The Procession

A night of fitful waiting, passing the time by finally unwrapping the shrink-wrap off a months-ago purchased copy of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road. This cream-papered orange and white covered one emblazoned with the publisher’s Penguin, touted as the unedited version of the mythical, single-paragraphed, singular holy tracing paper scroll. My lover, my man, raven long-haired solid soul that he is, walks barefoot on the streets of Quiapo fulfilling an annual panata. Modern link between boy and girl (seems too youthful, final, exuberant to be man and woman) of mobile phone communication severed for five hours.

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Archival Quality

Simmering, transparent yellow instant pancit canton noodles. Overcooked them again. Between time stove was turned on until water was boiling, the following:

Thought about digitizing my old journal entries, written in more than a half-dozen moldy notebooks, the perceptive juvenilia of a younger time. Nothing noteworthy, but at least I’d like to compile everything into a central repository, ripe for tagging, searching; past thoughts transformed into meta. Maybe I should start with the drawings and poems; I’ve done the scanning and typing heavy lifting years before.

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A Recording

Hello, testing, testing…

I do my best writing inside the bathroom. It’s when my mind is at its most fertile. I feel like hashing out ideas and the words just come in a continuous torrent. It’s different when I’m faced with a writing medium, like the impersonal outlines of a glowing computer screen, or the void of a blank page, and the emptiness just threatens to swallow me, and my literary output just dwindles to impotence. It’s like there is this pressure to produce, and I never want such an enjoyable, cathartic, deeply personal activity to be tainted with anything so commercial or contrived or impersonal.

I don’t want to disgorge output based on structure, or topics. I just cling on to a thing… a flicker crosses the sentient mind and suddenly it has this overwhelming power over me. And I think, and I roll it around in my mind, like a tongue lolling over hard candy, you savor it and you can’t stop until it melts. And it’s gone, and it leaves this sweet aftertaste that you just have to recapture on paper. That’s what writing is for me.

Over the past few days, it has struck again, the writing bug. but of course, it’s all in clinical, wry prose. I haven’t plumbed the depths of my emotion to the extent that I can write heartfelt poetry. I’m not there yet, and I’d like to try someday, but there’s this sense that I’m holding back my feelings. My metaphors are pale and weak and cowering in the face of harsh introspection. Unlike before, when they just arrived on the page with their own brutality and unflinching, raw honesty. I don’t know if I can summon that again, but I’ll try.

I’m trying out this recording thing. I don’t know what will happen. We’ll see.

Recorded and transcribed verbatim. In a husky, sloooow drawl that barely resembles the high, sweet, chirpy voice-image that I have of my own vocals in my head.

A Silence Measured In Years

And now, a torrent.

Somehow I feel like the 140-character limit on Twitter is beginning to constrict me. Plus, there are followers of different stripes, tastes and trust levels to accommodate now; despite starting the account as a 24-hour brain fart dump, it has become impractical to say truly what’s on my mind. Continue reading