Arctic Beetle

Quick Thought 1: When happiness is y dependent on an x, can it not ever exist as a middleway, which, at most, can only satisfy the parties involved, but rather as an absolute, genuine fulfillment that is not liable to instigate any regret or ill feeling later on? Having mentioned that this happiness in question follows a y = f(x) relation, I suppose this query is pointless because the only way to go about achieving this is to have either one of the forces contributing to the tension let go of his end of the string. But then, my sole premise was the constant tugging between the two concerned players, so if they both willfully lose their grip, wouldn’t that be the same as a compromise?

Quick Thought 2: I find that a person with raw wisdom cannot fully transcend to the level of a philosopher unless one of his feet is propped on the pit of the fallacy of composition. The intent of these thinkers has always been to pen all-encompassing generalizations on entities whose idea of permanence is but theoretical and ideal. If canines differ largely from their personalities, yet are still dogs, how is it that they’re trying to cramp us in a single statement? I am put off by the conception that as long some satisfy the anatomical qualifications of a man, they automatically merit to be collectively called as a humanity together with the rest. Part of being a human is our implicit rationality, and if by its usage, some mean the dastardly act of hoarding money through illegal means or settling to bloodshed and other corrupted machinations, then let us allow them to win over the title of humanity while the lot of us relinquish it for a label with a much agreeable nature.

Quick Thought 3: To further drive home my point in number 2, I am disposed to say that they are doing us a great disservice because we all know for a fact that leaders don’t forever remain righteous, not all the governed necessitate guidance from their leaders because sometimes it’s the other way around, and this or that form of government is not always apt for societies with varying histories. Philosophers should have recognized that the same mental aptitude that breathed life to their treatises is what precisely makes all of us not simplistic.

The digital clock in my room just moved a minute forward– it’s now 10:38 PM. For ten minutes, I will let these hands accede to this faucet of thoughts stricken with frequent shortages. I used to do this a lot as a way to relieve myself of the shackles of grammar and what should be considered literary or not. But maybe this was actually a habit developed as an excuse to write bad. As much as I don’t want to stop, I am short of fillers and my hands are hurting too from the lack of respite since this morning. So now, I will tell you about this loud and uncomfortable sound my keyboard makes, particularly the space key which I use a lot. I digress a lot (and use “a lot” a lot) but just now, I thought of something worth adding on to the idea I built up a while ago.

If my memory serves me correctly, the first time I tried this, my stream of thought did not take me far. Firmly latched onto me were the pressure of time constraint, and the urge to edit, erase and to press the backspace key. I’m actually not quite certain whether my pinky finger hasn’t hit the backspace key in the past seven minutes; perhaps it has become a habitual practice and for this reason, my reality now refuses to categorize it as unnatural. I vehemently wish I didn’t because everything I’ve typed so far will be rendered invalid, and I would have violated the rules of the game then.

Only a moment ago, the clock hit 10:46 PM and that leaves me with two minutes or less than two minutes (for time never pauses) to close this. What else? You know how they say a true writer should be able to write anywhere and anytime with his style unmodified? Too bad, I am no writer– it’s such a big word to call myself or anybody for that matter. Like giving someone the title gamer! Anyway, going back to what I said, I find it tougher to write with a piece of paper and a pen than with a keyboard close to my hands. I wish I can start amending my ways with a tangible journal. Good ol’ instinct tells me this should end in 15 seconds. I have nothing else to say.

Isang ungol ang bumasag ng aking panaginip
Malamang si Bantay iyon, ang aso namin
Awoo, awoo, awoo, ang kanyang pag-uulit
Sikmura o dila kaya niya ang may nais?

Dumilat ako at dumalaw sa kulungan
Ilang iglap akong nagitla sa tagpong tanaw
Bakas ang hirap sa panginginig ni Bantay
Daing pala ay ang maselang umbok sa tiyan

Di kusang naging saksi ako sa pribadong yugto
Ng nakapanghihinang pakikipagbuno ni Bantay
Para at laban sa laman ng sinapupunan
Upang makasapit sa isang mainam na areglo

Malaon din bago umusbong ang punla
Maliit at kapos sa proteksyon, subalit kumakapit
Sa kanyang mapag-arugang yapos at dila
Na hindi natitinag na katiyakan ang hatid

Gunita ang nagdala sa aking mga paa pabalik
Sa silid na matagal ko nang hindi nabisita
Ipinagkasya ko ang sarili sa espasyong para sa isa
Ngunit kailanman ay hindi naiba sa akin
Naalimpungatan siya at nang may bahagyang ngiti
Binalutan ako ni Ina ng kanyang init
At kami ay nahimbing sa malalim na gabi

——

Nakaupo ako sa inidoro (mahalaga at kailangan talaga ang detalyeng ito) at nakatitig sa kawalan nang bigla kong maalala na may isinulat nga pala akong tula noong isang semestre na mailalapit sa okasyon ngayon. Makailang beses din ako nagrebisa at nagsumikap gumawa ng tugmaan kaya kung pilit pakinggan, pasensya at ipasaaiyo mo na lang pagkasuklam. Tulang pambata dapat ito para sa isang elective ngunit sa makailang-ulit na paghagod ko ng pagbasa, parang lumalabas na teenager ang persona. Bata pa bang maituturing ‘yun? Ewan ko lang, sa palagay ko kasi, iyon ang mga taon na tumutulay sa patlang sa pagitan ng pagkabata at pagiging mayor-de-edad.

Wala akong espesyal na nagawa para kay Mama sa araw na ito. Hindi ko siya nasabihan ng “I love you” at ni hindi ko rin siya pinaretiro kahit ngayon lang sa mga gawaing-bahay. Sana, sa kabila ng aking sinabi na hindi ako komportable sa pagbisita niya sa aking blog, ay mapadpad siya rito para mabasa ang mga katagang pupunan sa hindi masambit na paghanga at pasasalamat. Happy Mother’s Day!

Everything in the lagoon seems to have shed off the summer skin it had for the longest time. The smell of being recently graced with a drizzle or morning dew is prominent. Each ray of light that illuminates the place is carefully screened by the layers of tree limbs piled up high.

No sound could made out except for the shrill voices echoed by a talking tableau from a distance and the feeble rustle of the leaves as a meek swift of wind moved past them. An incessant and pesky monologue by a classmate in the background could also be heard. To tell you the truth (for truth’s sake), my eardrums prefer that choir’s piece delivered with poor diction than my classmate’s occasional absence of tactfulness. In fact, they don’t even deserve comparison, but that’s beside the point.

As far as my observations are concerned, the lagoon is probably named such because of the water that used to stream beneath the quasi-bridge along the walkway. Now, it looks like a mere canal meant to be a sewer’s component. The lagoon, minus the periodic fumes from the vehicles in the parking lot beside it, would have been the most solacing place in UP if it really lived up to its name or the water part of it, at least.

As I sat on a rock overgrown with moss underneath of what appeared like a tree that was there for quite some time in-situ, at least fifteen leaves have descended in a manner you could attribute to a pinwheel that has been stirred not by a mortal-induced breeze. The fallen ones had the finesse and delicacy of Maria Clara as they made their way through the grass and the cemented walkways, stumbling and faltering as though being in water for the first time. What a both unbefitting and befitting place this is for Maria Clara –- tranquil but rumored to be an affiliate or God knows, maybe a branch of Sogo Hotel.

The wind leads everthing it can sway to the direction of what I consider to be the center of the lagoon on account of the round cement tables and chairs it boasts. This centerpiece specializes in being the freedom wall of the place’s seemingly frequent and angsty visitors. For one, they all prove to be a very good source of autograph book-worthy mottos written in pentel pen like “Patayin ang karibal para walang sagabal.” or “Pinanganak akong walang kakambal kaya wala dapat akong karibal.” I was also very fortunate to have come across a letter within the five-meter radius of the table basically stating that “Tita, pasensya na po kung malandi ako.” Engravings such as “Angelica love John” on the stump of a nearby tree shouldn’t also be missed. I guess this is what they call the Filipino teenage crisis.

Because I am not aspiring to get an uno in Biology 11 nor to be a taxonomist (the thought never crossed my mind until this moment), the most distinction I can give between the trees found past the striking stage not far from the tables is their appearance. The only one I can identify is the coconut tree with its desiccated yields. The rest are just tree with a lot of branches, tree with a large trunk or simply a tall tree to my eyes. In the thick of these along with the bushes, a woman in her thirties is idly waiting for something – or someone, as it later turned out. Uncanny, they could have just met in the waiting shed of Palma Hall or a more salient landmark.

Now I kind of comprehend why this place is the usual target of lovers eager for some sexual impropriety. The lagoon sure invokes that feeling of secrecy, despite it being a known hallmark for random peep shows. I would have enjoyed my one-hour visit more if I was able to catch one and thus, had something more exciting to write about, but I am also grateful that I wasn’t because curiosity can definitely kill the cat.

Seeping through the thick foliage are the effulgent arms of the moon which caused the branches and the leaves of the lofty trees hurl silhouettes a little distance from right below them. The air is practically placid—even so, dim crackling sounds from the leaves that were beginning to dry up and molder back to the ground where they descended from can be heard. Unlike its usual vigor and strength, the stream’s influx seems to be quite held back by an invisible hand that has set obstructions along the length it prances on. It was as if the same hand hit a pause button for everything.

—

Resin Duct

Mopping up my leaked grey matter, I recovered these:

A life-size pen with an irremovable cap
Tangled strings and matrices of verses
A paint brush seeking for its bristles
Jars of mixture of honey and muggy paint
Debris of fantasy bordering reality
A music box unperturbed in its five-note frenzy
Tomes frail from being shelved since time immemorial
Dismantled fascicles and heaps of neurons
A grandfather clock with 25-hour divisions
Lilliputian men pirouetting

Didn’t know my cranium is a pocket of peculiar things