Kris Kringle (‘Tis The Season To Be Kringly)

December 7, 2009 at 10:32 am (Uncategorized)

4A, this is a list of all the Kris Kringle Aliases I have right now. Please check if you are here. If you are not here, either you didn’t give me a list (which is awful, but please send me a list ASAP, either on YM or through a Facebook/Twitter DM) or your list got lost somewhere (which I’m sorry for, but you must give me a new one if you want a Christmas gift). I only have 37 out of the 39 lists I’m expecting. Help me please. I cannot release the lists unless everyone has given me a list. Thank you and merry Christmas.

Abs ni Jacob
Alexandre Desplat
Anonym0usse
Bidin Soriano
Boglat
Bukakke Pioquidick
Chuck
Don Fernando
Erine
Et Cetera
Freud “Pretty Boy” Mayweather
Graymalkin
Hindi Si Arion
Holy-Nayt
Horatio Habang-Hatdog

Jarvey de Guzman
Jennifer Garner
Kim Kramer Kalashnikov
Kommandant Schliefen Überkacht
Left 4 Dinner
Legal Na XD
Li’l Zuplado $$
Lucky T. Tino Ser
Light Year
M-16
Macho Libre
Mas gwapo pa ko kay Taylor Lautner
Mr. North
Puck Bass
Racecar
Revenge
RJ
Snow Spectre
Tito Talongganisa
Virginie Ledoyen
The Wrong Unicorn
Zerokami
🙂

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Altitude Problem

November 29, 2009 at 6:21 am (Uncategorized)

So Pugad is contributing to the Sesqui Issue, otherwise known as Higad FoThegreatergloryofGodMagWall (Hilites Magazine + Hilites Newswall + Pugad Literary Folio + AMDG). I was being a selfish poet, so I didn’t want to give up “La Canción de los Muertos” just yet. In the urge to come up with something that wasn’t a masterpiece but wasn’t a trainwreck either, I ended up making this. The theme of the issue is supposedly “Taking Off.” That is taking off as in flying, not taking off as in clothes. My interpretation of it, though, is probably a little off track. I used it more as the subject rather than the theme.

_____________________________________________________

Altitude Problem

 

I spend a lot of time on airplanes
and they ask me why I can’t be
down-to-earth.

Perhaps, I am too used to
that feeling of loftiness
pulling in my vision,
rendering tiny in my sight
people, and cities and nations
and all their pomp and grandeur.

Perhaps, I am too used to
that feeling of altitude
pulling in my eardrums,
rendering me nearly deaf
to the madness of life
and all its sound and fury.

Perhaps, I am too used to
that feeling of vertigo
pulling in my psyche,
rendering the world absolutely
terrifying, filling me with
the purest fear and trembling.

I spend a lot of time on airplanes
yet every flight I’m on, I fear
the inevitable landing.

I fear waking from my dream
of the most glorious apathy,
that feeling of being
pulled into myself,
my little world above the world,
the magnificent illusion,
that is shattered the moment
the wheels hit the tarmac.

 

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Me&U: Window Shopping Ng Mga Sawi

November 26, 2009 at 3:13 pm (Uncategorized)

Alright, there is a cute little store in Eastwood called Me&U that specializes in items for couples. They have matching pillowcases that say “Beauty” and “Beast” or they have matching mugs that say “Soul” and “Mate.” In other words, it is the perfect place for the heartbroken to window shop and feel miserable and shit.

 

See any couples shopping in there? I don't.

The title came when I passed by the store earlier tonight. I’ve seen it a bunch of times and gone in on a number of occasions but it struck me how miserable it must make sawi people feel. So yes, I envision a day when we can flood Me&U with miserable single people who will trash the whole place, while bawling and screaming mantras about “independence” and try to convince themselves that they’re not jealous of the store’s intended demographic.

And no, I did not buy anything there today.

 

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Pygmalic Love X

November 25, 2009 at 8:16 am (Uncategorized)

Forgive my need to bitch something with unreasonable force when I’m having a bad day. It’s like a lipgloss boost. It makes everything better.

On to the next great foe, Pygmalion Syndrome Complex! Pygmalionism! Pygmalic Love. 😀

Pygmalion & Galatea by Jean-Léon Gérôme

Okay, I thought I’d coined Pygmalion Syndrome, but apparently that’s what an online erotic fiction writer calls his abnormal sexual attraction to statues, so I wanted to call it Pygmalion Complex, but apparently that was also taken. It is defined as the obsessive desire to work on something until it’s perfect. My third choice, Pygmalionism is an actual term for a sexual desire for something you’ve created. It exists as a branch of Agalmatophilia, a sexual desire for statues, dolls and mannequins. So let’s call it Pygmalic Love.

Okay, first off, a little background. This is an attempt at an exploration of deeper themes within Pygmalionism and “Pygmalion Syndrome” (but let’s not call it that please) and it is called Pygmalic Love.

What is Pygmalic Love? It originates from the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. According to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, X, Pygmalion was a sculptor who had sworn off women and love and he refused to give offerings to Aphrodite, the goddess of love. One day, Pygmalion created a beautiful life-sized sculpture of a woman, and he fell madly in love with the beauty of what he’d created. He begged Aphrodite to bring her to life, which she did and they lived happily ever after.

It’s a tad trite for a Greek myth (which ideally ends in Fucking Misery, or at least Goddamn Irony, for Chrissakes) but I had a brain fart about the idea of falling in love with something you’ve created.

As a writer, I seriously love my work. Not all of it, because that would be saying all of it is good, which is a lie, but the truth stands, I am madly in love with my work, which brings us to my first point.

Let’s recall: why do we fall in love with things? Why do we love books, songs, paintings, even people? We love them because they remind us of ourselves. They exist as a reflection of our beings. Like infants discovering the mirror for the first time, we are enthralled by the work, how it mimics our actions, how it speaks of exactly how we feel.

In effect, when we love things because they remind us of ourselves, we are indirectly glorifying ourselves. When we say we love a song entitled “I Will Love You Forever Because You’ve Broken My Heart And It’s Yours Forever, Goddammit,” we are in effect, expressing love for our own miserable love lives, because the song speaks of a situation that mirrors our own experience. We sympathize with the hero because in our minds, we are the hero of the story, we are the persona of the song and we totally dig ourselves.

Second point, why do we create things? We create things to express ourselves. As much as we should never assume that the artists is the persona shown in the work, we must remember that the artist can never create something genuine from something he has not felt, from something he doesn’t understand. In this regard, all personas are created with an idealized or distorted self-portrait in mind, whether representational or non-representational. The persona will always reflect elements of the artist’s perception of self. Look at the Bible. It says that God created man in His image, because He wanted an outward expression of His being. He wanted to bring something into the world that reflected Him.

Deep down, the writer makes endless autobiographies. When he presents a character, he gives it positive and negative characteristics culled from himself or from other people. He will put pieces of himself in all the characters, because he cannot write their story objectively without entering each persona and giving it life.

Since it is a culmination of the two, the love for something that reminds us of ourselves and art as a medium of expression of self, we can say that Pygmalic Love is a form of double-vanity. We’ve created something in our own image and we love it for that very fact. We love it because we love ourselves. We love it because we’re vain.

Let’s return to the concept of Pygmalic Love in creating people because it poses an odd question. If the creator loves the creation out of a sense of vanity, because it is a reflection of himself, what about parental love? Is maternal/paternal instinct simply a BS term for loving a being we’ve created in our image?

It’s something we’ve labored to create, something we’ve borne from our own essence, do we love it because it’s a bawling, helpless version of ourselves that needs to be brought up to be like us? Do we love it because we’re vain?

That question is an appropriate ending, I guess. Pygmalion only loved Galatea because Galatea was him in female form. Man is, indeed, a very vain creature. Can he love something that is unlike him in any way?

These are currently Apa’s “really deep thoughts,” what’re yours? Over.

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Protected: Sir, the bullshit is lovely tonight.

November 23, 2009 at 10:40 am (Uncategorized)

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i i e e e: A Conspiracy of Gasms

November 21, 2009 at 1:20 pm (Uncategorized)

Well, I haven’t blogged in some time, not because I haven’t had time as much as because I haven’t had things to say. Inspuhration is hard to find, especially when you’re tired as I am. I am. I am. i i e e e. i i e e e. i i e e e.

Alright, so I know we’re dying but why can’t it be beautiful? I think suffering is one of the most beautiful things one can feel, partially because any form of passion is a powerful feeling (as in I Gotta Feeling and it’s passion, bitch), and I think when something overwhelms you, it strips you raw and you have a ___gasm. It could be a sadgasm, when you’re suddenly overwhelmed with misery to the point that the misery has become ecstasy. It could be a foodgasm, when you’re overwhelmed with the deliciousness of the fewd. It could be a lovegasm, when you’re overwhelmed by how many people really love you and you feel that you’re special, that you’re something.

Point being that all powerful emotions, all overwhelming feelings have the potential to give you ecstasy of some kind. It simply requires that you embrace the fits of odd emotion, and let them express themselves for what they are, sadgasms, happygasms, LOLgasms, mourngasms, breakupgasms and especially foodgasms, they’re prolly the best. 😀

I think the week has been beautiful, because of the sheer variation of gasms. I think Jowi’s theory on equal amounts of BV and GV given a week is totally correct, though I’m not sure if the theory works with a lifetime. Perhaps I’ll work out a lifetime list of BVs and GVs one of these days.

In the meantime, I guess smiling would be great, so I will do a lot of it. 😀

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Still The Wanting Comes In Waves

November 16, 2009 at 12:09 pm (Uncategorized)

Humans are culled from the four elements. Earth gives us firmness, Water gives us softness, Air gives us life and Fire gives us passion. Water has this kind of passion sometimes that is different, it’s a soft, nudging passion that can drown you if you’re not careful, for the wanting, the wanting, it comes in waves.

The Decemberists are brilliant people and this song just hits me every time. It’s part of their album The Hazards Of Love which they treated as something of a British folk-rock opera with actual characters. What I love about the British folk movement is that it takes so much of the pagan elements of the region and it tells such haunting tales of love and tragedy with faeries and dwarves aplenty.

The Hazards Of Love tells the story of William, a forest spirit who falls in love with a girl named Margaret but his mother, the Forest Queen forbids it. “The Wanting Comes In Waves/Repaid” depicts the scene where he begs his mother for just one night with the girl he loves and he is granted the wish (though later in the story, the Queen changes her mind, the fickle bitch).

Now wasn’t that wonderful?

Today was very good indeed, a lot of strange elements, the fire and brimstone and passion and fire. I missed everyone but not the work. Apparently, Ma’am Moca had a symbolic dream where I was in a leather jacket and was about to go off on my motorcycle in a very sad fashion. She thinks it’s because she won’t be teaching us next term. No wonder I was sad in the dream. 😛

Dear JV, Facebook addiction is definitely a major issue. However, trying to address it discretely will come to no long-term progress since in two years time, another social networking site with twice Facebook’s awesome will have taken its place. Let’s call it… Shuwaza. Your friends will be all, “Hey, I saw those pictures you posted on Shuwaza last night,” and teachers will be all, “Oy, aral muna bago Shuwaza.”

It’s futile to treat Facebook discretely from other social networking sites because if your goal is to increase productivity by curbing unnecessary Internet usage, by being more general, you can tackle the issue as a whole and be able to handle it in one sweep. As the almighty Ron Capinding says, “May kayamanan sa kalabuan.”

IGKAS practice was exciting. We are tackling the war in Mindanao and I am a MILF, dammit.

MILF

Sir Nald is a pretty good director. The scene looks honest-to-pancakes interesting. I am in Scenes H, I and J of the production and I think those are actually the last three. I’m panicked because I don’t know what changes must occur in my wardrobe in between. Difficult, indeed.

OH OH OFFICIAL LAUNCH OF THE PUGAD BOOK ON WEDNESDAY, 4:15 at True Brew. Hope you people can make it.

I dunno why I’m addressing all these little things now. I think it brings back memories of when my blogs contained the entire horizontal scope of the day. I think it also distracts me from the monsters of the day, like Love and Anger (Fire), Lightness and Suffocation (Air), Fear and Cold (Water) and Bondage and Weight (Earth). Disturbed, distracted, dismayed, dis love has taken its toll on me and I said goodbye too many times before.

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Bedbug Bitten

November 14, 2009 at 11:12 pm (Uncategorized)

Well, I got bitten by a bunch of bedbugs and now I’m itching everywhere. I tried to think of something poetic to do with bedbugs and the sanctity of the bed, and how you don’t let most people into it, but I got stuck at “Bedbugs sneak their way/into your bed/between your legs/where they lay their little eggs” and I was so amused I couldn’t take the poem seriously.

Alright, so the weekend is on its way out and life is moderately empty (that would make me twice the pessimist).

This song just kills me. Teenage love. Crapp:

“I’m too young for a man, but I’m too old for a boy, so can’t we just pretend that I’m older than I really am, but then only little girls pretend.”

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Chapter 27: Acceptance

November 12, 2009 at 9:14 am (Uncategorized)

So, a few days back, I posted a mixtape that served as a soundtrack for The Catcher In The Rye. Another component of that project is the imagined Chapter 27 of the book. I’ve just finished this and I’m too lazy to edit now, so I’ll let you peeps see it. Tell me what you think. 😀

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So one day, I was just sitting around this crumby room they gave me. I think it was morning, but you couldn’t really tell since there were no windows and I was staring at my suitcase and I thought about Harriet Pullman. She was this skinny little thing, with pale blonde hair and light grey eyes. When she smiled, it just broke your heart because it looked like something so hard for her frail face to do.

She’d leave little notes in my pocket when I wasn’t looking or anything, even when my efforts were clearly directed to Jane, who was kind of her best friend back then. She’d fold them into these little paper hearts and stick them in my pocket. That killed me.

I kept every single heart in a little pocket inside my suitcase and I’d go back and read them and I’d think about her. I could never bring myself to throw them out. They were pretty nice, anyway.

Then, the door opened and I sat up. Dr. Greenwood walked in with a smile and said, “Holden, my boy, it’s time for the session.”

I nodded and stood up and followed him out the door. The treatments here are pretty okay, I guess. They don’t give you those shock treatments like in The Snake Pit. The Snake Pit is this movie that I watched and the star was this girl who had a mental breakdown and ended up in some institution and the whole affair was so phony because the institution seems like such a happy, normal place to be and all the patients are nice, eccentric ladies who strike conversations and smoke with her and the shock therapy actually helps her and she feels completely better afterwards. You’d be afraid they’d start singing and dancing at any given moment. I wanted to laugh but I thought I might puke instead.

Dr. Greenwood led me to a separate room where there was a single table and two chairs on either side of the table.

“Sit down, Holden,” he said. I did as he said but he stayed standing. “Alright, Holden,” he said, looking at his notes, “You’ve been doing fine and dandy so far. You’re a fast one. We’ve managed to identify your problem areas and the things you need to do to apply yourself and that’s great. Hold your horses, though, ‘cause this next step we’re about to take is a tad tough. Hope you can handle it.”

I leaned closer and gave him a look of nonchalance, exuding the confidence of someone who could handle it, “What might that ‘next step’ be, Doctor?”

He just smiled very mysteriously for a while. Sometimes I’d wonder if Dr. Greenwood was just another patient who had disguised himself as a doctor and now he was just toying with all the other crazies. It was a scary thought. Finally, he said, “Acceptance.”

Dr. Greenwood just smiled at me for a while, silently bathing in the impact of this word, “acceptance.” After ten hours of smiling at me, he started to explain, “Now, you need to start out healing the little broken parts, the relationships, the attitudes and eventually, yourself, really.”

And as he said this, he started to walk to another door. “Holden, I’ve brought you a visitor,” he said as he began to open the door, slowly. “Allie, you can come in now.”

The door opened and Allie walked in with his head down, avoiding my eyes. He was taller now and he was starting to look more like a man than a boy.

Dr. Greenwood smiled, pretty satisfied with his little trick, “I’ll leave and leave you boys alone for now. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

After Dr. Greenwood walked out the door, Allie sat down across from me, still looking down and not saying anything. Looking at his curly red hair and his freckles, I kind of wanted to hug him right there and then, but I just said, “Hey, Allie. How’s it going?”

He looked up now and just stared at me angrily for a bit, then he said, “Holden, I- I don’t know what to be more offended by, the non-speaking terms or the fact that you told everyone I was dead, that I’d had leukemia and just died.”

I tried to make the situation a little better, saying, “Well, I’m really sorry and I promise I’ll make it up to you. You know, I still have your mitt. You wanna go out for a few pitches sometime?”

Allie sighed and looked down again. “I told you, I don’t play baseball anymore. You can keep it or give it away somewhere if you like. I’m sure some kid would love to have an old, crumby mitt with green ink all over it.”

That just killed me, but I tried not to show him it did. “So how’re things at home? Mom, Dad and Phoebe? They haven’t visited in a hundred years.”

“Oh, Phoebe was great in her play. Mom and Dad are the same as always,” Allie paused briefly, then looked at me again. “You know, I just want to know why, why you went so far to tell yourself I was dead. Holden, you know me. It hurt to be denied. It hurt every time you’d pass by my room and pretend I wasn’t there. It hurt when you’d write back home to Mom, Dad and Phoebe and not me. What for, Holden? What did I do?”

He was tearing up a little and bit his lip to stifle a sob. I thought about it for a while and I said, “You changed. You stopped being my brother, Allie.”

“What? What did I do?”

“I don’t know. It just happened and I just couldn’t handle you not being that little brother, who played baseball and read books all the time and never hurt a fly, and-“

Allie looked at me exasperatedly and muttered, “Because you wanted to be the catcher in the rye.”

And I just felt so sad, all of the sudden and I said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t catch you.” We sat silently for a while after, not even looking at each other.

“Holden,” Allie said after three hours, looking like some of the anger had died down, but not really the hurt, “Remember when you and Bobby Fallon would go down to Lake Sedebego back in Maine and you told me I couldn’t come?”

I looked up at him and said, “You’re not still sore about it, are you?”

“You were trying to keep me from falling, but I followed you two anyway. I biked fifty paces behind you, then I walked behind you and watched you shoot your BB guns and laugh and talk, and you know what I realized? It’s that it’s not that different outside the rye.”

With that, he just stood up and walked out the door he came in through. There and then, I just started to cry. Acceptance. What does that even mean?

Seeing as Dr. Greenwood didn’t come back, I guessed the session was over, so I went back to my room and sat on my bed at stared at the wall. Everything seemed colder now. I poked through my suitcase and pulled out the mitt and it still smelled like old leather and grass and ink. Then, I saw one of those hearts from old Harriet. I put the mitt down on the bed and opened the heart and inside, it said,

♥ If you love somebody, set them free, because you do care and you love them enough. ♥

Goddam phony piece of crap. I just wanted to puke all over it. I can’t believe I kept all of these goddam hearts when all they do is make me sick. I turned and saw a little waste basket under the writing desk in the room. I got every single goddam heart I had in my suitcase and tossed them all in. I had to press them down so they’d fit. Then, I saw Allie’s mitt on the bed. I guessed there was no use keeping it now, so I picked it up and tossed it in, too.

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The New Cardio Workout

November 10, 2009 at 11:52 am (Uncategorized)

You see, the first stanza was a stat on Facebook months and months ago and it lay dormant at the back of my mind, ’cause, y’know, that happens a lot. I finished it this morning. Still lacks bite. I want it to rawr at you. Thoughts?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Cardio Workout

My heart is a gymnast,
twisting herself into
impossible shapes,
taking leaps in perfect form
for your entertainment tonight.

My heart is a weightlifter,
lifting the beastly burden
of our hundred-pound love above
his head with pride and pain
for your entertainment tonight.

My heart is a boxer,
taking the blows,
all bloody and bruised,
jabbing back furiously,
for your entertainment tonight.

Our love has always been
a bloody sport on my part,
ragged glory snatched
from the jaws of
the greatest pain,
but you tell me, that at
the heart of the matter,

it’s only just a game.

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