The Text Is Everything That Is The Case

unemployed philosophy graduate distractedly gazing at her navel filled with absurdist grime

Hungry For The Wolf

1.

I feel a think coming: shoot it between my legs. The man I’m yearning for will ride Old Sparky today. Handsome, clean-looking guy, just my type. Maybe not a man of virtue, but virtue never did make a man—it’s the daredevil ones who got balls of steel. Bad boys. More than the icing, they’re the cherry on top. Mama said I’m out of my mind. I’d rather be out of my clothes, under him, possibly being strangled, but I’ll die happy.

2.

The lone wolf wanders over the desolate, cold places of my mind. Separated from the pack, he searches for respite from the turbulent terrain. What he needs is a shewolf to shield his neck in the case of an attack. I am that shewolf, hear me howl.

3.

I dread the day when his fists will no longer brush with my face. His touches are gentle but they leave me black and blue. Leader of the pack, I will follow him to the ends of the earth. His fangs rip at my flesh but I cry out in joy and bleed in ecstasy. I am a willing prey to my predator like gold that never doubts the power of the flames that refine it. So too, my body is a repository of the wolf’s formidable strength and the scars are here to prove it.

4.

In the wolf’s den the gods dare not pass. For in the wolf’s den, the wolf is god of itself. Beneath the full moon, I howl along with my creator, the wolf. I am an offering to him, he may do as he wishes. Rome wasn’t founded in a day, but it takes a wolf to raise the founders of Rome. I desire to become one with the wolf. I’ll happily drink from the same cup.

5.

They called him The Wolf. The symbol of mavericks because of his solitary nature. Hail victory is our battle cry, descendants of an undefeated race, the salt of the earth, The Ones Who Shall Not Mourn. He is my Fuhrer, my guide to the better future I desire. He is the wolf within me, coaxing the ferocious spirit of the wild in me that I was able to commit atrocities to those we deemed weak. He is Apollo, and together we ride his chariot.

But as this city burns, he becomes my Nero, fiddling with a gun to his head.

6.

I am hungry for the wolf: I shall not want. My teeth are sharp enough to break his skin. My hands are strong enough to break his neck. In the morning upon waking up, I summon the wolf and he stares back at me in the mirror. When the wolf leaves me, he takes with him my spirit and spares a pitiful lump of flesh that quivers in fear at the slightest provocation. The wolf is somewhere within but often gets lost in the immutable ebb and flow of metamorphosis. The wolf, lonely and isolated, lurks in the crevices left behind by the intensity of growth. I have changed. I have entered the wolf’s den.

7.

By the fire, in the penumbra surrounding the cave, I sit still and wait for the wolf to pounce on me. Lupo ovem commisisti. Any minute now.

I click my teeth because I’m ready to pounce back.

Book Review: Matthew Lewis' "The Monk"

Personal Notes:

I started reading this book about a few months ago. What initially attracted me to pick up the book was the cover on the Oxford Classics Series; it had an eerie picture of a monk from what seems to be the Middle Ages, and to make it even more creepier, the picture had a sepia filter— and sepia filters make everything creepier. I didn’t read the summary of the book, but with the foregoing facts stating the cover of the book, and its title, I assumed it was a horror story about a Monk set in Medieval Times. And me being an enthusiast of all things haunting and Medieval, immediately added this book to my wishlist on Book Depository. However, as I was browsing the free Classics catalogue on Amazon, I stumbled upon a free copy of said book. I really wanted to buy a physical copy of it because of the cover, but I will later learn that the adage “never judge a book by its cover” proves accurate in this case. Because of my attraction to the cover, and because the circumstances concerning Covid-19 made Book Depository temporarily cease delivery to my country, I reneged on my initial plan to buy a hard copy. Hence, I downloaded the free e-book, The Monk onto my Kindle. As I will later learn, this was a wise decision, and saved me precious money and space on my bookshelf. I read the book intermittently for around three months before a sudden spurt in energy allowed me to finally finish the book in one day. In the end, I rated the book four (4) stars, which is rare because, if I like a book, I have no qualms rating it five (5) stars. I know the books I want, and the books I need, so if I rate it less than 5 stars, that only means that there was something about it that I found to be problematic, terrible, or simply, boring and formulaic. If I could encapsulate this book in one sentence, it would be: It has some exciting parts, but for the most part, mildly disappointing.       Summary and Review of the Book:

The Monk is a Gothic novel set during the Inquisition period in Madrid, Spain. There are several protagonists, the foremost of which is Father Ambrosio, a young, comely, monk who gained popularity in Madrid because of his saintly piety. He was an orphan adopted by the Monks, who eventually grew up to be an intelligent and gifted priest; because of his charisma and mysterious background, rumors abound that he was sent as a baby to the Monastery by the Virgin Mary herself, but as I later learned, this trifle, seemingly offhanded, would become a tragic detail by the end of the book. Other protagonists include Antonia, Agnes, Don Raymond, and Lorenzo. Antonia is a young and beautiful maiden whose beauty would be the cause of her own downfall. Agnes and Don Raymond are lovers whom terrible circumstances will attempt to separate, but are fated to reunite in the end. Lorenzo is Agnes’ brother and betrothed to Antonia, but their love will unfortunately end in tragedy.   The story uses an omniscient point-of-view, and being a Gothic novel, has horror elements in it. The story begins with Father Ambrosio preaching at the pulpit with an almost fanatic passion, while his audience, the people of Madrid were enthralled. Among the audience is Antonia and her aunt, Leonella. Like the rest, they couldn’t resist Ambrosio’s charm, moreso Antonia, who, because of her innocence, set aside the ominous gut feeling she felt at the sight of Father Ambrosio. Two men relevant to the story were also present in the audience, but for different reasons. They were Lorenzo and Don Raymond. It should be noted that in the first chapter, the tone of the novel was rather light, and even allowed for some humor, especially on the part of Aunt Leonella. Also, I appreciated that all parts of the novel, even those that at first seem to be off-tangent to the story, all work in the end to push the story to its denouement and are germane to the novel’s plot. One such seemingly irrelevant passage is the part about Don Raymond’s adventures in the German Black Forest and its subsequent events. Like a typical gothic novel, it invokes ghosts and other spiritual elements for a little bit of scare, including haunted castles and monasteries, although I should say, these typical features rather made the novel tied to its time, or in other words, outdated. However, this is not enough reason to outright dismiss the novel, for it has its redeeming qualities, and lessons that especially resonate with today’s world.   The ties that bind Ambrosio, Antonia, Lorenzo, Don Raymond and Agnes is the Church. Ambrosio is the shining star of said church, and Antonia a devout believer, often goes to church, and it is in there that she first sees Ambrosio. Agnes, meanwhile, was forced to become a nun in the church by her aunt because of jealousy, and her lover, Don Raymond, together with Lorenzo, her brother, is determined to get her out of there. There are also little details here in there, that while they are typical of a gothic novel, contribute a lot to the ominous pace of the story: among them include the part about the gypsy fortune teller auguring Antonia’s tragic fate, and Don Raymond’s mysterious healer (whom I believe is the mentor of the character Matilda who will later on be the cause of Ambrosio’s downward spiral) who made use of sorcery to rid him of the Bloody Nun’s ghostly visits every night.   The pacing of the novel in the first three chapters was a little bit slow for me, but one should take note that I am a huge fan of the linguistic calisthenics almost always present in Modernist and Postmodernist novels, so this might not be the same case for other people. However, I think it’s unfair for me to compare a classic gothic novel with modern ones, so I will set that aside and focus on the novel as it is. The story starts to pick up after the third chapter with the introduction of the character of Rosario, whom, although my knowledge in the theories of literature is meagre, I identify as the Antagonist. Rosario, whose real name is Matilda, is a woman disguised as a monk, who confesses her love to Ambrosio. And Ambrosio, at first, was horrified at the discovery that the soft-spoken monk he doted on was all along a woman, and a woman who is in fact in love with him! Another common theme of gothic stories is the focus on the turbulent dilemma of the human soul in its tug-of-war between good and evil, hence the ubiquitous presence of the Devil in this story. And the Devil was very much present when Matilda succeeded in seducing the pious Ambrosio; once Ambrosio’s lust was awakened, he ventured to have more, and when his eyes fell on the lovely Antonia, he vowed to stop at nothing until he captures her in his arms, even if it entails turning to witchcraft, a practice very much against his religion, and would cause him his life, especially since the story was set during the time of the Spanish inquisition. However, for Ambrosio, the lust of the loins had more gravity than his faith, and seeing that he took the plunge in allowing himself to be seduced by Matilda, he was persuaded by the same to engage in witchcraft to get what he wanted.   The most exciting parts of the novel for me is found in Ambrosio’s downward spiral from being a saintly monk to becoming an unrepentant sinner lusting after Antonia. It showcased the fallibility of man, and how easily the Devil is able to drag one down to the pit of one is not on guard against him. While Ambrosio may be a monk of high standing, still, he is human after all, and as the Devil’s monologue at the end would reveal, his piety is a result only of vanity rather than sincerity, which made him an easy target for temptation. I have to admit, in spite of the many crimes Ambrosio committed in the novel, I still felt sorry for him, at times even rooting for him to denounce his sinful ways during the parts when he was having conflicts with himself as to whether or not accept Lucifer’s offer of buying his soul in exchange for freedom. This is probably why I didn’t like the book as much as I wanted to: I liked that it featured the question of evil, but it also seems to propagate the notion that God is so much an unmerciful deity to allow one of His children to fall in the trap of the Devil without His Intervention, and that He, as Our Father is again so unmerciful as to not forgive Ambrosio’s sins, knowing that the Devil was actively doing what it can to make sure that Ambrosio’s soul is lost to the fires of hell. A Christian who has knowledge of the Bible would shake his head at the ideas that this book seems to lay bare. God promised us in the Bible that “No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.” (1 Corinthian 10:13) In the Monk’s case, it looked like God did not extend a helping hand to Ambrosio during the times that he was being played for a fool by the Devil. Although it is hinted that there would have been a light at the end of the tunnel for Ambrosio had he heeded his conscience (which after all is the voice of God) and refused Lucifer’s offer, he sadly, and ultimately, succumbed to temptation. There was no redemption for the monk, as the story made it clear that he had sold his soul to the Devil. Taken as it is, the idea of a soul damned to hell is chilling enough to warrant it a good trope for a gothic novel, and I believe such was the author’s intention, but realistically speaking, it goes against the teachings of the Bible. For what sin could God Almighty not forgive? It is as bleak as Atheism to believe that God is so weak that he is incapable of forgiving even the blackest of sins. The crimes that Ambrosio committed, though they are indeed heinous, were set up by the Devil, albeit the monk is still at fault for not exercising proper discernment and self-control to resist sin. Thus said, this is one of the main reasons why this book feels outdated, namely, it is stuck in a Medieval concept of a vengeful God.   The book is generously peppered with servings of Medieval themes like witchcraft, sorcery, Monks, and Auto Da Fe’s, which is engaging to readers who love their reads flavored with the richness of history. Furthermore, the author succeeds in justifying the book’s claim to be within the Gothic genre with its unsettling imagery and descriptions of catacombs, putrified corpses, and of course, the Devil. I admit to not being well-versed with gothic or other horror sub-genres, although I do read some every now and then, but on a superficial basis, The Monk seems to me to be entry-level should there be a comparison with other novels from the Gothic genre. Again, I might be on the side of error with my inability to appreciate what makes a good horror novel due to my lack of research and sophistication.   Readers with short attention span might find some parts of this book slow-paced; but I reiterate that those who love history not just in the macro sense, will find it a delight to read if only for the reason that the book is a product of its time, a faded photograph that captures the sensibilities of its milieu, it being that it was published during the time when Romanticism was the de rigueur genre in Europe— a glimpse into what kinds of books did readers in the past hold in high regard. It is a classic for a reason, but as I compared it with a photograph, I’d go further and say that even the classics are not immune to deterioration over time. Had ‘The Monk’ been published today, it would have appealed only to a niche audience, and would be overlooked, only to resurface again in charity or thrift shops. This is not an insult to a classic, it is rather a report on how times (and tastes) have changed since the Romantic period. The past, no matter when, will always be a simpler time. To unfaithfully reincarnate in this post the ideas of Schopenhauer, the great pessimist did say that the past (and the future), though romanticized, is but an empty dream; the lens through which we view the past and all that remains within it, are clouded with the haze of longing to return to a more carefree time. And with the current situation of the world going through a pandemic, this book despite its chthonic themes managed to bring a bit of warmth to my heart because it revealed to me that people in the past were still so close to Divinity that matters beyond the scope of the earthly had an effect in their day to day lives. Some people may call this simply as “superstitious,” but I call it “spiritual”, and I prefer it to today’s materialistic world where everyone is pressured to succeed according to society’s standards. Make no mistake, people of today may laugh at the concept of the Devil, relegating it as a relic of the past, but in no other period of history are people more willing to sell their souls to him in exchange for material gain. However, they may not be aware of it, for the Devil goes under a different name—it’s a case of same shit, different asshole.   Going back to the actual review, The Monk, as far as the story goes, may be theologically unsound, but its merits lie in its aesthetics; throughout the book there is an ambience of impending doom that lovers of horror may find credible, and the prose, at times a bit dragging, is neither purple nor beige, it is just the right amount to keep one turning the pages (or in my case, the kindle pages), and if one pays enough attention (given that they held on to reading the book in spite of the initial boring chapters), some parts are sufficiently gripping to make those turning pages fly off the spine (well not literally of course) until one reaches the bitter, but satisfyingly haunting end.   The last pages of the book had Ambrosio negotiating with Lucifer, and when the latter succeeds in obtaining the former’s soul in exchange for freedom, the Devil whisks Ambrosio away from his prisoner’s cell and onto the edge of a cliff; here, the Devil has a little monologue about how he plotted everything from Rosario’s appearance, to the rape of Antonia (who turns out to be Ambrosio’s sister) in order to bring about Ambrosio’s downfall. The Devil goes on to say that there is no redemption nor atonement for Ambrosio’s crimes and proceeds to whisk the monk in the air one last time before he drops Ambrosio down the cliff to meet his terrible demise. The last scene wherein Ambrosio lay dying, bloody from the fall and blind from having birds peck out his eyes, reminded me slightly of the last scene in Malcolm Lowry’s ‘Under The Volcano’ wherein that book’s main character also died at the foot of a cliff. The image of falling down a cliff in both stories was probably employed to emphasize both characters’ living on the edge and falling from the edge. In Ambrosio’s case he was made to suffer a little bit more. Humiliated and deoculated, he is beyond saving, and as the torrential rain swept his corpse away on the river, I could almost hear the Devil mocking God, telling the Almighty that he has won this round. God’s silence is deafening, and I had to stop and think: how many downtrodden souls believed in their dying moments that they were or are beyond the scope of God’s mercy and forgiveness? Now that is a terrifying thought, and is the main reason why I think this book succeeded as a Gothic classic—the idea of being irredeemable certainly would make even the hardest of hearts tremble, hence as defense mechanism, man decided to erase the ideas of God and Devil in our modern lives, for how could we be beyond redemption when there is no redeemer, and furthermore, no reason or cause to ask for redemption in the first place? Remember my friends, the greatest trick of the Devil is to have us believe that he doesn’t exist. The real horror takes place when we are caught off-guard and deceived in a similar vein like Ambrosio. In this way, the book is relatable, and upon closer inspection, even serves as a warning.   All in all, I give this book a rating of four out of five stars. As I’ve said, I know what I like and I tend to rate books highly, so that should be a caveat. To sum up, despite having some minor gripes, I still think ‘The Monk’ is a good read, and I recommend it to those who are looking for a book that is pretty straightforward both in plot and prose, and as a book that has cemented its place in the annals of Romantic literature (note the capital ‘R’), one could never go wrong with it—it’s a classic for a reason.

We Bare Bears Appreciation

I have something to confess: I never outgrew cartoons. Cartoon Network and Disney Junior are pretty much my favorite channels. Courage The Cowardly Dog, Doc Mc Stuffins, Adventure Time, The Regular Show, Clarence, and Sofia The First are just some of the programs I avidly watch.

It may be because I’m over-saturated with negativity in real life that my psyche sought solace in the safety and child-like innocence offered by cartoons. The daily news too is replete with death and dirty politics that it has gotten rather mundane. Also, I don’t watch soap operas especially the ones in my country because it depicts life in a two-dimensional manner where everything is either black or white with no grey area in between. It doesn’t reflect reality nor does it have at least some artistic merit for art has long since been dead in the Philippines- but that’s another story.

In the recent months wherein there was a dearth of books for me to read, I decided to give television another try. As to be expected I couldn’t last through a minute of local made Telenovelas that I had to flip through the channels. Over there on Cartoon Network they were advertising a new show called “We Bear Bears.” The thing that caught my attention the most was the manner with which they travelled; they stood on all fours on top of one another with Ice Bear below, Panda in the middle, and Grizz on top. Not to mention the fact that these bears are tech-savvy too.

On the instances that I could not be able to watch “We Bare Bears” on its regular time slot at CN, I had YouTube to fill me in. The episodes when they were baby bears and up for adoption are beyond adorable. Since then I have faithfully watched the show and hope that there will be more episodes to come.

Cartoons, I believe, are not just for children. As adults we all need a safety net in whatever form; in my case it is the notion of going back to the halcyon days of my childhood where everything is calm and relatively safe. Television programs like “We Bare Bears” are a breath of fresh air in the visual entertainment field that is polluted with too much Hedonism.

We live in a world that glorifies the lust of the flesh. Sex is pushed on young girls and drugs are promoted as hip. Children grow up too early- their innocence gone by the age of twelve with the proliferation of sexual themes on everyday entertainment.

If they’re anything like me- that is, tired of the same stinking shit the media likes to pass off as “art,” they’d go back to basics and watch something that isn’t one layer thin from being pornographic, something like “We Bare Bears.” I agree we shouldn’t over-protect our children for even biology dictates it that we need some “bad” bacteria in our bodies to be able to develop immunity from diseases, but too much of anything, especially negativity, is obviously detrimental to anyone’s well-being.

This summer, nothing beats a typical afternoon in an air-conditioned room with snacks and a drink, all while watching a nice run of a clean and comedic cartoon. My choice this afternoon? “We Bare Bears!”

Wordnap/Neologism: 1

Word: KUMMERSPECKOYNOY

Meaning:

The realization that one is gaining weight due to increased appetite that is often the result of the side effects of medications used to treat certain mental disorders.

Etymology:

A combination of the German word kummerspeck, meaning the excess weight gained from emotional overeating, and the Russian word spokoynoy, which means calm.

Literally:

“Calm grief bacon”

Example Sentence:

“Eating that last piece of bacon hit me with waves of kummerspeckoynoy and immediately I decided to ask my psychiatrist for a more weight-neutral cure for my depression.”

Little Feet: The Ecstasy Of Youth

They played all afternoon. Six-year old Jellianne acted as the leader of their gang, spearheading the mini adventures they embarked on that day. Hannah, who is three-years old, mimicked every move Jellianne did. She would literally tag along behind the young leader, singing the same songs and pretending to be Pop stars. On the other hand there's four-year old Jandy who is curious about a lot of things, he is so curious about his environment that he is often left in tears because he either ends up with a cut on his hand (brought about by tinkering with random household appliances) or a bump on his forehead (he was meddling with the Venetian Blinds and it fell down on him). Together the three of them bonded over whatever they could play with which was a bit of any household items they could put their hands on, and most of the time, whatever their youthful imagination could conjure up as a play-thing.

I remember my childhood too. Despite being overweight and socially awkward, I had my own brand of fun; scouring my school library for the most interesting books I could find, I would stay up in bed all night reading those books instead of studying my school lessons. That was the kind of fun I've had as a child and I would not have it any other way. I grew up with a colorful inner world even if my outer disposition would suggest otherwise. I am thankful for the childhood I've had as it gave me the sturdy foundation I needed in my later years growing up.

And now we've come to this. I am 25 years old, standing by the window and looking out at the three children playing. My heart is full of joy at this sight. I hope the three of them savor the halcyon days of youth while Chronos is still biding his time until the next stage of life. I hope they don't lose their sense of wonder even if they grow up to find that life is not all lollipops and roses.

I hope they would someday look back on this afternoon as a memory they would cherish until the last days of their lives: that there was a time when innocence was all they knew and that despite (or maybe because of) this innocence, the world was their oyster.

In The Time Of Nick

“Don’t move.” Whispered the low raspy voice with a heavy Ilocano accent. “Don’t scream for help or this knife plunges into your neck.” Continues the voice, albeit somewhat unconfidently, letting out a series of coughs, and indeed he could feel something sharp and unforgiving grazing the left side of his throat whereupon the owner of the voice wrapped an arm to stall him from movement, forcing him in a captive embrace. The night was short of stars, but the Meralco lampposts lining the road made up for the lack of natural light, and surely, he thought, someone was bound to catch sight of his predicament and would eventually call the police. But he also realized that people have better things to do at two in the morning than hang outside their homes on an ordinary day in the calendar, here in a fairly secluded part of town. The only other person within the vicinity was an ebriosed man maudly swaying to and fro as he walked. He stopped by a lamppost to vomit. Seeing this, he fought the urge to shout for help despite knowing it was an exercise in futility, but he knew he had to do something. So he tried to negotiate with his captor. “Look, you can take my wallet and phone, I’ll be as quiet as possible. Let me have my i.d. and you can have everything else from my wallet, please. I won’t call the police. But don’t kill me, please.” The man was breathing heavily down his neck and his breath reeked of something akin to acetone. It was unbearable. He tried to twist his neck away from the putrid smell but his captor mistook this as an act of resistance and tightened his grip on him. “I said don’t move. I don’t care about your money, do as I tell you and I’ll spare you your life.” The man commanded him, or rather, wheezed to him to continue walking, until they reached the front of his house. Whoever the man is, he must know who I am, for how else could he know which among the houses lining the road belonged to me? That, or, he must have been stalking me for some time before chancing upon the opportunity to hold me hostage. “Open the door. Now.” Strangely, there was no threat laced within the man’s heavily-accented voice, and feeling like he heard that voice somewhere before gave him a feeling of ease that he immediately followed the command without putting up a fight. At the back of his mind he wondered if this was not a form of that Budol-budol modus operandi he’s seen reported in the news multiple times, what with the man being a thaumaturgist performing an audio sleight-of-hand trick with that familiar voice of his, but for some reason he didn’t care. This must be how budol-budol is done. Put your victims’ minds at ease. Can’t wait to be on the news. He added as an afterthought. They were now inside his house, yet the man didn’t release him. He pushed him onwards until they reached his room; how the man knew where his room was, he simply attributed to budol-budol. Then something astonishing happened. With his arm firmly ensconced on his neck, the man led him to a drawer where a box of old photos are kept, and as he rummaged through the pictures, the man, amidst intervals of coughing, narrated his entire life to him. Your name is Nick Rigor. You were born in La Union on May 17, 1989, you dropped out of college due to financial reasons and went abroad as a seaman. You’re not onboard a ship now, but trust me, there’ll be many more to come. It is during one of your vacations that you’ll meet your wife. You’ll have three kids, and a fourth one from a mistress. In the end, they will all abandon you. The man paused and retrieved an old photo from the stack. It was torn around the edges, and was of him as a toddler on his mother’s lap, both smiling at the camera, while his father stood beside them, his gaze elsewhere, right hand on hip, and in his left fingers, suspended mid-air, a half-finished cigarette leaving a trail of smoke from his mouth. You always had a higher opinion of your father than your mother even though he was so distant. You emulated all his ways, including being a seaman and even with acquiring a mistress. But unlike him, who died surrounded by family, you’ll end up alone and with nothing except emphysema. The man paused to let out another long, wheezing cough as if to emphasize his point. But how did he know about all this? Was this still budol-budol? It was hard to tell. Whatever it was, Nick knew he needed to do something. Seeing an opportunity when the man unconsciously loosened his grip on him while telling his story, he stomped on the intruder’s foot and twisted off the arm wrapped around his neck. Finally grabbing the knife and catching his intruder off-guard, he turned around to have a look at the man who knew so much about him. And what he saw revealed a man who was: severely defeated in life, the lines around his face a bleak reminder of the ravages of a time that has been unkind, the hollow cheeks hollowed by the absence of all hope, and the mien of the entire face one of a decrepit doddering on the edge of annihilation. Staring into the man’s eyes, he realized he was none other than Nick Rigor. A version of his self many years from now if he does not change his ways. He saw the pain in the older man’s eyes as emanating from his own, a pain rooted in his childhood dilemma of deciding whether his dad was a good father figure to him or merely a figure of illusion, appearing only at key times in his life, and vanishing for the rest. Deciding whether it was enough that his father was like a shadow,—the lower the sun in his life, the taller it gets, the more his influence spreads to his system, until the dark of night arrives to swallow him whole, and he’s left with no options but to become a shadow himself. Nick almost asked his older version what went wrong, what happened, but he knew better. It was himself that was the problem. His deep-seated issues with his father, and his lack of resiliency to bounce back from that ordeal of his childhood dilemma and refuse to follow in the footsteps of his father’s mistakes made the older Nick Rigor the man he is, or the man he will be in the future: weak, weary, and washed up. Though left unsaid, Nick knows that the reason he came back from the future was to warn him of impending doom. It was a mercy from God to a dying man to be handed the privilege to show his past self the repercussions of his actions in a last ditch effort to curb what is yet to happen. Suppose Nick decides to repair his ways; he controls his libido and does not cheat on his wife, stops smoking, and becomes a good father to his kids, will that change things? Will fate not find a way to bring about the same results given a different set of circumstances? Will the linear narrative of time give way to the changes he is proposing knowing the adage that time waits for no man? The answer to all these questions is encoded in two words: highly unlikely. It is impossible to change the past given these reasons, and the future is just an extension of the past, and seeing that the older Nick came from a future that has already transpired (i.e. he was already despondent before coming back to the past), it all means that his situation is already part of the past as it is, and ceases to be malleable to any proposed changes even if desperately prayed for. As fas as he knows, there is no alternate universe, and there is only one dimension. We live in the now, with the now extending over time to become what is known as the past, present, and the future. So even if he changes his ways right now, Nick in some form or another, will still be suffering the same consequences as older Nick for older Nick is already a part of a future that has already occurred and is made eventually a part of the past. Again, an exercise in futility. For some reason, Nick was adamant to stick to this kind of reasoning. He saw no loopholes in it and sealed it with finality with a mental bang of the gavel. The cold reality in this kind of argument was like a cold shower he needed to wake up his senses. He decided that he preferred everything to be crisp and pithy even if tenebrous, over the warm and fuzzy and saccharine I’ll-save-the-day-it’s-not-too-late type of thinking. Truths are supposed to be simple, and anything beyond simple is an exaggeration and exaggerating is a form of a lie. And older Nick, seeing the determination and resignation in his eyes, understood. Younger Nick got up and went to the drawer once again—he grabbed a wad of cash from his secret container and handed it to older Nick. Return to where you came from and buy anything you need with this money. This, he says, is the only thing I could do for you. However older Nick didn’t so much as extend a hand to get the money. He let out a series of coughs and wheezes before speaking. I told you, I have no need for your money. Just knowing that you’ve accepted your, my fate, that, that is enough. So this is how the story ends, neither with a bang nor with a whimper, but with more of a long heaving gasp, neither with fire and ice, nor ice and fire, but with all elements coagulating in one solid block to be obliterated to smithereens and forgotten. It is a kind of groaning, the helpless resignation to one’s fate, and a distorted sigh of relief, the decision to accept one’s fate. The two Nicks were once again outside, and the stars finally were out and about, spread across the vast expanse of the sky. They shook hands and parted ways. Younger Nick watched as older Nick faded away from the distance, listening to the drunk man whistling a sentimental tune while slumped low against a lamppost. Embrace what you can’t erase. Nick shrugged. The inebriated man stopped singing as he choked on his own vomit and died. Above them, the stars twinkled, as if winking.

Blessed Are You Among Women

That her crotch was grabbed with such ferocity, that I didn’t agree with. It’s hard enough for a pretty girl to get by without getting accused of being a slut for no other reason than being pulchritudinous, but to lay your filthy, indigent hands on her cunt just because she “looks like she’s asking for it” is taking things too far. The unfortunate girl talked about here goes yclept Grace, a nubile fourteen-year old with a slim build studying as a junior at my highschool. She has a strong and defined jawline for someone of her age, and I guess that’s what the culprit zeroed in on when he was rating with his friends the girls walking at the annual procession for the Catholic celebration of the birthday of Mary, mother of Jesus. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, this waste of spermatozoa rated Grace as 10+ or muy caliente on the basis of her well-defined jaw which according to interrogation, he deemed as likely strong enough to withstand having his huge cock and balls hammer it’s way in and out of it. Quite a salacious image coming from a ten-year old boy whose testicles I assume haven’t even dropped yet. Further interrogation of the suspect maintains that this is not the first time he’s had a brush with the law, former misdemeanours include pick-pocketing when he was just eight years old.

Now before some human rights activists and other social justice warriors decry the imprisoning of a minor, they ought to understand that the purpose here is to rehabilitate the sinner. The young boy, incidentally, was an orphan and had no one except his drunkard of an uncle for any sort of moral guidance. He calls the streets his home for more than a year already, welcomed by a gang of delinquent minors labelling themselves as “hamog.” Equipped with the rational judgement of a patient with severe Down’s Syndrome, our social justice warriors insist on the malleability of a child’s psyche, and having said this should therefore be spared the rod both literally and figuratively. As a passive Catholic, I neither know nor care about the Church’s stance on this subject, but I don’t quite agree with giving minors a free pass on their criminal wrongdoings as it gives them the wrong impression. You know what they say, give them a finger and they’ll soon take the whole arm. But that’s just me.

I was sweating like a goddamned African in the Sahara Desert that afternoon. My school, run by Catholic nuns, had the celebration of the feast day of Mary on its itinerary for the day. We were to participate in a procession from the school to the Parish church, which distance was as far as I am from my longterm goals, in short, pretty fucking far, and with the sun blazing that September afternoon, I was shit out of luck. Beside me walked Chie, tall and morose and decidedly butch. I turned to her and said, “Thanks to that fucking birthmark on your buttcheek we’ve no choice but to walk around in this heatwave!” Chie replied by flipping the bird at me, very casually I might add. This was our usual routine as friends. We’d hurl insults at each other on the rare times when we weren’t having fun at the expense of other people. We were the school’s “secret” bullies because we don’t actually go around tormenting people, for that requires too much energy, and Chie and I, we’re hella chill. What we do though is talk about people in front of their faces. I remember this one girl at school making fun of me for being fat— she was small and had the complexion of a dark Narra wood, so I retaliated by saying I’d apply varnish to her skin if she won’t shut up (“Barnisan kita diyan, loko ka!”), and she hasn’t bothered me since. Chie, on the other hand, liked to give people nicknames. One time there was this decrepit old nun who shuffled as she walked, her body stooped in the form of a question mark. Ol’ Chich called her “Do The Hustle” after the TV commercial featuring senior citizens shuffling around to that tune. It’s fucking mean, but we’re young, at least allow us to be assholes.

So there we are, Chie and me, and the rest of the students walking solemnly with candle in hand, each step closer to the Church and a respite from the heat. The throwing of insults at each other continued for the sake of lazy entertainment, with the birthmark of bad luck jumping from one buttcheek to a dozen others, including the school principal Sister Gwen. It was better than having no one to blame for our predicament, which was the unnecessary suffering caused by walking for more than an hour under the fiery sun.

Halfway through the procession we’ve run out of things to say— Chie was playing with the wax on her candle, while I was running out of breath, a brief thought crossing my mind about laying off the cheeseburgers and getting an exercise, but nah, I was too hungry for that shit. Walking in front of me was my other friend Reena who was arm in arm with her new best friend Jan (I’m not jealous at all, mind you) and they are being generally annoying with their giggling and shit. We passed by McDonald’s, which was the five-star cuisine haven for pecuniary-disadvantaged people, a.k.a. non-working people, a.k.a. full-time students, a.k.a. full-time students with cheapskates for parents. I wanted to go in for an order of chicken nuggets, however the teacher’s beckoning us to walk faster. A fatty ain’t got no relief. However, I was too tired to walk faster, and apparently Chie was too. Reena and Jan, being very much of the goody-goody type, quickened their pace according to the demand. I vaguely recall Chie commenting that the two probably were on the verge of defecating (“natatae”), hence the speed.

I checked my wristwatch. It was already 4pm and good Lord is it ever hot! In front of us, replacing Reena and Jan were three girls not from our batch but were familiar-looking enough. I recognized the girl to the left and directly in front of Chie to be a lass named Grace. She was quite popular in school; a heartthrob sought after by boys and lesbians alike. I did mention her jawline, didn’t I? But other than that, her long legs were fine too. I glanced at Chie and knew right away that she was checking her out.

We stepped onto a long waiting shed beside a building. Some distance away were a group of young boys no older than eleven or twelve clumped together and guffawing over God only knows what. It made me self-conscious all of a sudden and reminded me from experience that children are the harshest critics of them all. They wouldn't hesitate to point out your flaws straight to your face, this being the reason why children are being sold into human trafficking. Alright, I kid about the last bit, but you get the picture. Anyway, the boys were still laughing when one of them, the shortest, stepped forward in our direction. With probably the most sinister grin I’ve seen on a child on all fifteen years of my life, he stopped in front of Grace and did what he did.

I saw his hand curl into an upside down C to cup her crotch. He grabbed her cunt with such intensity it’s as if he wouldn’t let go. Those were my words later at the police station, where Chie and I gave our statements alongside a weeping Grace and one of our teachers comforting her. Earlier during the episode, Grace was too shocked to even move. It was Chie who shouted “gago ka!” before Grace’s friends pushed the little boy away and slapped him on the face. Having come to her senses, Grace grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him hard. “Tarantado ka!” By this time I ran forward, in spite of being tired, to call on the teacher. We rushed back to Grace and found the boy surrounded by Chie and Grace’s friends. Grace was hysterical alright, and I couldn’t blame her, but something in me clicked. I snuck a look at Chie to see if she feels the same way but as usual her face was sullen.

The boy was still smirking and making gyrating movements with his crotch. Then he formed his left fist into a circle and jerked his forefinger in and out of it. He honestly looked fucking retarded. The teacher seized the boy by the ear. “Kabata-bata mo, bastos ka!” It all struck me as comical. Stifling my laughter, I followed them to the police station which was not far from where we were standing.

As I gave my witness’ account to the police, I had to try my hardest not to let out an onslaught of sniggers. Sure, it was an unfortunate incident, and one which calls for a normal person to be outraged, especially because of the age of the culprit, but the image of the boy curling his hand to grab Grace’s cunt reminded me of Karate moves for some reason. “Hiiiyaa!” Well, he didn’t actually shout that, but you get the drill. Furthermore, his subsequent action of thrusting his hips forward and backward like a maniac was hilarious as hell. In a retarded kind of way, of course.

Suffice to say, nothing came out of the case. The boy was too young to be charged with sexual assault, and Grace despite of the embarrassment it caused her, eventually moved on to other things.

Back when we were at the police station, and Grace was cussing like a construction worker at the boy, I lent a hand to calm her down, all the while snorts of laughter erupting momentarily from my nose. When we went our separate ways and I was left alone with Chie, she abruptly smacked me on the head and scolded me for not controlling my laughter. I rubbed the spot where she hit me. “Dang, I can’t help it.”

Chie and I walked to the Church moving our hands in imitation of Bruce Lee and other karate greats. The people looking at us probably think we’re crazy. But who cares. Shit happens, crazy happens. And in a Chinese accent that borders on Simian cackling, we both go into the territory of every Asian master pep-talking their young, male, Caucasian trainees, that is, by bastardising Karate Kid’s theme song: “I fight for honor!”

A Logic Of Trolls

Meanwhile in the YouTube comments section:

“You’re mom is so broke she bought you an Android phone.” – @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:07 am

> “Oh yeah? Tell that to the hollow space where your left kidney used to be.” – @Fandroid4Ever replying to @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:09 am

>> “Not true. I could easily buy you and your mom the latest iPhones if she weren’t so busy sucking my dick.” – @Applefanboy4Lyf replying to @Fandroid4Ever, 1:13 am

>>> “Iphone users = small dick, just like that faggot Tim Cook.” – @Fandroid4Ever replying to @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:17 am

>>>>“Doesn’t matter what size his dick is, it’s fucking Android up the ass. We’ve been doing it since the Steve Jobs era.” – @Applefanboy4Lyf replying to @Fandroid4Ever, 1:19 am

>>>>>“The best thing Steve Jobs did was to die. Apple is still CRAPPLE with or without him.” – @Fandroid4Ever replying to @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:22 am

>>>>>>“Why you sad, sad, son of a bitch…wow…” – @Applefanboy4Lyf replying to @Fandroid4Ever, 1:26 am

>>>>>>>“What’s the matter, precious? You triggered?” –@Fandroid4Ever replying to @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:28 am

>>>>>>>> “Whatever, go shove something huge and jagged up your ass. Android sucks balls. The Apple ecosystem just works better. Better camera, no lags, and better security, AND it doesn’t explode like that epic fail Samsung Galaxy Note 7!” –@Applefanboy4Lyf replying to @Fandroid4Ever, 1:31 am

>>>>>>>>>“Whoever believes that iPhones have better cameras, are not laggy, and have better security ought to do the following steps:

Turn on Gas Oven for 15 minutes. Put head inside Gas Oven. Inhale until everything turns black.

Seriously, you’re an idiot. Apple flat out sucks. No expandable storage, no replaceable battery, no NFC, no customization, and the latest of all gaffes, NO HEADPHONE JACK.” –@Fandroid4Ever replying to @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:37 am

>>>>>>>>>>“Uh-oh, seems like somebody’s butt hurt. Stick to your fucking mid-range FAGDROID phone and enjoy all the viruses while I sit here basking in the glory that is an iPhone. – @Applefanboy4Lyf replying to @Fandroid4Ever, 1:40 am

>>>>>>>>>>“Typical iSheep behaviour. Stop bragging about your OVERPRICED yet UNDERPOWERED device because literally nobody is impressed. – @Fandroid4Ever replying to @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:42 am

>>>>>>>>>>> “So long asshole, won’t waste my time because it’s plain to see: ANDROID IS THE MASTER RACE. Up yours.” – @Fandroid4Ever replying to @Applefanboy4Lyf, 1:43 am

>>>>>>>>>>>> “So long live IOS and forever it shall be: APPLE IS THE UBERMENSCH. Up yours.” – @Applefanboy4Lyf replying to @Fandroid4Ever, 1:45 am


FOOTNOTE:

The mouth hanging agape with drool in the corner conspiracy among adolescent boys has surpassed the men meets mammaries movement and is now sitting comfortably at home in front of a computer. Statistics upon surveys have proven the indefatigable evidence of a hard-on with just the sight of shiny new objects we call technology. Said objects are met with an almost feminine adoration from keyboard-thumping connoiseurs who at best, can only afford the mid-range offerings of these brands, albeit this fact never quite hinders them from boasting about its features as if the product showcases a certain appendage instead of applications. Behind the whole Apple vs. Android debate is a motley of dissatisfied youths compensating their rather mundane lives by eking out an online presence, however louche. This phenomenon is called “Trolling” and studies claim the preponderance of narcissistic, even sadistic tendencies in all parties taking part in this phenomenon. It has to be noted that sadism, in all its forms, is a byproduct of the Freudian theory of the pleasure-principle which in its own right takes root in Epicurean philosophy. To unfaithfully quote a passage in the introduction of a book called “To Hell With Culture”, the author Herbert Read writes that we have no general principle drawn from the contemplation of facts but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. Bottomline here, it must be remembered, is the seeking of pleasure and the avoidance of pain. In the latest Youtube video about whichever latest gadget, is the onslaught of fanboys battling it out with haters, and this apparently, is the pleasure-principle realized to the highest degree. By acting out their online persona, internet trolls have reached the pinnacle of what it means to be a man in the postmodern world. Every keyboard warrior is better than whoever he’s having an argument with at the moment. To quote Hobbes, “Omnis animi voluptas, omnisque alacritas in eo sita est, quod quis babeat, quibus cum conferens se, passit magnife sentire de se ipso.” (All pleasure lies in the fact that there is someone with whom, in comparing ourselves, we can have a higher feeling.) And that, folks, is what gets the trolls’ motor rolling. It is every bit a power struggle as it is a pleasure principle. Now you know the secret. Go online, and, nolite te bastardes carborundorum! (don’t let the bastards get you down!)

One Piece

As a performer she was fierce on all stages just like her cancer— having long metastasised on her body that has since saw the amputation of a left arm, the same arm with which she flicks open the scarf on her neck during the initial part of the infamous striptease performances that put her on the map as one of Las Vegas city’s hottest acts. Simple though it may seem, nary a solution came to her for this little predicament until she decided to retire the scarf altogether from the act itself, deeming that she could start instead with the removal of a mask to make it more mysterious and exotic. At age 65, time has failed to hide the ravages it wrought upon her already failing body although it may be said that a patina of sinewy grace still exudes from her, and this she milks to the last drop for where the flesh is weak, the spirit is willing. The last vestiges of panache her whole being could muster she has saved and build up leading to what she calls her grand, final performance, but tonight, lying on a hospital bed after a fainting spell, little seeds of doubt as to the realisation of that intent, like a reflection of the metastasis of the cancer on her body, began proliferating her once resolute conviction. Gazing at the stelliferous sky outside her window, she imagined that beyond the firmament sits a divine Deity on his throne, and being witness to her sufferings, would send down for her a Messiah in the form of immediate recuperation. However such musings were futile, and if she were in a more rational state of mind, she’d look at it as the louche imaginings of a desperate person on her deathbed. But judging from what her body feels, the scythe of the grim reaper is still a long way from hacking her soul to pieces, although that distance, if the doctors are to be believed, is beginning to close in. “I don’t want to die in a hospital.” She insisted mentally, harbouring an image of her running away from a caricature of the Grim Reaper which for the meantime made her giggle quite a bit, that is, until her little daydream was thrown off-kilter by a stern knock on the door. Thinking it was the personification of Death himself, she threw the blanket over her head in the hopes that if she wills him to go away, he would; but once a voice spoke, it was just Adisa, the young African missionary making rounds at the intensive care unit of the hospital. Adisa was barely an adult in his early twenties but spoke as though he were a wizened sage of seventy, with his backstory of poverty and being HIV positive giving weight to every word coming out of his mouth. Adisa knew what she did for a living and unlike the other Christian missionaries who in patronising tones told her that her sins will be forgiven if she comes to Jesus Christ, he comes bearing no such promises, instead opting to reach her heart through making it clear that he is nothing but a flawed human being— just like her. They talked for what seemed like hours while eating the apples that the young man brought. No particular mention of any religious agenda except in spirit wherein Adisa showered her with the compassion indicative of every Christian undertaking, a feat that has to come from the wellsprings of the heart, and has to be genuine in order to be felt, and not a protocol taught at missionary schools. Our pessimistic heroine was almost impressed. “Young man, if you could convince me that your god would be able to grow me another arm, or better yet, cure me entirely, which I’m sure is only a small task for him, then I’ll be first in line to sign the conversion papers.” She gave him a wry smile. Undefeated, Adisa gently took her only hand and said, “It’s no small task for Him if you believe that He will. That’s all there is to it. If everyone thinks like you do, there wouldn’t be miracles. Open up your heart, who knows what blessings from Him you may have missed. Always remember that his Grace is sufficient.” With these words, Adisa bid her good night and left. She mulled over everything he said and took a huge bite out of an apple. Now being her snarky, cynical self, she couldn’t help but think, “good thing for him to have found a way to stay positive— just like his H.I.V.” There was a pause before a snigger grew from the base of her throat, threatening to build into a guffaw which she didn’t dare suppress until a wild roar of laughter permeated the room. But as fate would have it, our shrew of a heroine choked on the apple she was eating and died after a few minutes of struggle. This was her final performance, the unveiling of an inveterate cynical nature, a heart made hollow through years of disconnect, ultimately dying at the risible hands of irony. Laughter, they say, is the best medicine and along with an apple a day, keeps the doctor away. Eager for a cure, she was lured by both, unable to see that behind these masks, the Grim Reaper lies in wait. The scythe, as she was doomed to discover, was as sharp as ever.

Stress-Eating

The reason why I don’t deserve happiness all boils down to the machine of avarice that is my appetite. I think this to myself as I masticate on a chocolate bar in quick, miserable bites with what I assume is a frown of concentration on my face, which frown being present not at all because I loathe the experience, but as a reaction to the incredible shamelessness I feel for indulging in what is exactly making me pack on the pounds. The chocolate bar as expected, was an impulse buy. I have been scouring the grocery aisles with the purest of intentions, seeking to buy fruits and vegetables to rectify my unhealthy choices but the pull of temptation was fiendishly hard to resist. I found myself in the candy aisle, the variegated assortment of sweets in shiny wrapping pervaded my vision to the point that I questioned the futility of my initial intention of buying plant products, insisting to my cowardly self that I never liked the taste of apples anyway until I gave in and grabbed a fistful of chocolate bars. This experience was cathartic for me, especially given that the last few days or so have been the most toilsome in all of my university experience. I was in the midst of writing my undergraduate thesis about two dead white men whose philosophy I admire and liked to pretend that I came up with to spur my already dwindling self-pride upon finding myself lost in the wilderness of college life surrounded by apes who are trying with all their might to tear down my defences. It isn’t easy adjusting to the real world if you grew up privileged; the verity of human atrociousness— at the very least of those belonging to the uncouth class, makes for a Hobbesian situation wherein life at the behest of these beasts is nasty, brutish, and often short. My encounters with people outside of home have been a rather unpleasant experience even way back in childhood. Being a rotund child proved to be the most cardinal of all sins especially when the other children in school are vertically and prandially challenged. Against my will I became the butt of their bullying, the apple of their evil eyes, and the subject of their crosshairs all because I was different physically. Indeed, the world of children is as brutal as that of the jungle, and even as I grew up, the world of adults have proven to be worse. Among the many things I regret, and I do regret a lot of my decisions, the passivity with which I half-faced my oppressor deems to be the most detrimental. Fighting back was not in the itinerary of things found in my chest of defences and I allowed life to weave its cruel thread into my fate. Prior to the bullying, I was a happy child with nary a worry in the world, the halcyon days of innocence clouded by the distance that I now cease to believe that it even existed at all. In those days, I’d sit by my grandmother’s lap and listen to her stories, with the thought of the world as one big adventure waiting for me. How pathetic to have this yoke of illusion broken by a bunch of bed-wetters! How unfortunate it is to have had what is supposed to be the golden days of childhood tainted by constant bullying and oppression! But I have digressed too much. Here I am, still munching on a goddamned chocolate bar, and avoiding my responsibilities. I was supposed to do two chapters of my thesis today but so far have only managed half a paragraph before giving up entirely. The deadline of submission is creeping up on me but I have resigned from all hope that I will finish this on time. The idea that I won’t be able to graduate alongside my classmates is an honour for me. I never belonged with their roster. In a cackle of hyenas, I was the lone wolf, the deviant, an aberration from their otherwise perfect little world of puerile inanity. I could not care less not being in their graduation pictures as the sight of their sneering faces is forever etched in my memories, or at least until I am able to focus all my energy on other, more important things, including finishing my thesis. However, I’m afraid that I have eaten the last of my chocolate bar and feel the urge to have more. Gluttony is a deadly sin which I have to atone for. My impulsive nature begs for copious amounts of food during emotionally-charged binge-eating sessions that I then wash down with a bottle of fizzy, sweet soda. The last few days, as I have mentioned earlier, have pushed me to the edge of my appetite as if eating is the only hanging thread in the frayed ends of my sanity. My weight is the biggest (forgive the pun) problem I have carried in my entire life. My relationship with food is like a shady deal wherein the liabilities have far outweighed (again, forgive the pun!) the benefits. I have turned to food almost every time something stressful arises, from childhood bullying to this current situation of writing my thesis. Provided this information, and looking at myself in the mirror, that must have been a gargantuan set of stresses to trigger that much eating to incur that much weight. Or perhaps I am merely justifying my greed with a sob story. There is also the possibility that I am a victim of circumstance, that my poor psychological make-up is such that comfort comes only with prandial satiety. If it is the former, let the heavens strike me with lightning that I leave no carbon footprint as memory of my avarice; but if it is the latter, let God Almighty have mercy on me and lend me a hand to whisk me away from this predicament. The clock is ticking, and the cursor on my laptop is blinking, waiting for me to type the next paragraph. I am still craving for more chocolate as I run the tip of my tongue on my front teeth where I could still taste the remnants of caramel and other artificial sweeteners. I get up from my seat to get dressed, hoping that a change of clothing will get my blood pumped to complete my tasks—but it didn’t. Instead, I got dressed, counted my money, went downstairs, and headed to the store to buy more chocolates enough to give me diabetes. Sometimes, one has to get his priorities straight, and if calming my strained senses happens to be the main thing I’m concerned about at the moment, let me get fat. So be it. I regret a lot of things in my life, again, as I’ve said—let me regret this decision another day, but not today.