- Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.
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Saturday, December 17, 2016 | December 17, 2016 |
Sunday Afternoon Crisis
According to Plato, existence can be categorised into two realms: one is the realm of the material, and the other, the realm of transcendent forms. In the former, which is the topic of this discussion, everything is limited and measured. The world as we know it can be broken down into chemicals which ultimately becomes us, both flesh and not. Certainly it is a finite world, for imperfect Beings cannot subsist in a perfect one (the world of forms), as the result will be chaos.
With science, this world that has once filled the ancients with awe suddenly became bland and contrived. Detail after detail it informs us about what-is, what-there-is, how-is; under the banner of medicine it meddles with our lives, highlighting how ought we live when in fact no amount of medicine and scientific know-how can guarantee us immortality. And is that not what the progress of science aims for? Immortality— that is, the fountain of youth, the road to El Dorado, etc.? When our eyes hanker for what is in plain sight, it creates ways to satisfy that lust. The explorers of yore made us yearn for an exotic palate when they discovered spices; they made us aspire to be wealthy when they discovered treasures of all kinds from around the world, and for all of these, they made us want to live as long as we can to covet and have the strength to satiate our desires.
It makes it clear to me to see that science, when used as a business commodity, becomes a tale of tragedy.
Science has not escaped the clutches that the power of greed have over men. This limited world was supposed to be full of mystery until mankind decided that it does not want surprises or mysteries anymore. Hence we exist in an age where the only entity that matters are numbers: “what time does one have to get up?”, “how many hours does one have to work?”, “how much do you get paid?”, “how many admirers do you have?”, “how many places have you travelled to?”, “how many friends and followers on social media?” “how many years does one get to live?” All of these questions are a destitute reminder of how far— and how low mankind has come. Living by the numbers is a pledge to live as a failure.
“Man-unkind”, as E.E. Cummings would say.
Man-unkind indeed has infiltrated the once inscrutable abyss of the world and beyond. While it has not yet fully discovered every nook and corner of the universe, it is continually seeking ways to do so.
What science fails to give us, the power of the imagination can supply. Science itself started as a project of the imagination when the first philosopher (Thales) asked “What comprises the universe?” but it has long since escalated into a downward spiral to being a thing used for monetary gain. What goes on in the confines of the mind is a wide-range of possibilities, though certainly not infinite. The imagination is a great tool to possess when one refuses to live by the numbers. Again, although not limitless, the imagination offers us the idea that we are more than mere numbers, that unless Providence decrees for it to be so, the possibilities of what we can achieve if we set our hearts and minds to it are endless.
Now here arises the problem, since what started for science as a project of the imagination ended in by-the-numbers pedagogy, is it not foreseeable then that the end of the imagination is the mundane? That every man’s journey in life leads him to the commonplace, to a mere number? This is no ordinary problem, but an existential crisis of the highest order.
If man’s raison d’être is to avoid boredom as much as possible, how come mankind strives to acquire knowledge of everything? Does he not know that is shall bore him out of his wits should the world not be shrouded in mystery anymore?
Man, however, is very stubborn and like Sylvia Plath, we all “desire very deeply that which will destroy us in the end.” So it is the same with man’s desire for progress, his wanting to quench his thirst for infinity and immortality. To live by the numbers, the how-many’s and the how-much’s, this is our secret longing— and the imagination is just a pawn in our striving for it. If we look deeply, our eagerness to live with the principle of not getting bored inclines us exactly to that path.
The imagination is a pawn, science is a pawn; the intricacies of worldly knowledge are nothing more than pastimes for a species whose motivation to live is to not get bored.
We all fall in this category and there are no exceptions. To summarize it, life is just one great big pastime until judgement day comes. Imagination, while it lifts us to heights we haven’t been in before, is bound to go downhill to its destination of drab facts and plebeian figures. We get bored easily so that we could invent more things to get bored of again. The cycle repeats itself in a Sisyphus-Like manner, and we are contented with this setting for lack of any better option. It may not be pretty, but this is the raw, incorrigible, and nonetheless prosaic fact of being human as I realize it on a mundane Sunday afternoon.
Labels: 2016, essay, philosophical, sunday
Saturday, December 10, 2016 | December 10, 2016 |
Never Generation
Youth I am not
I said
a maudlin sentiment
in protest
of my generation
how their
vainglorious
look-at-me
garish ways
reflective of a
nincompoop
and their petty
maundering and
atrocious patois
rankles me so
never my generation
I refuse to be part of
rather am I
given
to my effulgent
dreams fraught
with hope for
dismantling
what this world
has come to
possess in the
form of
sporadic morals
basking in a
dicey outlook
for this
never generation
of which
youth I am not
my lips are open
not
lest I be met
with paroxysyms
of laughter
and how they
jeer and point out
and scrutinize
previous flaws,
inconsistencies,
failures,
and big old crapulous me
as they exhaust
their empty
badinage
but blind I am not
and it is
quite limpid
that behind
the flashing smiles
the love of conformity,
digital adroitness,
lies a godless
and funereal
ideology of
anti-individuality
and forced tolerance
towards what is
blatantly wrong
it is the
skeleton behind
the proverbial closet
of this never generation
Labels: 2016, aiko-lactaotao, filipino poets, free verse, poetry, women poets
| December 10, 2016 |
A Mango Affair
kokak goes the frog from
Somewhere at the farm in
Salapungan, Gerona, Tarlac, the
place where me and my family
get mangoes
that we sell
for a price at the palengke
the
place where me and my family
get the money for my tuition fee
for
four years in college where
I took up a course that
sounds good in a diploma
it’s called philosophy
but the
only philosophical thing
about it all is how
I got a job which has
nothing to do at all with
what
I
studied
for four years-
a funny thing because
me and my family
got the money for my tuition fee
at the Mango orchard albeit
it’s quite sad
that the mangoes
nowadays are sold in the palengke
for a cheaper price exactly at
a time when I could see
that there is hope for me
after all
(oh, oh!)
But,
bach bach bach goes the chickens
in the farm in Salapungan, Gerona,
Tarlac, how I loathe their noise
chickens send chills up my spine
ugly as they are with their
bach - bach - bach - bach
at the place where me
and my family get mangoes
that we sold
So I could get an education
(I just want to point it out)
though it has a cheaper price
nowadays
would you like to have
some mangoes?
Please help yourself
to one tiklis
until your blood sugar
goes up ohwahtwillwedo
but I got a job
somewhere far from Salapungan,
Gerona, Tarlac,
away
From the kokaks and the
bach bach bachs
Please have a mango
Labels: 2016, aiko-lactaotao, filipino poets, free verse, poetry, women poets
| December 10, 2016 |
Bearded Jesus
What’s in a picture?
A White Man
Was his hair brown? CuzInAllPicturesItIs
Was he a Jew? Nah
CuzTheyBelongToTheirFatherTheDevil
Kosher Jesus
Hippie Jesus
in San Francisco, circa NineteenSixtyEight
White people want their Jesus White.
White Jesus
The son of man
(though not the son of a white man)
I’d like to walk on water too
-and turn water into wine
(except I prefer Coca Cola)
Cola Jesus
He died for my sins
-AndWithTheRateI’mGoing I guess He’s DyingEveryday
BUT,
The pastor will burn in hell anyway,
that’s what he gets for
believing in a long-haired Jesus
Jesus saves
Jesus shaves
Labels: 2016, aiko-lactaotao, experimental poetry, filipino poets, free verse, poetry, women poets
| December 10, 2016 |
Fire
The house was as dilapidated as the soul of its owner. Rust permeates the roof, dirty unkempt windows with finger-stains of urchins who dare venture the territory gave away what the townspeople knew all along: that Mr. Gragasin, seventy-eight years of age, is slowly dying of an unnamed malady.
Inside, walls which were once white now have a rotting yellow hue to them and the sound of the floor creaking was like the knell of a church bell announcing the impending funeral of a man in the throes of death.
A flight of stairs, the room on the farthest left, I enter Mr. Gragasin's room; an emaciated figure turns his head towards me, nodding weekly to acknowledge my presence. His nose was blackened and the rest of his body was covered with wounds from which secrete pus. "I've come to administer the last rites." I said, not without flinching a little at the stench of decay coming from his sores.
He seemed to have noticed my predicament for he jerked his arm a little to reach out for a blanket to cover himself. Then a shaking finger pointed to the little altar above his head. "Those didn't help, what makes you think you can?" He told me with a hint of sarcasm. I was taken aback and didn't have an answer for him. "Let's put it this way, you will be the last man to ever see me alive so let's cut the fat and get down to the meat. You want my story? I'll tell you my story." He said. I grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it closer to the bed to hear what he had to say.
"This town is abandoned. Dead. The fields are barren and the ponds dry. Livelihood is nada. I was a believer like you so I prayed to God that rain may come but it never did. Once, when the heat was so strong, a dry leaf started a fire in my backyard but I didn't put a stop to it, for some reason I was mesmerized. I watched closely until I heard a voice. Thunderous and loud. But I wasn't afraid, in the back of my mind I knew what it was and I had to make the deal." Here Mr. Gragasin stopped to let out a series of coughs. "What was it?" I urged him on. Finally, he spoke again, "It was the Devil himself. He told me that rain would come. I brought this curse upon myself. In exchange for rain, my body would deteriorate until I die and," he trailed on. "And what?" I said, half-shouting. "And the curse would simply live on." Again he started coughing. He covered his face for a while and I leaned closer to him.
There was a humming in my ears and suddenly all was silent. I looked down at his sorry figure. Dead. His face twisted with fear. I licked my lips. As long as there is sin and men falling to sin, I shall subsist. My belly is full. I am Lucifer. And you who read this, beware, for the wages of sin is death. I will come for you, there is no escape.
NOTE: Later that evening, for no apparent reason, Mr. Gragasin's house burned down to ashes. His remains were recovered, with the witnesses seeing shock plastered on what remained of his face. There were no signs of other individuals within the vicinity.
Labels: 2016, aiko-lactaotao, fiction, flash fiction
Friday, December 9, 2016 | December 09, 2016 |
The Non-Native Filipino Speaker's Guide To P*tang Ina
Rodrigo Duterte, the 16th president of the republic of the Philippines, talks tough. In the recent brouhaha over the his cancelled meeting with USA president Barrack Obama, Duterte supposedly referred to the latter by using an expletive. Obama’s response was to describe Duterte as a “colorful guy.” However, the media, true to its sensationalist nature, made a mountain out of a molehill by capturing sound bytes of Duterte saying “putang ina, murahin kita dyan sa forum” (son of a whore, I will curse you at the forum) and taking his words out of context. Local and international news outlets reported this as Duterte cursing at Obama, purporting it to be a low blow especially coming from a high official, but watching the video, I believe it to be nothing more than a misunderstanding.
“Putang ina” is a Filipino curse word taken from the Spanish word “puta” (whore) and the Ilocano word “ina” (mother), which when put together literally means “whore mother.” Another variant of the term is “putang ina mo,” which directly translates as “your mother is a whore.” It is the worst possible insult in the Filipino language, that is, when spoken with the word “mo” (your), but without the word “mo,” it simply counts as an expression of frustration. To cite an example, someone may ask something like “kumusta sabong?” (How’s the cockfight) and if the reply is “putang ina, talo!” (Whore mother, I lost!), the speaker is not cussing at the one who posed the question. Instead, he merely expresses his exasperation over losing at the cockfight.
Although Duterte did say “putang ina” in the video, he did not include the word “mo” (your). Now if the above mentioned explanation is to be considered, he (Duterte) did not call Obama a “son of a whore,” rather he was venting out a hair shirt over what he sees as America attempting to boss him around. In the speech, Duterte emphasized that the Philippines is no longer a colony of the States and as president he is to be held accountable for his actions only by the Filipino people. What Duterte refers to here is his administration’s ongoing war on drugs. There have been various complaints about extra-judicial killings, and being widely reported internationally, it prompted some comments from officials of other countries.
Duterte, called by Time Magazine as “The Punisher,” is firm in his campaign to rid the Philippines of illegal drugs. “It will be bloody,” he says in one of his speeches, and “we will not stop until the last drug pusher gets killed,” according to another speech. Drugs indeed are a serious problem in the country with millions of lives being affected in way or another. To be fair to the president, he never shied away from making his intentions known even during the election period, what with cuss-laden speeches pervading his campaign and his stubborn promises of purging the country of illegal drugs in the first six months should he be elected as president.
Far from the Filipino people deeming Duterte as someone who merely spews vitriol founded on empty campaign promises, they were able to identify with his frustrations and saw in him a breath of fresh air— an iconoclast that is not your typical politician hiding behind the veil of rhetoric. This unorthodox style won Duterte a landslide victory in the 2016 national elections. His win was a slap on the face to the establishment— the oligarchs riddling the political landscape like cancer cells spreading throughout a body by metastasis. He woke up the sleeping giant in the hearts of the Filipinos, namely, their longing for real change. And while he may be brash, there is an authenticity to his uncontrived ways that speaks to the average Filipino. Speaking as a citizen of this country myself, we’ve had enough of the oldfangled trapos with their corrupt ways, and Duterte, as one commentator says, is the Philippines’ “last best chance” to get things right.
It is yet to be seen whether Duterte can fulfill his campaign promises in a span of six months but the most important thing is that his administration is clearly taking steps to do so. “It will be bloody.” Again, there is no sugarcoating it— it is after all, a war. If the CHR (commission on human rights) doth protest, by all means let them so, but let them answer too to our question: where were you when these drug addicts killed and raped countless victims? Do the rights of a criminal surpass that of an innocent victim? It is clear with this that there are people out there blinded by idealistic notions of justice and equality. These ideals, while lofty, are oftentimes not applicable to real world situations. Evil is evil, and if the measures needed to put a stop to it involve killings, so be it.
“Putang ina.” In previous administrations, this is all the Filipino can say with the poor quality of life afforded him by the corruption and cowardice of officials he voted into office. Unreasonably high electric bills, “putang ina“; no wage hike, “putang ina”; another life ruined by illegal drugs, “putang ina”— with Duterte, a foul-mouthed maverick who frequently uses this swearword, the Filipino people finally found a voice. And while no one is claiming that he will immediately solve all the deep-seated problems of this country, at the very least his supporters can see that this man has a big pair.
To conclude, president Duterte didn’t curse at Obama. He used the term “putang ina” as an expression of frustration. No one can blame him as the problem of drugs has reached boiling point, and motions that mean to thwart the ongoing war against it are a hassle indeed. His articulation may not be the most eloquent, and as an elder statesman he lacks the sangfroid usually associated with those types, but all in all he has proven from the get-go that along with talking the talk, he can also walk the walk.
Labels: 2016, aiko-lactaotao, duterte, philippines, politics
Thursday, December 8, 2016 | December 08, 2016 |
Him
He loved using the Chatly app because as he himself admits, he’s too shy to meet girls in real life. The anonymous interactions that the app provided excited him even more than the possibility that somewhere in the world there is the right girl waiting for him. It was not an addiction he insists, but more of a basic human need for communication. “Then why don’t you ever go outside the house?” his mother frequently asks him and always, the replies are variations of how they live in a small town that boasts no excitement whatsoever. “Plus the girls in this town are either taken or ugly- and I’m not about to settle for personality!” he’ll say. The principle of the app is simple, you sign up, type in facts about yourself (gender, etc), and it automatically pairs you for chatting with someone whom the algorithms of the app determines as your perfect match. Whether or not it works for the both of you is outside the app’s control; it’s up to the people involved if they decide they liked each other enough to stick around. Otherwise, you can simply opt out by ending the chat.
He’s had instances when the girl on the other end would abruptly end the conversation without saying goodbye. He hates to confess it, but when they do that it stings on the inside as all rejections do, even anonymously. It was during the nth time playing around with the app that fate brought him to a girl named Jen. “I love Dystopian fiction.” This for some reason was Jen’s introduction. “1984?” he immediately typed in and Jen replied with “Totally!” It was love at first chat. The conversation went from books to the personal, spanning topics from favorite ice cream flavor to their shared Atheism. “There is no substantial evidence to prove that there exists a God. Man created the concept of a god as an excuse for his imperfections.” This was according to Jen and in his mind, this was a sign that he found a potential friend. Jen is a self-confessed introvert like him; she says she prefers staying at home as she’s “allergic to other people’s bullshit.”. And this information was the go signal for him to move to the next step.
“So, Jen, are you seeing anybody at the moment?” He typed on his phone, hoping that it didn’t sound too obvious his intentions. “Hmm…I’ve had some from the past, but at the moment? No.” Jen replied. He almost gave himself a high-five. Now having more confidence, he uploaded on the screen the best picture he could find in his photo album. He captioned: “This is a fairly recent pic of me. See, I’m not some pervert living in his mom’s basement, I’m just a regular guy albeit on the skinny side.” Again, he hoped that by uploading his picture Jen would be encouraged to do the same. “You kinda resemble David Foster Wallace when his hair was short, glasses and all…cute!” Then a pause. After a few awkward seconds Jen told him that she needed to run errands for her mom and that she had to end the chat. “Goodbye for now. You’re a cool dude to talk to. We’ll chat again. Bye!” Disappointed, he typed in his goodbye. However, there was no doubt in his mind that they will talk again through the app the next day.
When tomorrow came, he waited all day for Jen’s online status to light up. He ceased from his normal daily activity of sitting on his bed reading books just so when Jen does appear online, they’ll be able to chat. He waited all afternoon until his mother called him for dinner. At the table, his mom noticed that he won’t stop checking his phone instead of eating. “Mind your manners young man!” She told him in a sing-song voice. She only took her eyes off him when he tucked his phone in his shirt pocket. “By the way, your Grandma Janis and Uncle Ted will visit us tomorrow.” His mother informed him as she mushed her potatoes with a fork. He gave her a slight nod but it was obvious he wasn’t interested in any of that. Later on, lying on his bed at midnight, he patiently waited for Jen on the app. It was about an hour later when the screen showed him that Jen is finally online. Immediately, he tapped her name and typed in “Hey!”. Several moments passed before the word “SEEN” was displayed underneath his message but no reply came. He tried another approach: “I hope you’re not having any trouble with whatever. Even if you have, I’m here to listen.” Again, the word “SEEN” and nothing. He sighed. Did he come off as too upfront about his intentions? Perhaps the glasses made him come off as too nerdy? But she loves reading books and staying at home, surely she won’t mind hanging out with a nerd? Such are the questions that whirled inside his mind. In the end, he gave up. She was probably one of those girls who pretended they did the same things as smart people do so boys would take them seriously. And by boys, he meant the good-looking ones. He took it as a slight against his person but his defence mechanism retorted that by not uploading a picture, it was obvious that Jen was ugly. “And possibly fat.” He thought to himself, nursing his inner hurt by thinking the worst of the girl who hurt him. In the end, he got over it and slept in the wee hours of the morning.
He dreamt about a girl named Jen. In his dream, Jen was a pretty brunette with big breasts and a small waist. They stayed on his bed all day reading books and mocking religion with the occasional sex here and there. As he pounded her from behind in his dream sex scene, he kneaded her butt cheeks and slapped them hard until they turned red. In the dream, Jen stopped gyrating on his penis to turn her head to look at him; without warning, she transformed into a giant burrito. The dream ended here. He woke up to his mother’s voice and an aching erection.
His relatives visited them that day. Grandma Janis was lively for her age and as usual, uncle Ted was weird. He can’t help but imagine his uncle eating glue at a young age, uncle Ted certainly looked like someone who’d do that. With his uncle obese, balding, and smelling like moist fart, he had every evidence to assume so. Uncle Ted ignored him for the most part. While eating, uncle Ted made porcine sounds as he gorged on the meal prepared especially for their visit. After their lunch the four of them went to the front porch to have tea. Grandma Janis reminded his mother that she accidentally left a scarf on their house on a prior visit. The two women got up to go inside the house to look for it. Which leaves him alone outside with his uncle Ted. A bunglesome silence passed between them for neither would break the ice. More silence passed until the air suddenly smelled like rotten eggs; he looked sharply at Uncle Ted who shot him a glance before clearing his throat and looking up at the sky. He was about to cuss about uncle Ted’s unethical farting when his Grandma called from inside the house: “Ted! We’re leaving, say goodbye to your nephew and sister!” But uncle Ted did nothing of this. When uncle Ted got up from his chair, his nephew saw that he had left a phone behind. Still pissed off, he decided not to tell his uncle about it.
Later, when the visitors left, he got curious about his uncle’s phone. There was no passcode in it (he sort of expected it that a buffoon like his uncle would not think twice about security) and he could freely navigate all of its contents. Suddenly a familiar blue logo caught his eye. It was the Chatly app. He gave it a tap and inside were the details of his chatting history. He scanned the names until he saw HIS.
We all have our quirks. Some put the milk first before the cereal, and some like cats more than humans. If you think about, it’s pretty normal to be unique. But even if you are self-proclaimed nonconformist, there are simply standards we have to maintain when dealing with society such as not breaking the law for example. While it is not wrong to have that bit of weirdness in you, too much of something is never a good thing. Especially if you’re a fifty-eight year old obese, balding, smelly, virgin pretending to be a young woman half your age to lure unsuspecting boys on the internet.
Uncle Ted’s chat history showed that he is pretending to be a girl named Jen and that he has engaged in what they call nowadays as “sexting” with several young men. It suggested that he started the chats off with bold statements about himself to gain the attention of his victims. On one of these chats he introduces himself as a redhead with Irish heritage- “Kiss me I’m Irish!” uncle Ted says. He felt his stomach turn upon reading the threads wherein some of the young men uploaded pictures of their private parts for uncle Ted’s predatory eyes to claim. Some of these boys are not even older than fourteen according to what he has read.
He recalled the dream. The brunette. The burrito. The balding oaf who still lived with his mother. HIS uncle Ted.
Then he thought about himself. Rarely going outside the house. Living with his mom. No friends. Lurking the interwebs for potential sex-partners.
He put two and two together: what if I become like HIM? He lost it and went to the bathroom to throw up.
The very next day, he applied for a job that had the most possibility of human contact with it. Not that all the introverted and awkward are like uncle Ted, but still.
With anonymity being a key feature in most online experiences, one can never tell who is who these days. He needs to log off now, and likewise, the hour is nigh for a proper introduction of himself— this time to the real world.
Labels: 2016, aiko-lactaotao, fiction, flash fiction
| December 08, 2016 |
Because Life Is As Simple As A Complex Polyrhythm
The Case
I used to be a wide-eyed dreamer, and perhaps I still am nowadays. I used to dream of flashing lights, cheering crowds, and explosive concert endings. I wanted to be a Rockstar. I used to think that music encompassed the entirety of my existence, and therefore my destiny. I wanted to be a musical artist. I used to delude myself into thinking thoughts of Rock n’ roll grandeur and it costed me money and time. Precious, precious time. I used to say to myself that music is the way to go, that all else fades in comparison, that again, music is my destiny calling.
The Trial
But then life kicked in. I thought I could hold on to these fantasies but realized I couldn’t. I thought money wasn’t spent uselessly, I thought I wasn’t wasting anybody’s time, especially mine, but lo and behold, I totally was.
The Verdict
The simple fact of the matter is that I’ve moved on. Childish dreams are no more, fantasies are gone, and false hopes long extinct. I do not claim to know more about life than the average young adult does, but I surely know now how it starts. It starts with a bit of cuts and bruises, but we all have the choice to not end in tragedy.
The inevitable lessons brought forth by education and time has given me a new perspective. I’m truly grateful for that. I now no longer see the world in rose-tinted glasses wherein I was a Rockstar and everybody else is my audience. I now see a world that is glamorously covering up all the horrible wounds it has acquired through the ages, caused not only by natural events, but by ill-willed people short of being called Spawns of Satan. I now long for the glorious past, that glorious past that has slipped through our fingers because of wars fought out of greed and envy. I ache not for change, because truly, what has happened before will happen once again, and what will happen, already happened before.
I ache. I ache for the time I wasted, but there is nothing I could do about that now, is there? I ache with satisfaction knowing that I had to waste time in order to appreciate time. It is Providence’s way of teaching us to use time wisely. And I ache to learn just how wisely I could use my time.
Aftermath
The rhythm of life…I now know I co-manage with God Almighty. The task at hand is not to search my destiny with delusions of grandeur, but to appreciate that fact that I, like everybody else, is but a tiny speck in this universe, although we are not marginalized to such an extent that our dreams should be become unreachable.
I still dream. But I dream with my mind alert to reality, and my eyes open to possibilities. I dream not for the entire world, but for myself. I dream to be a child of God, I dream to fill the world with Poetry, and I dream to learn to be good. Starry-eyed? No. Dreaming and hoping is essential to living just as much as breathing fresh air.
I learn to hope, I live to learn, and I live. Simple.
Labels: 2016, aiko-lactaotao, life, musings, personal
