Sapay Koma: "August"

Almost two years after an experience of loss, tragedy, hopelessness, and even the toll of having enemies, I barely recognized my dreams and my goals. Everything became bleak, uncertain, almost confusing. To re-examine one’s life must be one of the most difficult stage of moving on. After my father’s death in that gloomy August, I lost the passion and drive to become what I dreamed of - I was depressed. Failure, it seems to me, has become a familiar visitor, a friend which stays, not really to taunt, but to keep me out from the brink of insanity. “This is life”, I muse from time to time.

But I’m not a kid anymore. I write about hope, and damn put my belief on it - that no matter how wrong things seem, it will always turn out alright in the end. I felt good about that idea, who wouldn’t? Acceptance, however, is most easily said than done. My father’s death has become the death of one of my dream’s purpose – to impress him, to prove that I can do things, to prove that I’m not immature. But then, all becomes irrelevant in the face of death.   That day, I also died. It is not what I want, who would want that anyway? but perhaps...it is what I need.

What did I need? What did a self-aggrandizing irresponsible prick want? Surely, I was heavily confused back then. It may have changed in the last two years. To a certain extent, I hoped that I gained a sensibility common to those who have experienced grief, or loss – humility, among others, and a deeper appreciation of life. A couple of years may not have totally changed me, nor was my experience the ultimate tragedy that may shatter one and mend the same anew to a better one (there are countless others who went through worse), I would like to believe that in those years, I did not just lose a life…that I also reclaimed one myself.

What’s the rush in August? I always ask. But, before I tell the story of August, one may wonder about that first week of December. It may not be that hyped month of hearts, but nevertheless a very interesting one; and that cold merry night after the shared boozed laughter…and two lonely people decided to spend a long special moment together. Ah, how can I make it sound romantic? The story is rarely found on the sheets and the pillows. The real story started when we received the biggest surprise of our lives.

I may have also surprised everyone. And believe me, I know the repercussions. But, for what it is worth, and after the painful gossip of politics, regretful comments, burning bridges, and what have you-- of ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ ,and, even if I may hurt that other one who might be waiting for me on the other side of the world, or even that other one in our neighborhood, how can I deny the existence of a very special gift? How can't I yearn to feel his first kicks in his mom's tummy? To see his sleepy eyes on his first day?  I couldn't. For me, telling the world, and having him in our home, and being a father, a good father, is the right thing to do. Even when my life is really full of wrongs, I wouldn’t dare add this on top of it. To tell the world that I have a son, is one of the better things I did in a long time. Indeed, it is, really, the right thing to do.

What’s my rush in August? Two years ago, I dreaded this rainy month for taking away one valuable life from us...But from that, it reminded me that everything has its own time and reason -- the rains may take life away, but it may also nourish and give another one. This August, the night must finally give way to the day, and just like the seasons, there is a time to be a kid, and a time to have one. Life, can't be meaningless after all...

                            - I will always be here Vash Gray !

Free beer (Fast Fiction)

A little of the moist he considered only necessary to swab the chalk dust which settled on his palms. ‘501’ must be reduced by pummeling small arrows from a good seven feet and nine inches away – the one-fourth inch tape included. The bucket of beer for him was never just a bet, not even the packs of cigarette. What is it that sets their mood? A Billy Joel song? The new nineteen-year old waitress?

“Double twenty!” his new partner yelled. And double twenty indeed. At forty, he had doubled his wealth but also doubled his wives (and debts). ‘Men and their insatiable pleasures’, they always say that. But, in his many years of drinking with journalists, politicians, lawyers, doctors, teachers, artists, musicians, and what have you, he had come up with the conclusion that men are pigs indeed. At least after a few beers.

The college students on table number four beside the bar exploded with laughter, probably talking about some little adventure they did. He used to be as trim as them, he remembered. Then work, age, and stress came; and the car he bought was used more often, even on a mere five-hundred-meter walk. It didn't help too that big grills of pork and beef became part of his daily diet. Add the visits at bars to drown the pressure of two wives, and his weight is doomed to rise.‘Screw life, we eat and drink because tomorrow we die’. They always say that. Not after a bypass or a costly operation though. A visit to the doctor in some pale room always scares them. Changes them a bit, and makes them re-evaluate their lives – even their last will and testament. He had thought about that too. After all, a few of his friends had already kicked the bucket to meet their maker.

 

“Out!” his partner had aimed for that green flake of that pie but missed. Perhaps that it is the price for secretly cursing the moon. He steadied himself mechanically to execute the drill. For that moment, he was a deity holding a thunder bolt. Just like an artist who escapes this world by painting their own reality, he raised his left hand victoriously for a high-five. His minions rose to applaud. They are now sure that the couple of beers they have grabbed are free. 

Nothing beats free beers.

"Squatter"

He counted the men with powerful tools and concluded that they are almost as many as the thirty armed uniforms that came to assist them. The resonance of the beating and piercing instruments reminded him of the same sight five years ago – when ‘they’ demolished his make-shift home upon the court's order. The scars on his head are still throbbing.

His home is similar to the first house they beat with their metal claws; tearing the tin roof apart, kicking the wooden frames, flaking all the tin sheets which served as its cheap wall. In exactly five minutes, they’re done with it. A man with a plastic crown pointed towards his direction and for a moment he frost.

“Ket kasanu? Inya ngay garud ket saan yu nga kanya daytoy lote? Apay Ada TRO yu….?” they approached his home.

He didn’t really understood what TRO is, but, the sight of the gang with big metal tools clearly scared him. He understood that he has to go. “Sir, mabalin nga iparwar tayu pay dagitoy usar ko?”, he can only plead. The engineer batted his eye, he knew that the guy with a plastic crown hated his job. This job.

After pulling out his things, he reminisce the places where he found the bed sheets, the old plastic chair, the frying pan…even that old calendar with a pretty woman. He had felt joy on each event he picked those things because he can add them to his little kingdom. He was, after all,  born poor and had lived with his mother before she died. He didn't have a family since then. He came to the city years ago and managed to survive by doing any work that requires physical labor...it is the only thing that he can offer - his arms, his shoulder, his hips, his legs. These, he knew, won't last for a very long time.

The gang members with metal tools were laughing. It has something to do with one of them who joked about “squatters”. He is familiar with the term because he had heard it often, and have learned to shun it. However, he couldn't understand why one can laugh even on the sight of a grieving person. He only needed less than ten square meters for his life – a place to stay, a place to hide against the sun,  the chill, the rain. 

He heard that the owner already has a lot of houses. He only prayed for a box which he can run to. He wandered away and wept.

He asked God why some people have everything, and some have none; like his existence, his dirt-like existence. 

Blues of June (Fiction)

It was in the rainy evening of June. He parked his car beside the gasoline station not too far away from the bar where he consumed his fifth beer. He turned the engine off but decided to keep the stereo on – he needed the DJ’s voice, at least the rare hit on good jokes to kill the boredom. After damaging his car in five identical occasions, he had learned to always give himself a few minutes to sober up before going home. The rain and that non-cooperating shield-wiper convinced him all the more that he needed every ounce of alertness to survive the road. At least, just for that night.

The DJ started to dedicate a love song; somehow, she was already finished with her last caller. “Another Chicago song”, he thought on the few opening notes he recognized from high school. He was not aware that he was smiling on the thought of it. Those memories of his high school life had succeeded in tempting him into playing with them again – it was already almost twenty years ago. He saw flashbacks of his few friends, his teachers, some events, and of course, the memorable people with it. They were good memories – the recurring image of his awkward self with a guitar, his club activities, his classmates, his stressed teachers…and of course, Myra.

 That thought of her almost drained the alcohol inside of him. He needed another drink, but he decided against it – it was still Tuesday, and he has yet to complete three designs for a client. At 33, he was a junior architect for ECO-house designs, a young company which specializes in ‘green-designing’. He was not sure if there is a bright future with it, but he was contented – he will own his little home after twelve years of salary deductions, and perhaps start saving for his old Pajero’s replacement. He remembered that his boss will have his chemotherapy next month, and the thought of a possible retirement that will advance his career made him feel guilty – ‘a man’s loss, will always be another man’s gain’. He sighed - again, the stress of it made him thought that high school will always be one of the best parts of his life.

The song switched to another ballad after another love quote from DJ Hillary Johnson - the best Side A classic, and he smiled. Old songs, bring back old memories indeed. He was ready to sing along with it.

“There are times, when I just want to look at your face, with the stars in the night…there are times, when I just want to feel your embrace, in the cold night…I just can’t believe that you are mine now…You were just a dream that I once know..I never thought I would -” he paused to check his phone, and continued,  “ …anything in this world, you’re all I need to be with forevermore..”

Slowly, he deliberately relived the memories of the first woman he truly loved. Myra was his classmate in high school, although she was first stricken by her endearing laugh in his first year. She was his team mate in scrabble, where he intentionally delayed their games just to spend more time with her. From there, a certain kind of friendship blossomed – he started a routine of visiting her in her mother’s clothing-store for years. She was the first girl whom he had truly loved. Too bad, Myra only considered him as a friend. Friend-zoned, you can say. She was the first girl to have given him the drowning feeling of hurt, of pain.

This event in his life changed him. His fear of the same kind of rejection forced him to reinvent himself; changing his awkward appearance with the cooperative stage of puberty and maturity, and developing an image that was easily acceptable for his new friends.  Eventually, he became the playboy he abhorred in highschool. A disguise he made to project desirability, or perhaps for Myra to notice him.

They met again in college and they dated. He guessed that somehow, his transformation helped. As young hearts then were easily swayed with doubts, they did not become an official couple until after they graduated from college. It was easy and difficult at the same time. Easy, because they have known each other since highschool. Difficult, because both are convinced that they are entitled to new things in their lives. More difficult for him because Myra was his first love, actually his only love.

Eventually, Myra went abroad leaving him the promise that if they are meant to be together, then they will always end up in each other’s arms – yes, that overly-used quote again. For a couple of years he submerged himself with work. It is the only way to make him forget that he actually misses someone. It did not take any longer for him to receive the news that she is already back in the country.

It was unbelievable for him when they spent many days together again. He thought of proposing to her after he will earn some money, perhaps in a year or two. Yes, he actually thought of marriage – she will be 26 or 27 when that will happen, which is perfect for her expectations. It was that easy for him to imagine, until Myra told him about ‘it’. She told him of what happened to her and her friend, or lover, abroad. And after the rush of tears, the words "I'm sorry, I don't love you anymore" sunk him deeper into the void.

He remembered that moment well, and he felt the pang again – he never truly moved on. “Why? .... Why?” Is it loneliness from being away? He did not really ask. “You promised…” is all he can mumble. Funny, how he expected too much. “I know,  I didn’t have a choice…” Choice? He pondered on what it really meant that day. It was not something that is not forgiven overnight, not after the feeling of betrayal, not after broken promises.

But, It was about three thousand nights since then, and they never talked again– not after he banned her name on his Facebook account, or after Myra went back to her work abroad. There were many nights like this, when he ponders on what could have been if he had forgiven her that time. However, that wasn’t the first time she did that – there was highschool, there was college, and even when they’re already working. He was just scared on what he will feel if she will hurt him again. It is not easy to let go of things - memorable things, beautiful things - but he worries on what will happen to his world. He cannot afford another heartbreak, especially from her, that is why he decided to let her go. He concluded, actually convinced himself, that some things are not really meant to be.

Just like his failures and inabilities, his desperation and loneliness...just like the rain which will always be there to drench him, he will always be haunted by the memories which he, ironically, holds dear.

He can't move on.

There were many nights like this, especially in June.

Sagada Love Story (Fiction)

 Would it be something that you would want to feel? Even if it’s this late? We could have had it all.

Five, no, about six hours.  Do you remember? The bumpy trail, your head on my right shoulder to show you proudly all the 'views' - an Ibaloi girl with an Ibontoc boy who is proudly showing Mountain Province? A young guy introducing his world, or perhaps attempting to confirm a part of his life to that woman who won his heart?

We arrived on a rainy day, on a stop to Sagada to see the place, particularly, the famous coffins and caves. We walked casually down to a road looking for an Inn. We finally settled with George’ s Inn. It must be the computer shop below it. Do you remember? I hope you do. We never even got to close that penthouse door. We were so in love. We can’t even get enough of each other. Do you remember? The kisses? The hugs? The warmth of our bodies. The passion we can only let go off when we fall asleep. Did we even leave our bed to see the attractions of the place?

Remember when we pulled the pillows and blankets outside to see the stars? We were lucky that before closing hours, we have bought a bottle of gin, and your favorite chips; that black Tortillos along with some vinegar. You really loved that then… I know, because I have come to love it too…

Remember when we walked in the rain. Those are what we saw in the movies, and we never really cared. We laughed about it. You called me “noisy slippers”, because of the way I walk with them. Do you remember when he had coffee on that little shop when we were dripping wet? Tell me that you do.

Do you remember the words that were supposed to be said when one wakes up first? “Good Morning beautiful..” if it was me who does. I never cared any of your words, because I always feel your kiss on my forehead, my cheeks…my lips. Do you remember our mornings? Our nights? Do you remember?

I know you remember when we painfully argued at Bontoc, the way I was jealous back then. When we never talked for two hours and thirty minutes in the van but finally made peace at Bauko, and started kissing again. When we reached Mt. Data and number 114 will be etched in our lives forever? When we (or I) got drunk at the fireplace and you dragged us to our room. Do you remember how happy we were? Do you remember any of  it?

Today, you stood there with that glorious wedding gown...and you are not waiting for me.

Poetry 3: The eyes of Edmund

The Eyes of Edmund Dantes (2007)

The quite hearse of gasp was heard,

A cynic figure of obliviousness – It stood.

And on the dungeon’s bars, his fingers crawled,

As if to feel and see hope – but sadly, its pain and why’s…

Millions of seconds should have passed by then,

And for him each second counts as day,

With all the wondering and of melancholy,

Of lost love, betrayal, and of innocence – Yes! Of innocence…

For that old miserable lightless room, no…that Prison!

Has become an edifice of cries, and sobs, and of curses…Yes, Curses!

For he has done nothing! And nothing! He deserves none of that.

That man, which on the peak of his happiness, has lost it.

And Curses! For his God, he thought, has abandoned him.

And Oh! He bit his lips to stop him swear…

But, the angst and pain inside of him can’t be defied,

And on the thought that he is half insane, smashed his head on the wall!

It bled. The crimson tinted liquid has flown.

And Oh! As if he regained sanity, he sat and wept.

“My Father! My Mercedes!”, he screamed in grief…

For he thought he has lost everything, convinced of his helplessness…

“And Why? Why?! What have I done?!”

For more than ten years he pondered on these thoughts.

Staring at the faceless wall, treating himself like a living corpse

And as if, for  that hellish condition, numbness has plagued his skin…

And at Last! On those years he gained eyes as clear as snow.

An infinite capability to see through haze – to Speak, to think…to rule!

For heaven might have heard those cries and sent another man to die in his grave.

And on this sudden turn of Events – He finally stood to face the sun, He is Free!

No longer on the Deepest shadow of the outcast world,

But on the glorious side of royalty, of the known world…

The man who have hid his eyes on a gray cloud of ignorance,

Emerged with a staggering light of power– but with a dark hand...

A Dark Hand, with an iron grip, to those who have caused him loss..

For the memories of those blackest nights stayed on his eyes…Clear and Unsoiled

And Oh! With the eyes of Edmund Dantes plays God! – Equally!

The all-seeing eye to which everything lays on like the light of day…

“Oh those eyes!”, of vendetta, of revenge, of a living wrath!

“Those Eyes! Your Eyes Sir!” that can pierce with a glance…

For your scream resonates on those glares! And gives shiver to anyone!

“Your eyes Count! You, the Count of Monte’Cristo”…Your Eyes Edmund Dantes…

Poetry 2: Eulogy for a friend

Eulogy for a friend (2007)

Silence has reached your feet…

A predicament that grieves all

 Life has cut its wreath,

But so sad, an unexpected call…

 You have lived the drama,

the comedy has paid its part...

 the inevitable has come and passed.

I wonder why it happened so fast…

 Living the succulent life, you did,

But things happen even as you close a lid.

 Who knows? Who dares to?

The world leaves questions but not a clue.

As a stranger you bow your head,

As a friend, you took the lead.

 One final stand was left and then you fade.

Sometimes, I ask why aid is late to make…

 To reminisce those days, I stare at you,

Is more real, but not as sweet…

 You lay there with innocence I don’t know,

   My friend, you played the song until it’s final beat…

Poetry 1: Another Sick Rose

Another Sick Rose (2007)

Valred Olsim

I lie there unaware,

I broke a heart.

The pain that you can’t bare,

You steal the night…

I lie there unaware..

A seething heart followed my bed,

A cursed, a filthy stare,

You hate what I have said..

I lie there unaware,

An angry hand wrapped my lips,

You laugh, you weep, who are you?

I cry, I scream, you never cared,

I lie there unaware,

My soul and body bleeds

I lie there unaware

Why did you do that ugly deed?

The Preacher

He did good. The church will give eighty percent of its tithes and offerings to the Golden Pyramid. Given the vast followers of the fellowship, it can attach thousands of people from its 'bottom' mark. The 'multi-level marketing' business will have another 'market' The production of cash will be instantaneous. He suspected that the lawyer and policeman in the congregation will raise their suspicion, but the networking business is not exactly illegal.

He has been their head pastor for 10 years. He managed to exploit the verses about tithing, or giving 10% of church-members’ income, aside from their church-offerings and love offerings. As their accountant and pastor, he had managed to build a house for himself and even bought a car. It was not enough.  In the Philippines, there are actually four ways to get rich; first is to get into business, another is to work abroad, another is to become a politician or work in government office, and the last and most infamous, actually  almost a taboo to mention is… to build your own ‘church’. He took the fourth path.

In a minute, he will give another speech for the afternoon session. He took his bible and balanced it with the heavy gold ring he wore on his left hand. He walked nonchalantly at the door but transformed automatically into the gleeful leader he projects to his members when he appears before them. He proceeded to the pulpit; he was almost a different person. After the prayer and the usual ‘good days’, he played his gold ring in the pages of Mathew 23:23 and try to tell the church that Jesus criticized people, even the Pharisees who did not observe ‘tithing’. He saw a few people who budged uncomfortably and concluded that they were those who do not give their ten percent income to the church. He tried his best to hide his irritation.

“God told me that the Golden Pyramid will help us. He whispered it to me. And those who doubted this must come to see the check that we received in joining their business. We gained an income of Fifty- thousand pesos in a month by just putting our church-funds in their hands. This is a blessing given by the Lord! Amen?”

“Amen!!” The church had developed a mechanism of saying ‘amen’ immediately after the preacher would say, ‘amen’. Just like how babies respond to their mothers' lullabyes.

He paused, and saw it already: Three million pesos after nine months. Mr. Lee assured him, the business will close at the end of the year, employees will disperse wildly, and the account managers will take the fall while Mr. Lee and the other VIP’s will be on their way to Australia. Another pyramiding scam news. The church funds which were supposed to be used for its' building's construction but were put into the business’ network fund will vanish, actually, transferred to the pastor’s secret bank account. Brilliant.

He cut himself on the pleasure of that day-dream. He ended the sermon after an hour- long ceremony of saying  “Jesus" and “God” and “Lord” repeatedly, he almost felt guilt. But he couldn’t. He marched slowly in the front rows for people to shake his hands. He has to maintain that smile for another ten minutes. After shaking about twenty hands, he saw a familiar face in the right aisle - the policeman from the morning session. He was not smiling, at all.

He didn't care. That policeman can find another church or be labeled a backslider. 

The Aloti-it

THE ALOTIIT (BANYAS) :THE RICE GUARD

One of the indigenous art motif that is found in Cordillera is the ‘lizard design’. According to Lakay Gumeng before he died, this started long time ago when there was a man whose rice farm was being pestered by rats. He tried hunting the rats but had failed in preventing them from causing damage to his farm. Other farmers in their village were also experiencing it. Thus, he turned to the gods and prayed – prayed for days and nights. After a month or so when harvest time was about to come; he was surprised to discover that no rats were found on his farm anymore. He miraculously had an abundant harvest. 

 With gratitude, he turned to the farm to kneel and pray when he discovered a strange creature – a shiny four-legged animal with a tail and its head resembling a snake or a frog. The creature has unique colors that he had not seen from any other animals before. He realized that it must be the creature sent by the gods to scare the rats and pests in his farm. The strange creature disappeared mysteriously when he was about to approach it.

From then on, the man carved that creature's design in the doors of his rice storage house and even on his pots on his belief that the design will scare away pests and rats. Some villagers, seeing that it is something the gods might want them to do, started doing the same.

The unhappy writer

“Are you happy?” The young showman waited patiently for his answer. The modern world regarded him as a modern-day-sage, and so he must at least pretend to linger to every second of his musings before he reveal his wise words. “No…I’m not happy”. The author of a dozen life-inspiring books shifted his gaze towards the crowd who gasped at his answer. The young showman, also surprised himself, struggled to cough an introverted laugh and asked; “Why?”. He will always be a show-host.

Or, in that case, an annoying brat. “You wrote best-selling books about happiness. People consider you a modern day philosopher, the next Coelho. Personally, I have collection of your works. I am one of the millions who adore you.” The brat managed to summon a smile and hoped that no one would catch that bullshit he pulled out to keep his audience amused. The celebrated author caught the sly smile and returned it. “How about you? Are you happy?” He asked the brat in a grade school teacher and student manner, “Do you consider yourself a happy person?” The young showman grinned. He was prepared for the answer; he studied a little bit of psychology to expect that a defensive person might, in an eighty-percent probability, throw his question back at him. “Yes, I am. I am living the dream. A career, good health, people who love me. Yes I am happy, really happy” He leaned on his chair with the air of confidence commonly seen on geeks who solved a difficult math problem. “Sure you are.” The celebrated author took his glasses for his bare eyes to study the brat. The audience noticed every move.

“It is not happiness, it is contentment. Happiness is often associated with pleasure; the pleasure you have from your money, your career. Or, the pleasure you get by being healthy and loved. Sometimes, we do not see the distinction; therefore we believe both to be the same. I do not know what makes you happy, really, even with the people present here. Hence, I can’t really say. Contentment on the other hand is different. That can be sensed.  It is like Sunday afternoon; after the work the six day struggle, we rest – go to the park, or read a nice book, feast on cravings, or the simple enjoyment of hot coffee.” He stopped to wait for the brat to speak. There was no interruption. Obviously, no one knows where it is going, although, they would readily ride the wagon to know where.

The celebrated author looked to the audience and continued, “I said that I am not happy because I only recognize pleasure, and often times I get confused; I traveled the world, I had women when I woke up at expensive hotels, the cars, the mansions…the eight figures. I experienced the pleasures offered by this world and I became greedy. I hunger for the next best pleasure, then the next, then the next; the demand for the next high, of pleasure, made me calloused, bored, unsatisfied. The homeless guy is likely to feel more pleasure with a fried chicken, than me eating caviar – I feasted everyday and realized that I have never feasted at all. And, it hit me. I am not happy. I have more but I feel less.”  He paused again to throw a gaze at the brat, “It is difficult to be contented, yet the secret to happiness is in that simple word. People have dreams but the world has long ruled that not everyone can have them. Contentment is a way to make sense out of the rejection, and also a way to ground humans from that insatiable appetite for pleasure. You see, you are happier than me.” He gave a different smile, one with the humility of an honest elder.

The Trapo (a fast fiction)

The Trapo (a fast fiction)

He drained his beer in his throat along with the chunks of grilled beef he bought at a restaurant on his way home. He opened his personal computer to check on his facebook account and the smirk which he carried from a day of adulation faded…instantly. He never imagined that this boy, which he met a few years back will do this much harm. At a point, he regretted the insults and the ‘demolition job’ he had thrown to this boy’s father - he never anticipated any retaliation, but then; he is reaching his 40s, and he must have to show a brilliant political glamour to climb the higher posts. He’s new to politics, but has learned how to win it from observing the “old-styles” – the old political system of the province. He had invested much to it; constantly present at events and communal occasions in their town and pretended helping, “what’s important is the presence”, he had thought, “…that is all that matters”. He played with the mouse and he remembered that he uploaded pictures in the net, ones which he copied from others, edited and inserted his name for the “name-recall” purpose he intended for the campaign. Nicely done, he guessed…the voters in the province will never know. He had paid for the posters, the streamers, and all that political paraphernalia he sometimes doubted but conceded to be necessary…and this boy, he thought, does not have the right to destroy it.

He counted the years on his mind; “councilor today, mayor tomorrow...” he silently grinned, “This is not the City, fool”, he cursed the boy some more. He’d done that as a habit when nobody is looking. One thing that he abhors most is intellectual pestering – he hate the feeling of being reminded that he is dumber than the college drop-out he is, he hate intellectual dealings…especially when it is in the ‘English language’(one which he has no skill of). Sometimes, he regretted it, that chance of education he missed because of his frequent and expensive late night-outs, even though he was provided with everything he needed. His father was after all, a wealthy man.”It doesn’t matter” he muttered, he firmly believed that politics does not demand education but only “popularity” - good pictures hanging everywhere, greetings on streamers with his name in bold letters, being present in events and occasions and waving hands at almost everyone, “even pictures on facebook will enhance political image”, he grinned some more at the ignorance of the people who voted for him.

He browsed at the internet some more to find some quotes he can claim his. He closed his porn tab and opened a private message which popped up a minute ago – the clock on the toolbar declared that it was 7 o’clock in the evening. Then, his knees weakened as if on cue; the shivering cold of that sight was enough to make him half insane. He threw his beer on the wall which broke the silence of the house. The boy warned him of retribution, one he shoved away because he claimed invincibility after having that taste of power. “This is not happening!”, as if to beg the computer screen to eat itself and disappear. His back slumped on his chair. At the corner of the screen shows thirty-two pictures, the enlarged image is enough for him to understand – it is naked picture of him with another naked man having “fun”. The image is very clear, and he remembered the place, he remembered the exact date. He bowed his head, and thought of his family members and relatives, he wondered how they will take this. He took a short reflection on the future of his political career, how he used the little power he had to hurt others; for the sake of more power…then, he thought of the boy and his plea for him to stop the unfair campaign he proudly started against that boy's dying father.

“Retribution huh?” Somehow he had a glimpse of a visible reflection of himself on the computer screen. He thought that it was a demon mocking him.

Buck ends there...

(This is not exclusively mine. This is an inspired literary activity (some friends call it "one-liner") done by several individuals, including me, who still believes in the human value of written arts...maybe, haha--it was done by posting a reply to a comment on a facebook status until an idea, a poem, or a story, will take shape. I did some minor editing, for grammar purposes - even to my own posts, but then, feel free to raise comments. However, I am encouraging Literary criticisms which focuses on the interpretation of the story..Tnx!)

The Buck Ends Here ( a short story)

There was no text message for him that day. The emptiness of words numbed his warm body - her words drifted with the moist..no message for him that day. Indeed, ambivalence's cloak clouds over him, never before has anticipation been so sweet, only to be stained by waiting's vain bitterness. This gadget failed to provide him the noise he needed (or thought he needed), still, almost immediately he sat himself on his father's chair of forgetfulness- in front of the TV. "press ON"and it continued over and over again.

How boring and empty was it? Then, minutes before his phone would beep, his heart skips; something somewhere beneath the TV cabinet starts to light aglow - he intentionally left it there. He realized that he was not watching the TV after all, only the small screen of that celebrated gadget of technology. He picked it up. His heart throbs as he reached for it...even before he could reach it, a familiar sound reverberates. Shock and disbelief struck him. So many questions are now meant to be answered, but it was just an act of hope, which a simple gadget could not do. It wasn't a sound, he presumed after a longer glance and before the vivid screech: a book flipping on its own; and so, the message would wittingly contain: "the buck ends here".He was wrong, it doesn't contain any wit nor even a sensible message, only a puzzle, perhaps a code, he reads but does not understand ( it's essence)... But the gadget commanded attention, perhaps all gadgets do: A phone rings it must be answered or stopped. The text dragged him into a suspicious rumination- "the buck ends here", it was then that his father called him - yet the message from somewhere transported to him by the gadget haunts his sanity. Then again, he sat in a sullen silence, contemplating on something unreal.

He couldn't get it off his mind- puzzled..."the buck ends here"...? whatever the message meant, he knows it's time...somehow - the message wants to deliver something...(AND SO HE REPLIED WITH ALL CAPS) For another search, sanity is a vacuum cleaner as he walked past his dad recuperating his lost virginity of faith. Past his own dad - his father who is a politician and wondered why people thought that politics would complete the circle of success - education, name, wealth...then a position. He started pressing " W" , then decided to ask,"what?' “what must I do to show that I am (thinking what to say), he paused - "oh! this is crazy!", he said to himself. Now, he remembered or rather, realized that in his own people's circle of success, never was there any notion of "family" or "marriage"-- which was perhaps central to her people--or at least to her. His father called him once again- his father who was wearing that tainted old shirt, revealing a hint of what must have been dark blue, etched in what must have been silver linings. But he knew the etching didn't stop there. "Silver linings", was what he whispered with his dried, crackled lips. "The buck", he further pronounces, followed by a bellowed deep breath, pauses a while, then mumbles further, "ends here”. He wanes, then saw a tux, a tux that suits his personality, a man appeared in the mirror to check what it seemed to be a mere act of vanity and discovered the age that lies in his right temple; "twenty years", he whispered, then proceeded to the bathroom.

The urge of urinating transformed to a simple pleasure of natural relief (and still not relieved at all), “why”, he dreamily asks himself. Perhaps he desired a more carnal pleasure? His imagination almost took flight when the door bell rang, "why has it gone to this?" He thought. His eyes open with a blank stare. Steady, but focused at nothing. Nothing had registered into his mind, nothing audible to have meaning. As if the thought had blinded him momentarily. Then his thighs felt cold. It's the first common feeling his brain had been able to recognize in the last three minutes that he had been standing there. His eyes gained focus again. Then, he jumped back at the sight of his pants, wet with his own fluid. The door bell rang some more, and yet he did not move a bit. There was a feeling of victory, however suspicious, in ignoring his father, the door bell and the text message. Looking at his "mess" he decided to leave them all behind. "The hell would I care...why would I bother now?", he said with much remorse as if someone from the realm of his imagination is real. He ignored the persistent noise of the door bell. He instead started to contemplate on that day..that very day. He can still hear his father say..".... "When are you going to start thinking about your future?" "When will I see you make money for yourself and contribute to society?! Have you even seen yourself in the mirror lately? Look at you! You filthy and useless blob of frustration!" then he escaped from the words that had been chanting a morbid melody and decided to continue thinking... "why bother about the society? the society dictates whatever it wants anyway”, but no matter how mighty his words were, he will still remain unyielding, abjuring. The sun sets.

Three days later their house is barricaded with the words "Police line Do not Cross". Inside the house, the chair of forgetfulness is etched in blood- his father's. The details of the murder were very enigmatic. They found the lacerated body in the toilet where he once stood and thought of "it" - where he would start losing himself to an idea, even he himself would consider "monstrous"...where he had not only excreted his liquids, but also his sanity...

Happiness, Slavery, and Call Centers (2007)

by: Valred Olsim

“What’s the point if you’re not happy?” I announced when a friend asked me why I quit my call center job. I wonder why I have to work on a stressful environment and pretend to like what I do when, in fact, I don’t want to do anymore of it. Most of my friends are working as call center agents and I could tell from the look of their eyes that they are not happy – they go home tired, weary, stressed and depressed. They wake up and do the same routine; wake up, go to work, make a call or receive a call, endure the rude deafening comments of customers and even the cold sarcasm of their supervisors, log out, go home – broken, unhappy and wondering; how the hell could they face the next day.

The rise of the call center industry has given a social status to call center agents – they are seen as sophisticated, articulate, professional and highly paid working class. Maybe it is really true; maybe it is an avocation of a remunerative description - a high paying job, but, maybe…it is not; you lose time trying to earn money and lose money trying to enjoy the little time that remained. After they get their salary, they go drinking at bars, enjoy expensive food, shop for new clothes, or buy new gadgets not just to relieve themselves of the pressure and depression that they get in the work place, but, to make them forget that they are exploited people – slaves of a bigger and more powerful structure of capitalism, industrialization and globalization.


Everyone wishes for a job that they would enjoy, at the same time, get paid for it; earning millions while just shooting the ball, or getting checks by just smiling or dancing. We fantasize about it in our secret dreams, so pleasurable but yet, so foolish. Most of us wanted a luxurious life, but behind every luxury, are exploited people who don’t have a choice but to do things they don’t want to do in order to live. Behind the lights of malls are security guards, sales ladies and underpaid employees working overtime to make ends meet. Behind the glamorous parties that are thrown are cooks, abused waiters and harassed staffs that only wanted to have food on their plate. Behind the things that we use are mistreated workers, tolerating the harsh working conditions that the industries impose just so that their families could live more comfortably. And, behind all of these abused and exploited people is an ancient powerful social order of masters and slaves - of people who live like gods in mount Olympus and of mortals who only wants a piece of that paradise -- an order that has been maintained by the powerful few by instilling us a culture of consumerism and apathy; “When you want to be happy eat chocolates”, “ When you want to relax, go to this place”, “If you are stressed, drink this”, “ To be in, buy this”. They utilize art, technology and the media to create a chaotic environment of entertainment and fear, such that we will be preoccupied with things that may wake us up with the truth that we are, in fact, slaves.

Maybe, I have thought of it too much. Maybe a certain kind of paranoia from watching a lot of socio – political documentaries and from submerging myself with history books has confused me about it. But, maybe it is true; maybe humans have created a corrupt order that will always define the destiny of history. That, behind us is a great system capable of manipulating our tendencies and us, especially those who don’t have much choice. Or maybe, I wrote this because I cannot find happiness or contentment in what I do, that maybe there is more to life than just making a call. Or maybe, I have yet to learn how to enjoy what I do rather than waste so much time being unhappy about it. But then, maybe if there are other options, why not choose? Like what they always say: “What’s the point when you’re not happy?”

Wasted World

WASTED WORLD (by: Valred Olsim, 2009)

So much has changed since the 18th century industrial revolution; at the beginning of it, few could imagine humans flying, communicating with people on the other side of the globe instantaneously, the explosion of modern inventions, and the evolution of information technology – indeed, we have moved into a faster era, a faster world: The world of the instant. Yet, despite this increase of available information, there were remarkably few insights – we are constantly faced with the inquiry of “what now?”

Each second, a portion of our world is carved away from the little space where we can freely roam. The philosophy of private property which has enabled us to own and keep owning parts of this earth sprouted from a culture that we invented to secure an important necessity: Shelter. Yet, this culture, together with the idea that our existence is far greater than the lives of any other living organisms on the face of the earth, created a system of enterprise that compromises the subsistence of our natural resources; we burn forests for a space to construct our houses, we cut trees for it, we mine minerals, and we reconstruct our very own natural habitat such that, we become more like gods with the power to build and destroy.

As if we had never done enough damage to our mother earth, we have fashioned a false illusion of “wants” that would keep us working from the little time that we have in our lives. We dream of bigger houses, finer clothes, more shiny stones, just to live the arrogant and luxurious lives of those who we call 'the rich and the famous'. We attempt to fill up an insatiable urge, and we remain empty-- no contentment, no happiness. Consequently, we have reached the point of squeezing our resources to satisfy the needs and "wants" of our population, we have reached a turning point of rapid consumption and exploitation of these gifts – we continue to expand our numbers; more buildings, more cars, more factories, more products to consume, more profit to the global economy and, more wastes. The issue is not just about overpopulation, capitalization, industrialization and global-warming, it has something to do more of the responsibility that we have forgotten as caretakers of the world. That even in these modern times, we are no different from our hunter – gatherer ancestors; we will always depend on the fruits of the earth and the gifts of our environment.

With all these readily available facts, we blind ourselves to the vanity and pleasures of modern day life, unnoticing the reality that the world has evidently grown older, showing signs of illness every time; the year-to-year fall of the water level, climate change, natural disasters like floods and mudslides, food shortages and waste problems. We refuse to listen to these voices, our earth’s sobs, perhaps of being tormented…we never gave these problems a single thought. That, unless we take action to redesign our ways to manage our economic system and stop the pressure to our environment; unless we sacrifice the comforts of using plastic bags, unless we stop dreaming of having many cars, unless we do the simplest things to reverse our culture of vanity and consumerism, we will ultimately destroy the natural fabric that underpins life itself – our planet.

It has been centuries since literature had discussed about a Utopia – a perfect and ideal society of the future. Surprisingly, today’s art, literature, and futuristic movies depict a future of global destruction, chaos and anarchy – the end of the world? Is it possible that the civilization of humans had also mapped its destruction? Maybe. There will be no plane crash without the invention of airplanes, no complicated diseases had we not poisoned our air with chemicals and smoke, no wastes without the system of production which we had created.

Nature always finds ways to reckon with human’s arrogance. There is an end to everything whether it is great or small; like the birth and death of a star, or the life cycle of a butterfly. There is such a thing called doom’s day; when our planet will fail us like how we fail it - when we eventually deplete its resources and die. We may not live long enough to witness it, but maybe our sons and daughters would. It does not take a complicated deduction to measure its reality; there is an impending doom and we cannot stop it…we can only postpone it.

(Although I wrote this about 7 or 8 years ago, it is surprisingly still right on spot for the environmental issues that we have today. What  changed anyway? Still, I hope to make this an entry to PIA-CAR's social media campaign on environment..and yes, hope..:)

The Idiot Box

“Do you know what the greatest and worst invention that humans ever made was? Television. It pollutes the mind of those who watch, those who lose themselves in a dream world, afraid of reality.”

I don’t quite remember where I got these lines, whether it is from an animated film or from a book that I’ve read a year ago, is now completely beyond the memory that I trust. There is something on these words that always hit me every time I touch the remote control. Whatever it was, I came to contemplate on it every time, such that I became accustomed to the very idea that it suggests.

Indeed, television is one of the greatest inventions that men ever created. It is the favorite son of technology, making its space on millions of household all-around the world. It doesn’t only seek to entertain, but it also seeks to inform. Through it, the world became a global village – much like viewing the world through a window, watching it as it moves. People in this modern world regard it as an indispensable object that makes life easier and more convenient. Yes, it has become a necessity – People can’t really imagine themselves living the same life without television. It did not occur to them, however, that the invention of it, is maybe, as worse as its greatness.

Television, in a way, has become an escape from reality. Humans will always seek to escape reality – this gloomy, dark and corrupted world. So, they immerse themselves in a great, big image formed by little dots of insignificant light. In its own self, television has become a new religion. People watch it to be happy, to get through by the day, to relieve them from things that they don’t want to see. It bombards us with numerous information, such that we lose ourselves. Commercials and Ads have turned us into willing consumers, controlled by the psychology that reality exists on that box-like frame. It controls as and forces us to oblige on a standard; that being beautiful is to look like models, and to try their product to become one, that we have to eat “this” or to do “that” in order to be “in” – it fed us with a rotten culture of vanity. We become too anxious and confused on what we should do that we become depressed – and the only antidote is the one which caused it: Television.

Sometimes, I wonder who is crazier. The only intention of that dirty homeless man on the streets we call insane is to satisfy his stomach. We, on the other hand, are preoccupied with a lot of things such that we don’t know what we need and what we want. Is it possible that we have truly lost ourselves? Is it true that the television maybe the culprit of it? Are we consumed by its effects that we can’t decide on our own?  These questions have dwelled in my in my mind since I started my contemplation about it. The only answer that I have is not to answer anything at all, for it leads me into a wider web of unending questions. The only sensible thing that I realized is to turn off the “idiot box” for once and think about how I am living this life. So that, whenever I touch the remote control, I ask myself; am I controlled? Am I in an escape? Am I…lost?