view

Almost Appropriate

{REC ON}

Tell me ninety-nine reasons to justify a suicide. Illustrate with the power of logic an explanation which appropriates to man the right to take his own life. And pray tell, if men, as such bestowed with free will, how is it that an act requiring one’s volition to execute is deemed preposterous and even forbidden?

I do not suffer from Melancholia nor am I perverse; for many, a variation of these comprise their ninety-nine reasons to vindicate suicide, but I’m afraid these are weak explications. 

What about the hundredth reason? Is it any different nor any stronger? We’ll get down to it in a moment.

Let us first consider young Werther.

Werther, if memory serves me right, was what we might consider a jilted lover. He longed for a woman beyond his reach and so took his own life. Howbeit, that wasn’t his only reason. He also made mention that he wanted to, and I quote “come home to God”. Werther was a man of faith. Suicide was merely the means to the end he wanted which was to be reunited in Paradise with his Creator. I too, am like Werther.

I believe in God and in Christ who shed His blood for my salvation but I do not believe in suicide as a sin—

{REC OFF}

The camera stopped recording. I played it back and watched myself. A few seconds into the video, I had to pause it. I hate the sound of my own voice. It was like a machine droning— except that the machine made slow farting noises, the kind that sleazy B-list comedians let out in Will Ferrel movies. The voice sounded like a cow mooing and I hated the fact that it came from me.   I deleted the footage then threw the camera to the wall. It fell with a slight thud. Looking around, the room was a mess so I decided to clean it before—

Before I do it.

I don’t need a camera to record what I’m about to say. The burden of carrying this weight on my shoulders has gone on for too long and I want out of it. 

First let me start off by saying: I am going to hell.

This realization hit me when I was about eighteen years old. I had an argument with my father concerning my future plans; he had it laid out before me, after graduation I was to attend Med School and become a physician just like him. Needless to say, I disobeyed. Disobeying everything seemed to be my forte, I’m ashamed to admit. I have been breaking laws (albeit in petty fashion) since I was young. Wasn’t I the one who disobeyed that voice in my head commanding me to not push that little girl from the swing many years ago in first grade? She ended up with two bruised knee caps and it was the guidance office for me. I tried to make up for it several years after by asking her to the prom only to ditch her during the dance for another, prettier girl.

A flood of memories came over me, one by one, sin by sin. I was like Mephistopheles, but in my case, I had good intentions and was doomed to forever commit evil. My mind is racked with voices arguing back and forth, commenting on all my activities, telling me what to do. Paranoia has been a staple for me the last couple of years. Looking over my shoulder, eyes are always watching me and they can see that I am going to sin. They follow me everywhere, even in my head. Whenever I aim to do good, the voices in my head won’t stop chattering until I do the exact opposite of what I set out to do!

Although, these may seem trivial to some of you, but if you add one after another, the result is one ginormous boulder of a sin. And don’t argue with me that it’s the intention that counts, not the act.    For, really, was it not said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions?

My hard-headedness gets the best of me. I could never count the times I made my mother cry, poor thing! I refused to go by society’s standards and found myself apprehended by authorities not once but for several. Bad to the bone and going to hell.

I decided over a year ago to end my life. Knowing of my after-life destination, I resolved to commit suicide by shooting myself. Perhaps more than to silence the voices in my head, but rather to consummate the Divine Will of my Creator. The plan was, to record a video of myself deciphering my reasons, then afterwards point a gun to my head and have everything caught on camera. 

That was over a year ago today.

Right now, I rescinded my initial plan of recording on camera (once again, evincing my knack for disobedience!) and settled to just clean the room first. Once everything is in place, I took out the gun from the drawer.

As I’ve said previously, I believe in God and in Christ who shed His blood for my salvation, but I do not believe in suicide as sin. Freewill is given to me that I may obey the Lord out of the autonomy of my heart and I know the Lord willed for this day to come.

I am going to hell. Save your prayers for the worthy who need it. The Lord foresaw that I am to be nothing but grime on the surface of his covenant, the dross of all creation, a scum of the earth. Through death, I shall purify the sins of those condemned to hell like I am that they may not suffer the same fate. 

It is already night and the wind is howling outside. The curtains swing back and forth excitedly, as if aware of what I’m about to do. I pointed the gun to my chest. I determined not to shoot it directly at my head for that would be too messy. See, even in the last moment, I am disobedient. Such is my kismet.

So it is written, so it shall be done.

[INSPECTOR’S P.O.V.] He had to admit, despite the blotch of blood on the chest, everything was in order. The desk was neat, the books aligned perfectly on a nearby shelf and there was no sign of any external struggle. He bent down on his knees to get a closer look of the face, it wasn't protocol but he was rather curious; the dead man’s face was serene as a sleeping toddler. Furthermore, he swears by the good Book that there was a smile on the lips-or at least a hint of it, as if what he did to himself was the most natural thing in the world. He couldn't look away; he's had his share of cases like this but this was the only one where he felt like suicide was the right thing to happen. A gust of wind entered from an open window and he shuddered. He wasn't supposed to be thinking this way— after all, he's been taught all his life that suicide is a sin: an act that will send your soul straight to the pits of hell. However in this case, the young man's room, his outfit, his face— he’ll be damned if it hadn’t looked almost appropriate. 

[/END INSPECTOR’S P.O.V.]

view

The Accidental Maximalist

Thomas Pynchon weaves worlds where paranoia is the Jealous God pulling the strings on the lives of seemingly ordinary people. The nondescript is put under the microscope to be magnified and dissected as possible parts of “the plot”. In this world, nothing is random—even that guy down the street you made accidental eye-contact with—no, especially that guy down the street you made accidental eye-contact with. From simple housewives to soldiers of fortune, anyone could be on the cross hairs of a series of accidents that when stitched together form a tapestry that will reveal you to be a mere pawn in the grand scheme of things instead of the protagonist you believed yourself to be because of paranoid delusions.

There are two reasons why I would like to live in a Pynchonesque world; one, is because as someone who used to suffer tremendously from OCD, this is the only world I once knew how to live in. That nagging feeling of something about to go wrong, or that something’s just not right, a kind of burning whose temporary quenching gives way to a vicious cycle of ever-increasing fires—these feelings of anxiety I would quell with preposterous rituals such as locking myself up in the bathroom to spin myself on tiptoes exactly four times, among others, are testament to the distress I share with the main characters in a Thomas Pynchon novel. I may not be a Psychiatrist to know the difference between paranoia and anxiety, but I imagine the feeling is damn similar. To immerse myself in a Pynchonesque fictional world would be to put things in perspective regarding the illness I emerged from. It would give me the chance to see what I used to suffer from and how stronger I’ve become since then. From the staccato rhythm which inundates the ears of a paranoia-stricken individual there is always a song of hope; however in my world, my ears are deaf to such music. The jarring notes are on loop, and the Fat Lady has yet to sing.

Looking back to that time in my life through living in this kind of fictional world, I am apt to give a sigh of relief that it’s finally over. To borrow a Science Fiction term, it’s like a force field is conjured up out of thin air to protect me from the bale of paranoid delusions and anxiety. The other reason is simpler: Thomas Pynchon’s writing is cool as hell. Reading Pynchon is like eating at a fine-dining restaurant and there are courses to the meal. Even the sub-plots (which for the sake of metaphor let’s say are the appetizers) are exquisite. Whether it’s forcing sewer rats to convert to Christianity or a giant Adenoid going on a rampage on the streets of London, Pynchon knows how to make weapons out of words. The result is often harrowing, but not without its perks. To take a specific book, “The Crying Of Lot 49” made me second-guess every event in my life for a while. The haunting thought of being a normal person living a normal life and then all of a sudden getting entwined in a maelstrom of conspiracies, plus the possibility that that person could be you, would keep anyone up at night. Or maybe not. However, it is not always bleak in Pynchon’s fictional world. The trope of Good always triumphs over Evil is always present, but it is never as simple. Pynchon never shies away from recognizing that evil exists and that mankind, when left to his own devices, is morally corrupt. This aspect of his fictional world is endearing to me because it is hyper-realistic in a gut-punching, hit-you-like-a-hurricane kind of way, and I want my world to be rich in sensations, to match the colorful inner-self I have in contrast to the gun-metal grey that is my persona. Yes, I have all the characteristics of “normal,” however one fine day... and so goes the story.

view

The Crushing

“Vermin!” He hissed. The man in front of him stared back in confrontation, steely eyes glaring daggers, not backing down. “Low-life. Filth. Scum!” A string of words that has since lost significance compared to the blind rage he felt that moment poured forth from his mouth while the man being spoken to took it all in silence.

But what warrants this silence? Do the words spoken possess a truth which marauds at the back of the mind, lingering perhaps out of magnetism, belongingness— like a swarm of flies attracted to spoiled meat?

The man in front of him cannot deny the fact that he is a Jew. Blood of the Chosen People runs through his veins, the same blood now being persecuted for the sole fault of existing. The Jews are a menace to the world, so says the Fuhrer, and the final solution to this is total annihilation.

He clenched his fists. In front of him was an obstacle to be overcome. An entity which to his mind is stripped off of any ounce of humanity, and therefore deserving to be stomped upon by the soles of his feet. “Vermin!” He repeated and began a raging assault with his fist. “I shall crush you!” He said over and over while delivering his blows, stopping only when the face in front of him was waxing mutilated.

He withdrew his fist. On his fingers are shards of glass. The face in front of him— his reflection, deformed and divided into several tiny pieces, stared back. “You..” No word could materialize the haunting in his soul. Defeated, he fell to his knees.

The fragments of the shattered mirror continue to show his reflection as if mocking him and calling him by name: “Reinhard Heydrich,” the pieces say, and sneering, it added: “a Jew.”

view

The Wild In Me

Nothing is more lethal than the combination of fear and sex. The rush of adrenaline pumping in my veins brings me closer to the zenith of euphoria unlike any I’ve experienced before.

Her name was Amaranta, like the flower. Timid yet graceful, she lit up the room on the day I first met her; thin waist, wide hips, ample derriere — oh she was the stuff that drove men crazy. She glided across the room like a lone feather in the wind. The hypnotic rhythm of her hips in sync with my breathing brought forth a familiar tingling south of the belt. When she sat beside me and uttered those words- “May I borrow a pen?”, I felt something primal to all rational beings, namely, the need to satisfy one’s lust.

That night, I decided to play my cards right.

Classes ended at half-past nine. It was dark outside the building what with only a few lights scattered around the area; there were no people around save a handful of students. Amaranta was nearing the exit and I had to move fast. She was walking towards her car as I eased my way behind her, I took out a penknife from my pocket and put an arm around her neck. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” I declared, whispering into her ear. She didn’t struggle and from where I placed my arm around her I could feel the slow heaving of her chest. Instead, she let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I knew you’d come for me.” Her breath was cold and it sent a chill up my spine.

We got in her car and drove to a nondescript motel. We lost no time in conversation, tearing up our clothes in the heat of the moment. My lips grazed her alabaster-like neck, fumbling with her bra as her supple fingers sought the buttons of my pants.

She was laid out on the bed, in all her naked glory and my eyes hungrily feasted on her body. I stared straight into her eyes and she returned the gaze with equal intensity.

Again, I grabbed the penknife from my pocket. I didn’t take my eyes off of her. I let the blade skim down her chin, her neck, the valley of her breasts, her belly, stopping to hover the knife on the tuft of hairs just below her navel. It was during this time that I first caught a glimpse of something akin to fear on her eyes. A slow smile creeped up my features.

“Allow me to show…the wild in me.”

It all happened the day before. I now sit on the dining table, reading from my iPad the latest headline on the news:

VAGINA SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN

I could still hear her muffled cries beneath my hand. Her blood, it tasted sweet. But nothing could be more sweeter than the fear in her eyes. In theireyes. Virgins making love to a knife.

I felt the stirrings of heat in my groin and knew I needed it again. Lust, like all addiction, must be sustained at all costs. But this isn’t just lust, it’s my nature. The thrill of it all is knowing I’m being hunted down but never getting caught. I doubt it that they’ll ever catch me. I’m free as the barrenness haunting a wasteland, and I linger like a scavenger waiting for the next prey.

After all, to the wilderness the wild belongs.

view

A Matter Of Preference

According to the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon or frequency illusion, when one chances upon an obscure piece of knowledge — be it an unfamiliar word or name — he or she will soon afterwards encounter the same word or name again, often repeatedly. The explanation for this phenomenon is somewhat vague, but it has something to do with how our brains like to perceive patterns in everything.

President Luis Tadeo likes to think of himself a populist. Being born to a rich, political family did not deter him from championing the rights of the common people. In fact he saw his family’s status as a privilege to serve the less fortunate. Thirty-six years after his first venture into politics as a Councillor at the age of twenty-four, he is now aged sixty and running for re-election as President of ___________.

He woke up early to catch the morning news. A group of protesters rallied near the President’s Office; calling him out on the country’s tax system. Among the protesters were students and one of them was briefly interviewed.

STUDENT: “We’re calling for the president to change the tax system in this country. He ought to know that higher taxes are anathema to a country’s progress especially if our hard-earned money only ends up in the pockets of greedy politicians!”

President Tadeo couldn’t care less about the student voicing out her thoughts; he was, however, intrigued by that one word: anathema. He first heard about it an hour ago, while he was reading the newspapers. The Pope, he read, declared the concept of Limbo as anathema to Church Doctrine. He got a dictionary from his study room and read the meaning of the word:

1 [ mass noun ] something or someone that one vehemently dislikes:racial hatred was anathema to her.

2 a formal curse by a pope or a council of the Church, excommunicating a person or denouncing a doctrine. the pope laid special emphasis on the second of these anathemas.• literary a strong curse. the sergeant clutched the ruined communicator, muttering anathemas.

He was quite good with words but this was the first time he encountered this particular one. He found it interesting and thought no more of it until hearing it uttered again by a protester. Not the superstitious type, President Tadeo merely shrugged it off.

The country was undergoing campaign season at the moment. President Tadeo as aforementioned, is running for re-election as president of _________. His campaign slogan is “THERE’S NO WAY BUT UP.” The campaign jingle was even written by a popular Novelty song composer in the country.

As a president, Luis Tadeo proved himself to be cunning; he wouldn’t call it Machiavellian, it was more like being a Fabian Socialist. His country was by no means rich and for him to stay in power he knew he had to appeal to the majority, and this means pleasing the plebeians.

It was not as hard as people think — he knew what the masses wanted: money without hard work. Therefore his platform set out to have welfare policies implemented. The Right wasn’t happy at all with his policies and made sure he knew of it, but he simply resorted to Argumentum ad Passiones to win over the masses. He insisted that charity is among the three essential virtues that Apostle Paul preached in the Book of Corinthians; thereby winning over not only the masses majority but also the Church.

He wasn’t religious at all but if appearing to be so would make him stay in power, he wouldn’t hesitate to use the name of the Lord in vain.

Ideology did not matter much to him as long as he reaps his gain. The Right thinks he’s a Marxist, and although he admires Trotskyism, he was far from being one. However, he admits to himself that it’s safe for people to think that he’s a Marxist so the plebeian would continue believing that he is looking out for them.

He flipped through the channels and settled on another news network. Refugees were swarming into the country to escape ethnic cleansing in the Levant. The Left welcome the refugees despite the Far-Right’s protests, saying that refusal to lend a helping hand to those in need is anathema to the country’s Christian roots.

Again, that word. He turned off the television and called his secretary to give him today’s schedule. According to his secretary, he was to attend a Lunch meeting with several company heads concerning his Cap and Trade program. And later in the afternoon he will be speaking at his own election campaign rally in an arena.

President Tadeo’s moral philosophy was simple: I scratch your back, you scratch mine. There are a lot of dubious transactions and money laundering in his administration but he was able to conceal all of them with the help of his cohorts. Even if he doesn’t win the elections, he made sure that he has a firm grip on whoever will be elected next. His country’s politics is a cesspool of corruption but as long as he gains from it, he could not care any less.

There are only two kinds of people in this world in his opinion; one, are deceivers, and second, the deceived. President Luis Tadeo prefers to be on the former.

“It’s simply a matter of preference.” He thought and wondered what’s for lunch.

Later that day, at the arena where he was supposed to hold a speech for his campaign, a lone gunman got pass security and sat for a while in the bleachers. When opportunity presented itself, the gunman shot the president from a distance. The bullet penetrated the skull. President Luis Tadeo was dead on arrival.

The lone gunman turned out to be a radical Right-Winger. Upon interrogation, all he had to say was that the president’s open-border policy for refugees is anathema to the country’s safety. He had to put a stop to it in the only way he knew how. Desperate times, he says, call for desperate measures.

Anathema. There’s that word again.

view

Welcome

Introductions first: my name is Aiko Lactaotao. I am a 32-year old woman from the Philippines blogging about my passions which include books, poetry, words, languages, and philosophy. I don’t aim to make money out of this blog, I just feel the need to put my thoughts in a medium wherein I could save it for time immemorial (or at least as long as the internet exists). I don’t mind at all if nobody cares enough to read what I write, the mere fact that I could unload everything I’ve kept inside is enough of a prize for me. I love reading and therefore I love writing. These two activities often co-exist with each other. So, if anyone is reading this at all, I hope you enjoy it here as much as I, in all humility, do. Thanks.

view

About

Legally Blasé

I don’t aim to use this blog to assert myself, nor to engage in political debates; all I would like is to promulgate the simple philosophy of accepting the world as it is, irrespective of its absurdities. Given that we are all teleological beings, hence the need for self-definition, still it is inevitable for the absurd to rear its head every once in a while. This is something which is futile to fight against and at the same time absurd, even inhuman, to do otherwise.

It might be viewed as one big damn it if you do, damn it if you don’t type of scene, although truth remains that none of these will ever stop man from striving to move forward- it’s our nature.

There are two ways to view the world, but I choose to stay in the middle to get a better view of either.

Who And What

An emotionally-labile logophile and hysterical realist from the Third World, fribbling away with a pen and inappropriate thoughts.

Freelance scriptwriter by day, poet by night. Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy degree holder.

This blog is a compilation of my art: poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and personal narrative.

A naos of resplendent dreams, Brigadoon of was, and the art of Sangfroid, presided by a Christian, if not, a Heideggerian drama queen.

Why And Where

I am the amalgamation of memories, thoughts, and the time which encompasses my past through my present, until the inevitability of death.

I am a Being inseparable from language.

I am consciousness thrown pell-mell into the world striving for authenticity.

I am a tree rooted in the forgetfulness of being, and the fruits I bear shall one day shine in the darkness, like the lonely but ebullient stars.

My Story

The Case

I used to be a wide-eyed dreamer, and perhaps I still am nowadays. I used to dream of flashing lights, cheering crowds, and explosive concert endings. I wanted to be a Rockstar. I used to think that music encompassed the entirety of my existence, and therefore my destiny. I wanted to be a musical artist. I used to delude myself into thinking thoughts of Rock n’ roll grandeur and it costed me money and time. Precious, precious time. I used to say to myself that music is the way to go, that all else fades in comparison, that again, music is my destiny calling.

The Trial

But then life kicked in. I thought I could hold on to these fantasies but realized I couldn’t. I thought money wasn’t spent uselessly, I thought I wasn’t wasting anybody’s time, especially mine, but lo and behold, I totally was.

The Verdict

The simple fact of the matter is that I’ve moved on. Childish dreams are no more, fantasies are gone, and false hopes long extinct. I do not claim to know more about life than the average young adult does, but I surely know now how it starts. It starts with a bit of cuts and bruises, but we all have the choice to not end in tragedy.

The inevitable lessons brought forth by education and time has given me a new perspective. I’m truly grateful for that. I now no longer see the world in rose-tinted glasses wherein I was a Rockstar and everybody else is my audience. I now see a world that is glamorously covering up all the horrible wounds it has acquired through the ages, caused not only by natural events, but by ill-willed people short of being called Spawns of Satan. I now long for the glorious past, that glorious past that has slipped through our fingers because of wars fought out of greed and envy. I ache not for change, because truly, what has happened before will happen once again, and what will happen, already happened before.

I ache. I ache for the time I wasted, but there is nothing I could do about that now, is there? I ache with satisfaction knowing that I had to waste time in order to appreciate time. It is Providence’s way of teaching us to use time wisely. And I ache to learn just how wisely I could use my time.

Hope

The rhythm of life…I now know I co-manage with God Almighty. The task at hand is not to search my destiny with delusions of grandeur, but to appreciate that fact that I, like everybody else, is but a tiny speck in this universe, although we are not marginalized to such an extent that our dreams should be become unreachable.

I still dream. But I dream with my mind alert to reality, and my eyes open to possibilities. I dream not for the entire world, but for myself. I dream to be a child of God, I dream to become whatever my purpose is, and I dream to learn to be good. Starry-eyed? No. Dreaming and hoping is essential to living just as much as breathing fresh air.

I learn to hope, I live to learn, and I live. Simple.