Train Strains

I hate trains. It’s my daily commute, and it has been a part of my life for some 10 odd years already. It was my awakening to the rabid commute to the farthest school I have ever been in, my A to B in the shortest amount of time, on regular hours. We push heavily starting from the steps on towards the ticketing, the balcony, then everywhere. The people, the masses, the multitude. It doesn’t stop.

I used to take the bus / FX / jeep in the pre-MRT era. I loved it, and love it still. But the time convenience just affords my reality that I am always in a rush; about the perplexities of my uncommon existence, and the rush to stay still.

For about a month now, I’ve had this strange relationship with trains. I will be there in the morning, waiting for her to arrive, amicably sitting and retaining my last thoughts from the night before. People walk passed; some stare at me. I look back without flinching a smile. Like I let my eyes gorge their silly thoughts, and silly dresses and silly walks. Then she arrives, sometimes on time, and mostly, not. Sometimes she arrives with a full hedge of life in her; those of turmoil, or those of gleam. And sometimes, there, empty, to be devoured by people just like me, to squeeze every inch of themselves and make her full, and let no other man come inside. I am selfish to want to get in right at that moment. I can wait, I know. But I am always in a rush.

Inside, there is a mad sea of feelings. The hot and cold air swirl around and meet at some gully. Perhaps on my nose, or my lips where I can taste the foul air in the morning. Sometimes the air brushes my hair, and sometimes the sun glistens in my cheeks, and yours as well. Mornings can be a bit weary sometimes, especially for me, for lack of energy, from the nights I’ve spent exhausted, on your precious back. I can smile, and smile back at her. Because I know I am safe, inside her heart, where she turns and follows her rails. I notice eyes twitter around and look for others. Their stories, their lives, intertwined without knowing. Our lives. Back and forth. I’ve set my feet apart to stand still and sway gracefully inside her vessel. We dance, she and I, although she doesn’t want to admit it. We enjoy balance amidst her rocky ride.

But just as every good passing moment comes, I arrive at my station; where I get off, and where I head out to graze and ponder my resiliency of un-attachment.

Beyond this, outside, people ruin the moment. We ourselves long for hurt, the urge, the shove, the persuasion, the want to antagonize, and so forth. I love the push. I love the riot. I love the turmoil. Hell, I wrote songs about it.

After that, once you’re out, it’s all calm, like anything never did happen. Just sweat on your brow, to know that there was that ride.

I used to hate trains sometimes, on what a wreck I can feel, from what can be made from a fleeting mad love affair.

—
* an old story I thought I posted here, and which it is now.

Back to Wherever

Here. Again.

Short Fictions: In-house

"So if Bob Maddock didn't get his way, he'd punch you?" Sylvia asked.

Yeah. Umm.. I guess. Penny thought to say but couldn't open her heart from trauma.

"I mean, what are you going to do? We're stuck." She closely leaned on her and looked in her eye. A streak of wind rushed by and patted their cheeks. She then gave some sort of an awkward smile, and wrapped her body to hers.

I...I...I... And a few seconds after, Penny stopped trying and simply exhausted the remaining tensions in her face; sighing to a relief of warmth and a broken spirit.

I'm in Auckland and I have space to write

I'm in Auckland and I have space to write. I forgot that I have all this space in the internet to write down the things in my head, those everyday murmurs. I forgot that this place exists and that I am a part of it. I forgot that I came from somewhere. I forgot that I have my own story to remember.

I arrived here in Auckland on the 28th of September 2010. It was a 14-hour flight from Manila, and it was my first time to travel country to country on my own. I must have muttered a few hundred words during the entire transfer, with more words repeated over and over. I thought I was mute and that I can only communicate by hand."Yes", "No". These are the easiest things to say. It becomes difficult when you have to decide on a question that may change the course of your life. "What would you have for dinner, sir?" "Yes." And then I would not eat the meat she just handed. I thought to compromise my beliefs. After all, it's a long flight. I ate the side dishes. And I was alright.

I flew on a Monday, by Thai Airways to Bangkok. The airport I left from in Manila was suddenly dwarfed and ancient, compared to this grandiose of Suvarnabhumi in Bangkok. I kept looking up because the building never ended. It went on and on down and up to the points of view. I felt like a country mouse in big city. But beneath the awe and wonder, I am always scared of unfamiliar places at first. I get nervous and tight and cracked up. I stop walking and step aside, and I breathe, until everything slows down to silence where I am alone and become peaceful in confidence. I open my eyes, then they become familiar, and then I adapt.

Here, Auckland

I'm here. In Auckland. I hope it gets to be good down here.

--
The weather is terrible for me, for the fact that I love the heat in the tropics. But I can walk all day here with no sweat. I've started to smoke more, to keep heat. The air is so fresh I need to smoke to balance it all in.

---
School has already started. I look old, but there are others like me, wondering of a good future in a new land. I am lucky to where I am now.

Twit Conversations_

Twit Conversations_
S: On the contrary, it shouldn’t be any more distinctive than a twat flying around the house, like you do.
T: Well perhaps I’m guilty of over thinking the boundaries of self-loathing; I fear it.
S: Yes, it does sound more offish.
T: More offish?
S: Yes, you twit. Here, have some toast. Should go well with your fried brain.

GMA and the Weird Repressed Dream

GMA and the Weird Repressed Dream

The basterd-ized version was weirder; it’s still vivid now. I’m somewhere in Malacanang, in a very small secret room where GMA and FG do their thing. There is a loft. On the other side is a long corridor and a secret door to the kitchen. I don’t know how I got there; perhaps by a small door from John Cusack’s floor.

The pygmy leads me on hand to the loft. Up we go. Up on the bed. She faces her back, removes her panties, and proceeds to have a butt-fuck. I do. I don’t know why, but I do. I won’t describe the others.

So after ‘the thing’ or ‘the act’, a party ensues. My weird friends come in. Her weird whores come in and we have a Party, like Peter Sellers. We’re all soaked with foam and drunk as hell, prolly stoned too. The drinks are lavish and sweet in cute martini glasses with a frolic of the umbrella and a paradise within. We were all lucid and this big orgy happening with the evocativeness of immeasurable delight. I was stamped with hedonism.

This—happened days after watching Coraline, and having a Recollection over the weekend. How F@#$@# I am.