June 29, 2007

Unlit Cigarettes

When I was younger my grandfather used to send me on errands to buy him cigarettes. Red "More" Luxury Cigarettes; I can still remember them as though it was yesterday. I would walk a few blocks in my sando and oversize flip flops to the nearest store and buy a couple of those weird-smelling sticks. I was always fascinated by those sticks: the odd but eerily fragrant smell, the smooth paper cover, and the fact that most of the men that I considered to be big and tough usually had them clamped between their lips. I would sniff them constantly on the way back, put them in my ear or in my lips just like I saw my father or grandfather did. But when I was in sight of our house, I would put it back in my hands along with the change, for fear that my grandfather would spank the hell outta me for messing with his sweet-smelling cigarettes.

But that was before Grandfather died in 1997. A former cockpit owner and "banig" seller struck down at the age of 86 by heart attack. He left behind 13 children and more than thrice that amount of grandchildren, including this boy who would buy him his cigarettes.

And as I grew older I realized that cigarettes were bad. I learned that they contained harmful chemicals with weird-sounding names like nicotine and formaldehyde which could make you sick. I saw pictures of lungs turned black with soot, of reddish human organs that look like they were taken from the local meat market. They were addictive and bad for you, they said, and that I should stay away.

And so I stayed away from cigarettes. But at that time I also stood away from the rest of the world. I was an outcast, a weird organism who never smoked. I saw other boys of my age who would swagger like those in the movies at the local town cinema, with a burning stick of cigarette in their mouths. I wanted to be like those boys. I wanted to be cool, because I want to be part of the world.

But I still stayed away from them. And as I grew older, I learned more about those burning sticks. I learned that they were made by multinational corporations which made lots of money from those tiny sticks. I learned that there was a lot of people who were fighting against it. I learned about conspiracy, compromise, bribery, bureaucracy, red tape, frame-up, blackmail, and salvage. And that people kept smoking them. They said it calmed the nerves, made them think better. Sometimes I wonder if they were right.

I had my first real puff when I had a bad cough back in college. My roommate gave me a stick of "Hope" Menthol Cigarettes. He said it would make my cough go away, and that it should put some meat on my lungs. I took a drag, inhaling the smoke as it went its way from the filter to the recesses of my throat. A wierd bitter taste grew inside my mouth, and I coughed it out. My roommate laughed in the darkness and took back the stick from my hands.

And more time passed by. My grandfather's body has probably turned to dust now, and my roommate is somewhere basking under the desert sun of the Middle East. I've finished school and found a job, and almost found love. I have died and been reborn so many times, and have learned other more important things to do and to think about.

But until today I still find cigarettes fragrant.

June 10, 2007

A meaningful conversation seen through a bottle of San Miguel

R: She's HOW OLD!?
A: If my calculations are correct, if she was born in 1987 that would make her 20 years old today.
R: I can't believe this!
A: You can't believe what?
R: That's she's just 20!
A: What's wrong with 20?
R: Dude, I have a poster of her in my closet!
A: And what's wrong with that?
R: It's from that Red Hot Special Lingerie Edition magazine.
A: Oh, THAT poster...
R: And I bought it 2 years ago. Which means she was 18, which in turn makes her a minor...
A: Uhhh, technically you're no longer a minor when you're 18.
R: Really?
A: Yep.
R: But still...ah never mind. Maybe I'm just over-reacting. I mean, she just looks too old for her age...
A: S'Okay. Europeans tend to look older compared to us anyway.
R: Probably...
A: ...
R: ...
A: ...
R: So that means that she's in my age bracket.
A: Oh please. Like that's going to help.
R: I'm just saying...
A: Dude, she's a tennis player. She whacks balls for a living. Doesn't that scare you even a bit?
R: Now that you've mentioned it...
A: ...
R: So does that mean I have to tear her poster down?
A: I dunno. Probably.
R: ...
A: ...
R: But she still looks hot though.
A: Whatever...

Misunderstanding

The woman that I love said to me that I should stop hurting myself.

It's been months since we've talked that long, and that's the second time that she has told me that. And that was the second time that I asked myself "Now what the hell kind of an advice is that?"

I know she is trying to help, but then what she is saying isn't helping me at all. I love her, and I've already told her what I feel. But the reply I get from her is more enigmatic than a crop circle formation. Now she's telling me to stop hurting myself because of her, and find happiness instead with God, not with a silent girl who dreams of joining a convent one day.

And maybe she is right. No, rephrase that. She is right. One can only find true happiness in God, because he is the source of all things. And despite my shortcomings, I have found peace from Him. And that is a happy thing.


Though that still doesn't explain why I spend our time together just looking at her, or that every time that I wake up in the morning her name is the first thing that pops in my mind.

And it is embarassing. A part of me wants to smack me in the head for dragging myself into this mess. What the hell was I thinking?, I ask myself. But in the end all I could do is shake my head in frustration, sink into my hands and hope that tomorrow I forget all of this.


Sometimes it is better to have no memories than to be haunted by many.

And ultimately, another day ends. Despite the joy, the pain, and evrything else in between, the day goes on. I have to wake up every morning for my job, do my articles, and go home. And maybe in the future, I go back to school and study how to become a lawyer. And should I pass the BAR, I'll get a good-paying job, a car, and the prestige that comes along with such a profession. And if I have money and power, people will say that I've finally made it.

But that still does not answer the question why I keep spending our time together just looking at her, or that every time I wake up in the morning her name is the first thing that pops in my mind.

Maybe I will never know. I've given up trying to find out why.

I'll just have to try harder finding happiness this time.


June 9, 2007

The Beginning of Something



Hey now, hey now. Don't dream it's over. - Crowded House


Many months ago I said to myself that I would never right a blog or journal again. Maybe because I find it prissy, or maybe just plain unnecessary. I have always adhered to the philosophy of Joseph Joffo: Happy people don't need to tell stories. And I believed I was happy with my life.

But now I'm telling my story.

But I'm not doing this because I am sad either. My life has always been a screwed-up soap opera in the first place. But I don't know. For the past few months I don't really know much about my life anymore. It's as though life is tugging me on my shirtsleeves and asking me with puppy-dog eyes: What should we do now?

I don't know. I really don't. And sometimes frankly I don't really care at all.

Maybe I'm just lazy with my life. Or maybe I'm just tired of it.

(Sigh)

Or maybe I'm just plain crazy.