once again.

They both fell silent for what seemed liked endless hours, feeling nothing but their tight embrace, their warmth, unable to let go of each other lest the coming cold dawn take everything precious from them. For some time, like the forming droplets of morning dew, pieces began to fall, crumbling beneath their feet, wrapping thorns on kindred spirits each fighting the inevitability of each other’s fate. The seasons have their own plans.

“Let’s elope,” Fernando said suddenly, too suddenly, breaking silence.

“What!?”

“Let’s disappear. Me and you.”

“Fernando…I…”

“Let’s live in a cabin by the woods. Near a lake. Peaceful and free from the cares of this world.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do. We’ll find happiness there. I promise.”

“Fernando, you know I’m going to college.”

“I know S_____, but things will never be the same.”

“No, it will never be.”

“Everything will never be this way again.”

He looked deeply into her eyes, brown and tear-stained like pearl drops glinting with the faint light behind dark blue mountains. Fernando could almost feel the tangible pain of destiny trying to pull apart two inseparable beings unbounded by time and place. He could almost see her life ahead--- one full of hope and security--- and the life he’s trying to make her choose--- fading instantly with the passing few, precious minutes.

S_____ reached out to him, and kissed him long on the lips, savoring what is left before memories take over, becoming misty sweetness of a faraway universe one looks back, never to cross paths again. He understood. They both understood the price they were paying.

He could do nothing but watch her walk towards the raft, her hair swaying with the salmon-pink clouds coming to life, to the other side of the river. His vision blurred for a while as he stared at her sail towards the sunrise, never looking back to their tree, the place where they shared their most intimate wholeness.

“I’ll always see you during summer,” S____ shouted, finally smiling.

“I’ll always write you poems!”