June 2007


i read your poems.

desperate. near lunacy. practically morbid.

awkwardly verbose. trying hard. crap.

i like that you reveal unapologetic.

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“It’s easy to write. You just open a vein and bleed,” says Red Smith, a brilliant and well-known sports writer. (I haven’t heard of him until I stumbled upon his witty one-liner and read about him described as such, which made me feel so not-in, even when it’s totally understandable because am no sports fan nor writing student, nevertheless I feel not-in because I am, and being manul about Red Smith is only among the many indications of that.)

(Now that am in-the-know,) Let me accord the great guy due respect and heed his advice. (Also, hide under the mantle of his illustrious wisdom which, if we have to be proprietory about it, could have been mine or someone else’s, or is actually mine and everyone else’s, just that Red Smith said it in words that make you bow, die this instant, and hope someone cares enough to dissect your mutilated artery.)

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fete-with-d-and-diana.jpg “Oh, this is so cool,” I chanted to Bee as we strutted towards the World Stage of this year’s Fete de la Musique in Malate. It was 45 minutes past midnight and we had just arrived. The crowd has thinned and the atmosphere was casual and relaxed. Party-goers were lounging at tables that lined the sidewalks, several were upright and rooted in their spots right across the stage.

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Well, it’s a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
‘Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I’m trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the night’s magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush

Can I just have one a’ more moondance with you, my love
Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love

Well I wanna make love to you tonight
I can’t wait till the morning has come
And I know now the time is just right
And straight into my arms you will run
And when you come my heart will be waiting
To make sure that you’re never alone
There and then all my dreams will come true, dear
There and then I will make you my own
Anytime I touch you, you just tremble inside
And I know how much you want me that you can’t hide

Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love
Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love

I just want one more moondance with you,
Yes I really do

 

These delightful lyrics in finger-snapping jazz rhythms performed by a sexy voice with a titillating attitude will either melt you or cause you to explode. But since the body matter does not allow for such actual physical occurrences, you instead fall in love.

johnoy2.jpg

The best thing is, you can do so on a regular basis: Thursday nights in 70s Bistro along Anonas St., Quezon City. This bar’s low-kilowatt signboard softly announces what reads like your niece’s favorite poetry: Johnoy and Kakoy.

 

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Pia from the travel agency has just delivered my renewed Philippine passport. Valid for the next five years.

The face that leaps out of the first page of this pocket-sized green booklet appears Sad.

I compare the photograph with the one in my old passport. Also Sad.

And then with a much older passport. Still Sad.

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Have been entertaining thoughts of moving back to my home province to establish a small food business in the city while exploring possibilities for organic farming in our small property three hours away.

Such fanciful thinking may have been brought about by my general weariness over Manila life or just plain anxiousness for some change (especially that am nearing my birthday :P).

Usually, when I am hit by this mood, my dreams swim across seas back to places where my earlier fantasies were first imagined — home sweet home.

Or rather, homes sweet homes.

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It was one of those rich and moving spontaneous conversations made extra-meaningful owing to the rarity of such in my life lately.

It was set in our apartment’s messy strangely comfy living room that covers the carved wooden round table strewn with a mix of stuff that are and aren’t meant for dining — candle holders, glass coasters, assorted beads, notepads, coffee mugs, a laptop computer, and cosmetics.

For those not accustomed to three full meals a day, it was the time of day when brunch is gobbled. For religious devotees, it was the period for absorbing a preacher’s words. For those habituated to late night drinks, it was the least likely hour to be “happy”.

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