Anatomy of a story, or: The Little I Know About Women

by Ewong.
for the girl across the big room.



Strangeness springs from hospital hours, among first-time residents gone mad from illness, of affairs both of the heart and gut. It was the final week of summer.

Now rains have come, and rains have gone, and summer seems to have claimed upon the earth and its drenched-souled men again. A certain change has filled up the uncertain emptiness, or returned to the old feelings apparently long gone: a change for the better, the elders would say -- but who really knows what's even good?

Someone looks up the book of words and discovers this relationship disparity between a pair -- a lover can be a friend, but the latter can't necessarily stand for the former. Some book, indeed. It is definitely not the dick-tionary. Let me read (it/you) further.

Cut to:

Her sister a few weeks ago she tutored about the reproductive system -- apparently the first topic in grade 5 science class. In her best attempt at sounding clinical, and quelling all malice and awkwardness pressed by such unnerving anatomical concepts, and with the textbook and internet both open, she taught her the mechanisms behind human organs called penis, vagina, scrotum, testes, and fallopian tubes. It was torture, for both of them. There were daunting terms like 'fertilization' and 'menarche.' At the end of her teaching, the fifth-grader was still confused as to who possesses the 'vas deferens,' man or woman? There is a vast difference. But she, the younger one, doesn't need to understand it all now.

Even the older one has not fathom much of it yet.

Fact: The human circulatory system is a better subject. And much more romantic.

Dissolve to:

Something Theatre proudly presents "The Indefinite Pronouns"

Someone wrote somebody a poem. Or poems. Someone likes somebody. Someone, perhaps, is already in love with somebody. Someone fears. Somebody feels. Someone feels something else, though -- like that of being stalked. Somebody hopes for something else. She says, or does. He says, or does:

a) Too much?
b) Too little?
c) Too soon?
d) Too late?

Sometimes someone thinks that somebody is onto something.

Music: Summertime, and the livin' is easy.*

Summer, it feels like summer all over again. Summer, o how it rhymes with forever, but these are words not fit for a beautiful poem, in a beautiful book of beautiful poems that is published in some other beautiful world.

One of these days, someone is going to have his or her heart broken. Or more likely, both of them, only over some other someones. Characters from different books, they are. Or different volumes of the same set of books. Like encyclopedia, a kind of literature which sounds like a dream from the ancient times. But now, encyclopedia that comes back to life -- but in digital format.

Cut back to:

Hospital hours. She will never forget how her own heart beat ever so slowly in her last days in the room. She feared. She felt. As if for the first time. She did not die, of course, but something else died, and something else was reborn. And he, the object of her subtle affection, was somewhere else. In another hospital. In another sense of words, in the vocabulary of the cyclically ill and broken.

There are three characters in this story set in summer that's not really summer. Or shall we better call it the rainy season without the rains?

Metaphor by morphology: Rains are like tears. I hope no one of these characters has cried, or is crying, over the other yet. That would be (too much/too early) a drama.

I would write them in the same book. One that does not have entries (yet) for fallopians or androgens. If I scanned the pages, I would chance upon this word: kiss. But this is like a drunken part of speech. As a back-story, I would write that it was a very short instant, void of any romance or anything like that, certainly one that doesn't count as a 'kiss.' Simply a casual touch between a man and a woman. And this is neither a good time to mention the word 'lust.' Let me annotate on this for revision:

"a very brief, prurient encounter."

She feels that they are on the same page. It's been awhile since she felt like this. She raises her hands up against the bright, blinding incandescent light to count her fingers. She reckons one hand is enough for her counting. Nevertheless, she thinks that he, the present object of her subtle affection, was, or would be, in a significant non-physics-sort of movement:

a) moving closer?
b) feeling weightless?
c) orbiting toward a center?
d) falling a freefall?

Music: We could have been so good together, we could have lived this dance forever.*

There are also some minor characters that, if I may bravely claim so, could be reminiscent of Francois Ozon's brilliant film 8 Femmes, adapted from a play. All the women there loved the man, but who "killed" him?

I have not written a poem for a long time now. (This statement could serve as a clue.) Is it time for me to learn the play? (This statement is not pun-ny at all.)

I haven't read a book lately either. I haven't read much at all. I fear that I can no longer read well. I've been misreading words lately. I've been misreading people too. I could be misreading myself. I need to bring out the dictionary and chew the pages off, from A to Z.

Montage during the internal monologue (voice-over) of a deaf-mute:

Fiction: He would have killed the 8 women, if he had the chance. But that wouldn't be a musical comedy-slash-mystery-thriller anymore. That would be a massacre of hearts.

Art: And then the image of hands. Hands.

Music: My hands are [not] small, I know, but they're not yours, they are my own.*

Melodrama: But you can hold one of mine now.

(...for the other is doing the writing.)

He is on his way to the bookstore to look for this best-selling title published in some other world: Complete Idiot's Guide to End Quickly the Falling Slowly.

He would read it, and then hand it to her as a gift to commemorate their end of friendship.

Excerpt from the preface of a book that must have been either poetry or biology: "It's amazing how testicles and fallopian tubes are so alike and different at the same time. Both are in pairs. Both secrete the gametes. Both have reference to what are called 'eggs.' But the former is outside, exposed to the harsh world, while the latter is sheltered deep inside, lonely and longing. And that is why nature compels them to always meet halfway."

She (from outside, looking in) cannot remember if there was any other male character in Ozon's film. But in this other story, she (from inside, looking out) realizes that there is another man.

Caption of a photo from a book from another world: If (you/he) were an egg, I would break (you/him) into a bowl of hot Soup no. 5.**

And the plot suddenly becomes culinary.

There is no end to this story.

____________________________________________
*Lyrics quoted are from the songs "Summertime," "Careless Whisper," and "Hands."
**For the non-Filipino readers, Soup no. 5 is a special dish with cow testicles, sometimes penis, too.

Soliloquy

by Myself



Dear Myself,

You have got to end this certain sadness which had been keeping you “happy” for a long while now. Stop talking about constructs of romance, you must, for it is worthless when put alongside images of loneliness.

Remember, though, that the greatest love is that which is unrequited. Next would be one that’s unprofessed. You are privileged that yours is both. Yours is the greatest. And thus, even if you quit, you can never lose in this particular battle. Quit now, my dear, for this antebellum is most opportune for surrendering.

The sun shines today, as it had yesterday. Tomorrow, if God allows, it will shine again, perhaps hotter, more scorching than before, but always—always and forever—just as brightly as when it first rose from behind the mountains of time. You may live in this melancholy all your life, but the sun would never care for your troubles, as it is blinded by its own brilliance. And we cannot blame the sun for burning like that.

If you keep yourself in this utter darkness you’ve painted with your eyes shut, you may not remember the beauty of light. So I tell you, my friend, it’s high time to open them, your eyes. Love will remain to be called love, as it was in the Renaissance, or during the world wars, or perhaps even in the prehistoric age when man had no use for words: Love has always been called as such.

But tomorrow, if you just open your eyes and see the world again, even if you keep that memory of unhappiness, love may have a new meaning.

With love,

Your Other Self.




P.S.
And stop pondering concepts of d-----, will you?
.

On the utter randomness of things

by E. Wong

                                                gravity   
                                                                        how it falls
                                            heavier
                                                   heavier
                          the further           our attempt   at measurement
           somewhere               a faucet cries                                                alone  
                         its drama felt                 the house over
time   
             explodes                            then be consumed
                          by mercy                   of earth                always always 
                                     without fail                         almost finally defining
           forever                              this is nature  of space             you say
                                what is invisible                                 or abstract  
                                                        occupies                                    endures

suppress not  
                      voice inside              tell me
    baby sparrow                 breaks out
                         from mother’s shell                    yawns like sunshine
                  if too loud
                                          let out              like lahar              create
                                                    ruins beautiful 
                                                                                           beaches pristine 
       I believe        you say
                                              probability
                                                             humankind’s best friend
                     God’s greatest invention   
                                                             so  trust again I may 
                  out of everyone in the din
                                                             we will be found
together
 
      when at last      a thing          becomes an object
                  we do          only two        acts of love   

                                                                                       we sin 
                                                                                                   then 
                                                                                                          we sing

__________________________________________
*artwork: "Number 8" (Jackson Pollock, 1949)
**poetry written sometime in April 2010
***as this is the poem after which this blog is named, this pretty much expresses my consciousness of the world, my concept of love, my faith in entropy, and....

How to spell 'Melancholy'

by E. Wong Martin
for Mitsiku

Our lesson for today is about happiness
and how one writes it with a capital letter,
perhaps bold, or do you prefer
           italics? The principal says
that it may be found among the piles
of unread books, or the mouldy sandwiches
from the canteen. Now we will give you
ten seconds
            and ten years to spell it correctly,
and when in doubt, you may consult
our school janitor—just please do not insult
him on how he always stinks of beer
because it is not alcohol you smell
            but the long years of sweeping,
and waiting, and weeping, and cleaning off
semen or dried tears on the floor.
            You are not required to turn
to your science books, as they don’t yet
have a theory on fireworks and sex,
or forgiveness
             and loss. But when you say
‘one,’ it means ‘two-halves’—simple
as that, really. Do not tell anybody,
but math is the secret spouse
of grammar. Probability (or is it
statistics?) has it:
               One day, someday,
you can write it again, perhaps faster,
perhaps with bigger letters, perhaps
in Bisaya or French, or even sign
language.
             Remember, left or right
hand, it doesn’t matter, for as long
as you have an eraser ready.
             Remember, wrong or right,
we do not deduct points for as long
as you do not cheat.
             Do not put any period, too—
now this is very important in all writing.
Most of all, when you do,
             close your eyes, but keep
that thing in your chest open…
now what’s that called again?

.

To Owe Juan One

A New Year Monologue

What comes next may not necessarily reflect the pun and fun in the title of this post. But for the sake of instant creativity, let’s say I’m calling my blogsite Juan, which, yes, could also pertain to the archetypal Filipino—but I digress too quickly like always, and to imply that I have so much social relevance in me may sound pretentious—so let’s just go back to “Juan,” my blog personified with a new name, but just for today, alright, and let me say then that I owe him big time, because I haven’t paid my respects to this sweet electronic home of mine, I haven't blogged for so long, and so, indeed, I owe Juan one.

It’s amazing how that previous paragraph counted more than a hundred words already yet had very little essence. Life, my life, that is, may have been like that lately. Too many events, developments, if you will, but hardly enough significance. Or maybe this is just me indulging in self-pity again. I guess it’s because I’ve been listening more and more to D____ R____’s songs in the wee hours of the morning, which is considered taboo: You do not listen to D____ R____ in the darkness of the night lest you will be driven mad by the most artful, romantic, and poetic but nevertheless suicide-inducing music ever!

But let’s leave my good friend Damien alone; this post is not about music or suicide or death, but rather self-introspection, new beginnings, and, well, life. Whoever is not urged by the onset of a new year urges to look back into the past year, to see what we have done, what have become of us, and what have not? Positivists would say, count our blessings and aspire for more. Looking back now, my own 2010 has not been that bad. Actually, it was exciting. I didn’t have a car, or got a raise, or have some awesome love/lust life. Nothing “major-major,” really, but still, it wasn’t that bad.

Wait, (as I pause in writing now), I realise that when someone uses the phrase “not bad” instead of “good,” that means something, right? (Shit, now I have just used two indefinite pronouns in one sentence; had I/it been so freaking bad?) Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I could have been so much better. But still, who wouldn’t? Maybe the man (or woman) who won the 700-million-peso lotto jackpot. Well, he/she may be so freaking rich now, but is he/she really happy? (I had to say that rhetorical question, for the sake of emotional argument, but deep-down inside, I really think whoever that super millionaire is must be so freaking happy now.)

Going back to the pith of my post, I’m glad to say that I’m still thankful for everything that went my way in the past year. I don’t intend to define or measure my happiness right now, but let me just say, I’m not “that sad.” So whatever transpired in my 2010 anyway? Well, I finally left ABS-CBN and am now working for a new (non-television) company somewhere across UP. And oh, UP: I was admitted to the open university program last year, but I didn’t, couldn’t, pursue it. Maybe this year? I don’t know, I don’t think so. I visited the campus a couple of times last year and felt that it wasn’t the same great school I left six years ago. But that’s another topic…

So what else? Right, I was in love. Not just once, but twice! (Or thrice was it?) And got heartbroken, too, not just once, but twice! (Or thrice was it?) I, too, may have broken some people’s hearts. I can’t be too assuming; I’m not as hot as I used to be, haha! And I would rather be the “heartbreakee” than heartbreaker. It was an exciting year, I told you. But again, that warrants another blog post.

On friendships, I got into some real serious quarrel with an old friend. And then months later, we’d patch things up. What reconciled us: Distance. I also met a couple of interesting new friends. And interested ones, hehe.

On being an ________, it was generally an uncreative year for me. I did not go back to ___________ like I planned. I still haven’t bought a guitar despite having bookmarked too many guitar lesson websites and even made deals with actual guitar tutors. And about writing, like I’ve said, for a long time I haven’t blogged, which is already the simplest form of writing for me. Which means I did not write at all. Well, I studied and wrote some poetry last summer, but beyond that I had no work of art (or work of heart) that would have been worth publishing and sharing to the world. Plus I got rejected by two national writing workshops, and as usual got depressed and lost confidence in myself, and so I did not submit at all to any writing contest. I could have applied to the Ateneo Workshop, but I was too faithless and lazy to write at the time. The closest I got to being creative is writing English subtitles for indie films. But that wasn’t too challenging. It was more of translation than real writing. I have a whole library of untouched books back at home, and the apartment I now live in has even more awesome books that are just waiting, begging to be read. I didn’t just did not write, I did not read too. This part of my life really sucked. I always thought of myself as a writer who may never change the world, but could his own, yet I was always preoccupied with, uhmm, procrastinating. If I were to make a concrete new year resolution, it should be this simple: To Read and Write.

I didn’t get richer, too. That one’s obvious. Dead broke a couple of times, jobless for a while. Bought a new laptop, though, but no new phone. I’ve never been a gadgety guy, anyway. (Because if I were I wouldn't use the word gadgety.) I didn’t have new shoes or jeans either. And I did not travel at all. No trip out of the country, not even beyond Luzon. Nothing more to put in the log sheet of acquired things. So I’m afraid I’m still someone who could look and sound sosyal, but is so dugyot deep inside.

Oh, yes, but of course, I got a new puppy named Stanley whom eventually got called “Tan-tan” (a pet's got to have a pet name!). A fluffy white bunch of joy who has dugyot blood too but mixed with some handsome spaniel breed, he is the current love of my life. (And he’s turning a year old on 9 January, on the very feast day of the Nazareno.) Tan-tan is like my second child, after my twelve-year-old sister Kim, who is actually my niece, but is really more like a daughter to me. See, that alone sounds complicated. I guess that’s just my life. Not just my 2010, I suspect this new year, too, as all my future years will be.

As far as I can tell I murdered no one, or got anybody pregnant, or stole anything that costs more than twenty pesos last year. If every January I have to be thankful for I’m alive and that my family’s healthy, well, that can’t be too bad, eh? So I guess it was a good year, after all. But who am I kidding? I could be writing this in the new year of 1999 or 2012, and still mean and feel the same. A cycle of regrets and hopes, that’s just how life goes. I think what counts is that one has the sanity and strength to look back and feel, and move on and feel. If we all could feel the energy to be good or power to be better only once a year, then this is the best time for that, when we are starting all over.

So who is Juan, really? He could be this blog which is a blog post richer today, an impassioned one at that. And Juan could be you, my reader(s), whom I wouldn’t really urge to read my articles here any further, as this is just full of my emotional crap and shitty heart.

Or perhaps Juan is myself, and I am Juan. And I owe Juan so much.