automatic writing 2

How do I do this without implicating myself, revealing too much? Much of what i know of theory is that everything is about me, and in my dreams, therefore, you are I. I want to tell you, I feel I should, warn you about a dream I just woke up from. From what I can remember, there was a dark alley, and we were being pursued by a menacing figure. Figuring out the chronology, forcing my own logic onto the dream scenes is wrong, I suppose. Suppose, however, I tell it this way: we hid in the bushes, and then watched a musical. Music, almost, that I still hear humming in my pillows. Low, slow, now bouncing against bare motel walls, now entwined with this unexpected Virginia rain. Rain fell on us as we squeezed into the impossible space between the ground and the thick thorny plants. Plant, skin, breath, pebble, knee, forearm, shoulder, stone, bone, neck, thorn, chest, nape, branch, elbow, collateral ligament, that soft inside edge. Edging closer, heavy steps approaching, and then it's the musical, again, a bare stage, you and I, or, fine, I and I, singing, pressed together, don't ask me how.

Open Angle (fiction, abridged)

I arrived on the 5A.M. flight and it was still dark when I entered the house. The only light that was on was the one over the staircase. The smooth granite floors were softly illuminated. The winding staircase looked like it was floating in a gleaming sea of darkness. All in all, it had the effect of a surreal stage and lighting design. I was then a lighting design apprentice. I made a mental note of the properties – visibility, safety, and cost – of the lighting fixtures I was going to propose for the play I had just been recruited to be a part of. I noted the possible locations and positions of the lights on the stage.


I dragged my suitcase across the floor and was about to lift it as I reached the stairs when I was startled by a dark figure in the living room. I dropped my suitcase in surprise and the figure, seated on the sofa, turned to my direction briefly before facing the window again. It was my dad.

I knew that he didn’t see me. He was almost completely blind by then and only went by his memory. I will explain this later. He also couldn’t hear very well without his hearing aid, which he only wears to church or to the court, so I decided to walk toward him instead.

When I neared him, I realized that he was speaking in a low, conversational voice. I thought at first that he was addressing me, and then I realized that he was addressing someone else. That is, it very much looked and sounded like he was talking to someone named Buddy, the name his friends called him, when he was young. And then I saw that he had a cigarette in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other!

Everyone in the house – the two household staff, the driver, and the caregiver – vehemently denied giving my Dad cigarettes or pouring him brandy. The very idea appalled them, and they didn’t hide their opinion over the absurdity of the accusation.

The caregiver, who had always been sensible and practical, and neither given to superstition nor the supernatural, after much prodding from the others, finally declared: “It was Buddy who gave him the cigarette, poured him brandy, and did other things besides.”

The caregiver was right in that matter, but he had to be dissuaded on others. I told him who “Buddy” was. But it turned out that he was correct when he said that Dad wasn’t talking to himself “in a multiple personality disorder kind of way,” as we were also later told, although this, too, was explored extensively by the doctors whom we eventually consulted.

I told the neurologist that Dad had been having a hard time adjusting to his loss of eyesight, and had been depressed for a long time. I told him about Dad’s behavior at the hotel, where he was confined for several days after the surgical procedure.

It had been a week since the surgery. I had barely slept when I sensed my dad awaken from what I suspected wasn’t exactly the most fitful of sleep. I had been trying, for the last several days, to get used to the sight of him – eyes covered in plaster and bandages – and was very relieved when the bandages were taken off the day before.

I heard him groaning. I turned to his side to watch him very slowly lift his legs and drop them heavily to the carpeted floor. Then, he pushed down on his feet and tried to maneuver a sitting position. It was excruciating to watch. He fell back on the bed a number of times until he somehow managed a most awkward sitting position – his body tilted to the left, his head almost dropping to his shoulder, and his hands trembling, as he tried to plant them on the bed more firmly. He straightened himself up a bit and faced the wall.

I watched him stare at the wall. The room was bathed in soft light still, even if the sun had risen probably an hour ago already. The light softened his features too, gave his skin a kind of glow, made him look so much younger and healthier than he actually was.

Good thing we had opted for hotel, rather than hospital confinement, I thought. The doctor just came to visit once a day. The hotel was located right across from the bay. We had no view of the sunrise since the room faced the Manila Bay, the idea being that since we’re staying in a hotel called Sunset View, we might as well pay for that view. This was also one of the post-surgery treats we had promised our father, and ourselves – a spectacular view of the sunset. We did not factor in the possibility that he might not see anything at all right after the surgery, that his eyes would still be bruised and traumatized, and will take some time to recover, if at all.

Dad straightened himself up further. I was tempted to stand and assist him, but wasn’t sure if that gesture was going to be appreciated. So I just watched him -- no, watched over him . When he had stabilized himself, he let out a deep sigh, and then I saw him reach both arms for the wall, or something, someone by the wall.

“Dad,” I called out to him. “’Tay,” I called out even louder, to snap him out of what I thought was a dream. He continued to ignore me. And then I saw him nodding, heard him talking. I got up from bed and walked over to him, stood in front of him. He just looked past me. I peered into his eyes, and they looked very much like they were seeing eyes, but they weren’t seeing me.

To be fair, the surgeon had never promised anything about eye sights being restored, only, at the most, the physical eye being preserved.

“Surgery, if you take this option, and I am hoping you will, would involve either laser treatment or making a cut in the eye to reduce the intraocular pressure, what we call the IOP. The type of surgery doctors recommend usually depends on the type and severity of the condition. But the point of the procedure is to help lower the IOP, especially when medication is no longer sufficient,” the doctor had explained the week before, holding up colored photo prints of cross-section images of my father’s corneas and irises.

I had stood behind my father’s wheelchair, and every now and then whispered to him what the doctor was saying.

“We have several options daw. Based on your tests, you are a good candidate for a procedure that has proven very effective for patients with a similar case. Basically, the procedure will involve creating a kind of bypass in your eye, so that the pressure will be controlled, and then the eye can slowly start working again! This is all very good news!” I pressed his shoulders and half-hugged him for emphasis.

“Normally, we would recommend laser surgery first, before filtering microsurgery. But if the eye pressure is very high, and the optic nerve is badly damaged…” He made circular motions over a certain part of the picture with a laser pointer.
The doctor paused, in mid discussion, to give me time to digest the information and to relay it to my dad.

And, I translated: “The doctor’s saying that there are several variations to the procedure, but that your type of glaucoma, a rare one in this country, and common among Caucasians, would seem to require a certain type of surgery too. Kasi, you’re a mestizo!”

The doctor raised his eyebrows, the only sign of impatience and incredulity he allowed himself. And then he continued. “With laser surgery, we use a tiny but powerful beam of light, right here, basically, to make several small scars in the eye’s trabecular meshwork…”

Me: “That’s the eye’s drainage system daw…”

“Yes, actually, it is the eye’s drainage system,” the doctor said, and I tried not to show how embarrassed I was that he could hear everything I was whispering to my dad after all. “And the scars we make will help increase the flow of fluid out of the eye,” he said, now making short slow waving motions under the eye.

He paused again to give me time to translate, but I let him continue.

“On the contrary, the filtering microsurgery would entail, yes, creating a ‘drainage hole’, with the use of a small surgical tool, instead of a beam of light. We perform this, sometimes, after laser surgery does not successfully lower eye pressure, or if the pressure begins to rise again after some time...”

Me, in a much lower voice: “So, the procedure basically ensures that the drainage system in your eye works properly, so it won’t clog and increase the intraoccular pressure. You need daw to release some of the pressure, in the form of fluids, tears…” And at this point, my dad turned to me with a questioning look, but I continued. “So, yes, the process involves keeping the tiny passages clear and… well, healthy that way, so it can let light enter and the eye can do what it is supposed to do…”

The doctor started turning off the viewing board, and turned to switch the room lights on, still elaborating on the procedure. He returned to his table and faced us.

“The surgery will preserve the eye, the physical properties, however, it cannot reverse vision loss,” he said, waiting for me to respond.

“Dad, the procedure will preserve what eyesight you still have, and there’s still apparently a good amount of that, it’s just sort of covered by all the pressure, which the procedure will reduce permanently, so that the eyesight is maximized, and then little by little, maybe even in very micro levels so that you’ll hardly sense it, I mean that’s why the procedure is called microfiltering, so the eye, as the pressure decreases, adjusts, little by little, in vey micro levels, to the cleared up passages, after being so used to clogged ones for a long time, because it will take some time to adjust to the absence of something that’s been there for a long time, and then, yes, little by little, in very micro levels, the eye will slowly start to see… You’ll just have to be very patient, really.”

“I just want to know that I’ll be able to read again, look at pictures of my wife, enjoy my daughter’s work” he said, addressing the Opthalmologist.

The surgery took place at 7 in the morning the following day. The orderlies wheeled Dad out of the room at six, and by eight-thirty, I was called in to the recovery room. My dad was in a wheel chair, both of his eyes were bandaged shut.

The doctor came out of the lab and told me that although both eyes had to be covered, they did not actually touch Dad’s left eye, that it was only actually the right eye they operated on. He explained that the left eye did not have any vision left at all, so surgery would not have done anything, and might have only traumatized it further. The right eye, however, still had about 8% of vision left, except that the functioning parts are outside the core, that is why he could not see complete images, rather he only sensed them when there is movement, so that, at best, he could see the outlines or the silhouettes.

To my dad, I said: “The surgery was successful! The doctors were able to save your eyes from being eaten up by the disease! They will slowly recover from the scars of the surgery and then very slowly, little by little, the eyesight that is left will be put to work again.”

To me, the doctor said: “We should really show your dad the whole picture, so the process of adjustment can be facilitated.”

He would never be able to see again, the doctor said, in as plain and stark a manner as he could.

So I knew we had a problem when I heard Dad saying, that morning, a week after surgery, that his vision, indeed, was back, one hundred percent! Praise the Lord, he even added.

Hallucinations were one thing, but this, this was something else.

I decided to stay in my dad’s room that fateful weekend, so that I could observe him. Earlier that day, his caregiver had said that he had overheard Attorney and Buddy talking again, about taking a trip, visiting a friend who lived three towns away from the city. The caregiver said that he was worried about what my dad would do, or what Buddy would do to my dad.

So I volunteered to watch over Dad, hold vigil, and record the whole thing, in order, finally, to settle the matter with the caregiver.

By twelve midnight Dad was snoring, while I was still at work on a lighting design for an upcoming play. I motioned for his caregiver to retire for the night as well, and he gratefully left the room. I locked the door after him.

The room had two windows, one facing the east and another one facing the south. Between the two windows sat my dad’s old desk, and on top of it my mom’s picture. I moved the desk so that I could continue to work and chat on my laptop while frequently glancing over to where Dad was, snuggled now under the covers, and snoring rather loudly.

I continued to chat with my mentor over YM, and excitedly explained to him my proposal: how to position the lights, where to locate them, so that when they’re all turned on, the effect is the opposite of illumination.
When I glanced over to Dad, he was no longer there.


I swear I did not doze off, I couldn’t possibly have. Even if I did, I know that it was only for a few minutes, because my last chat response said so.

Needless to say, nobody believes me. Needless to say, we looked all over for him: In the house, in the village, all over town, all over the country! We have been looking for four years! Four years.

It’s very hard for me still. Although, in many ways, yes, perhaps also the best. The best for me, and for everyone concerned. I know, I understand where people come from when they accuse me of these horrible things, because it is true that I have been, well, enriched by the situation. But how can I defend myself? How can I tell people of just what my dad and I went through after my mom’s death? Why should I even bother?

I still come home as often as I can, to check on the properties, the caretaker. To warm the old house, so to speak.

I still prefer to take the 5A.M. flight, and it is dark when I enter the house, the only light that is on is the one over the staircase, the smooth granite floors are softly illuminated, the winding staircase looks like it is floating in a gleaming sea of darkness.

we try hard

for our sundays to be more like the ones we grew up with.

we challenge ourselves, build the fire ourselves, melt and mold the gelatin ourselves.



but first it must look like this:






so it can become this:










and then we top it off with this!

The Project (fiction, an excerpt)

The concept
The concept is very rich. It is hardly new, not exactly groundbreaking, but it promises many possible subject positions, ideological standpoints, from which we readers can view and assess the subject matter being tackled by this project being presented before us.

This so-called “middle class, urban, self-involved, ultra aware, highly emotional, at turns petty, pretentious, confused, languageless, hungry, empty, and ultimately at a loss,” Philippine human scribbler of the 21st century is a peculiar subject. Indeed it is. A peculiar subject, and therefore a worthy matter that, I am more than convinced, merits our attention and investment.

Apart from offering various standpoints, what the project also seems to be proposing is for these locations being made available to the readers, to become locations of self-slash-selves or inter-subjectivity-slash-subjectivities. This is an outdated idea, for sure, but it is in its very suggestion – and not suggestiveness –, that the quaintness – a quaintness we can easily repackage and sell – lies.

On the matter of quaintness, I presume we are all in agreement, and so I will no longer go into a discussion, of its economic and political significance.

We then move to the next criteria, the execution.

After the body displaces water (fiction)

Part I.
http://www.philippinesfreepress.com.ph/06-2010/after-the-body-displaces-water-a-manual-for-divers/

Part II.
http://www.philippinesfreepress.com.ph/07-2010/after-the-body-displaces-water-a-manual-for-divers-part-ii/

automatic writing

because it has been too long since I made the resolve months ago to revive this blog
because it has been two months since i posted the notice in this blog and nothing has followed after that because there is not much to write about
because it is not true that there is nothing to write about
because the truth is that there is much so much but i am swamped with work and family and self and selves
because it is not true that i have that many interesting selves that each one demands time away from writing
because writing matters to me it is everything and i should write every single day
because i should stop writing in the way i do now with and in my mind only
because the mind truly has no limits and is the one thing that astonishes still
because we need limits and margins and edges of things
because surfaces have real edges even if they tend to make things seem cramped and brutal and short
because life is actually cramped and brutal and much too short
because it is too damn long and boring and everything keeps happening over and over again and people don't learn their lesson
because people sometimes do learn their lesson and undergo remarkable transformations and are amazing absolutely amazing that way
because i need amazement and nothing else
because one day when it seemed like it had been too long since anything amazing has happened i opened my inbox and found three poems
because discovering poetry while randomly checking personal emails in the middle of a busy workday restores my faith in a big way
because i need faith and my faith needs restoring every now and then
because the only other person who had such faith and such a relationship with faith has left for another country and i have no one to go to a church with on random days
because i think of leaving the country too
because i am starting to hate the constant leaving and saying goodbye and have recently developed a paralyzing sense of anxiety over flying
because there is no exhilaration like the exhilaration of taking off and that final lurch before flying
because exhilaration is the only way and the only way to exhilaration is to take off and fly and do it on very early mornings
because one very early morning when i was convinced that there was nothing nothing nothing more to this you do the one thing that helped me finally close my eyes and truly peacefully sleep
because i need to sleep and have been troubled by the lack of it in a way that is not healthy for everyone concerned
because to me it is essential that everyone concerned do not remain concerned for too long
because this has gone on long enough and i can now allow myself to stop just stop.

reboot

i want to revive this blog. i have been trying to recall the initial impulse for putting it up in the first place. i do remember that i started this blog at a time of major transition, at a time when one could not afford to think in terms of what's certain or uncertain, when what was there was all that was there, when one was always only half aware of things coming to an end, of the potential tragedy that underlined every innocent, hopeful, gesture. when all acts were, after all, just symbolic of other acts. all of those leading up, ultimately, to this. this life, this work, this job, this apartment, this set of friends, this afternoon, this cup of coffee, this sore throat, this insistence for a stick of cigarette. whatever this is, it has remained, more or less unchanged, in the last four years. of course, then, prior to this, i had no means to recognize those episodes for what they were. the mind is amazing that way. it puts up these shields, making the body invincible for the time being.

when this blog was put up, it only had ten, or maybe less, links. and that seemed to have been the point then. it was part of a conversation, a small gathering. i know that it is probably too soon to romanticize those times. but, i want to revive this blog, nevertheless, because i want to recreate those times. (maybe this rebooted blog can be all about the question: what were "those" times?).

i want to fabricate again that space, that voice, which was both innocent and weary, intimate and open, hesitant but ready. ready to disappear, whenever it had to.

i will not make any commitments. and this blog has no one to commit to. but, for the time being, this blog is alive again. and will contain only, or mostly, live texts, live entries. if there is such a thing. all texts are essentially dead. only the author is ever alive.

the textures, the colors,

the movements. to witness absolute freedom, and unmistakable precision, of expression. nothing like it.

i haven't been satisfied with any performance this way in a long time. just came from the imogen heap concert at the esplanade in singapore, and she was brilliant. and playful, and fun, and entertaining, even if a little too trippy at times, and worth every peso i spent and more. when she announced that she'll be back in singapore before the year ends, i went crazy and screamed "come to manila!!!"

let's hope she does.

(pictures to follow)

international women's day

and everybody says this about their mother, but, nanay was really beautiful, and i would say this had she been someone else's mother.

not too late

for resolutions, is it? here are mine:

1. sleep more
2. drink less
3. walk more
4. sit less
5. read more
6. talk less
7. write more
8. write less (write shorter stuff, that is)
9. call home more often
10. go out less often
11. be more patient
12. be less tolerant

there. one resolution for every month of the year. let's see if we can still recognize this version of me. happy new year all! =)