This cat I found on our doorstep was begging to become a human. She wants to pay the bills. She wants to know what exactly happens when you turn on the TV. "I mean, how do these people come out of the screen?" She wants to know what to do with popcorn seeds which didn't pop after a five-minute show in the microwave. She wants to know how humans can mean no while saying yes, what it means when a man on a couch said something about the government while drinking beer at night, and why we've been scared with black cats all along. My younger sister's a black cat, she said, and aside from getting a better portion of the fish during meals, I don't think there's something wrong with her.


At one point in his career, the director has had a hard-on from explosions. I can tell. It was unbelievable how this film piles cliffhanger on another cliffhanger, we were practically left to stir in our seats while trying to sleep off the entire ride. The film feels like the wrong predicament in a glorious day, like an itch on a stitched wound. One could think of this film as a story about missed bullets (and I mean, an entire storage room of bullets), cosmetics, immortality. What we usually overlook in these kinds of films are the financial estimates of the damages: two speedboats, glass windows (by the hundreds), an offshore oil platform, the window of a red sports car, church pews, vases sitting behind John Travolta and/or Nicolas Cage, an FBI chief, office supplies, a bedside lampshade, an entire security system with computers and buttons, a flask of sulfur peroxide shot in the air, handlebars, a hospital bed pushed to the elevator, EST paraphernalia, mirrors (one of which is broken by heavy-lidded rage through LSD and/or other drugs, but most of them are casualties during surprise attacks, robberies), a queen-sized bed, chandeliers, barrels, a character named Dubov, a staircase, a vast hangar smashed by an airplane, twenty bottles of alcohol (a rough estimate), railings of a mezzanine, an orange urn.


  1. This essay explains why I've been aching to write a blog post in the middle of doing my paperwork.
  2. It's old news, eh? There really is a patron saint of the Internet.
  3. Regarding the avant-gardeMalthaler’s play seemed representative of a general error, a general terrible confusion between empty “experimental” norms and truly experimental – in the sense of ethically and spiritually and aesthetically radical – works of art. And the distressing proof that audiences are increasingly unable to distinguish between the two lay in the fact that, at the curtain’s fall, those same audience members near to me who had slept for at least 40 to 50 minutes of the play, who had yawned, who had consulted their text messages etc... a certain number of these audience members stood to their feet at the close of +-0, and applauded rapturously. And some of them, masochistic to the end, began, with an expression of weird grotesque ecstasy on their faces, to repeatedly scream "BRAVO! BRAVO!"
  4. I wish I could make a blog with posts worth reading.


When we say forever, do we mean magnets in the fridge? I ask this
in your sleep and all I heard was
an involuntary garble of words strung by a laundrywoman
and the clothesline
was aching for an arrangement:
and then you ask for the blanket
and the feathers which comes with it at night.

Things I wished I bought

I'll start this thread in this blog about the things I wished I bought. It's would probably be about books, but a while ago I was at Daiso and was really head-over-heels over this magazine rack for Php88 (!!!) but I didn't take pictures of it.

My girlfriend has been vigilant about my addiction with books and Booksale, trying to limit my purchases these past few months, which is fine with me. I'm a cheapskate with everything: I'd rather walk a mile than pay sixty pesos for a taxi ride--and this rings true every workday. But good food and books are the only vices I have, and I don't think I shouldn't spend my salary on these when they're fairly reasonable to spend on.

I was in SM Muntinlupa to ship a couple of files through LBC when, lo and behold, Booksale sits just besides LBC, practically begging for attention. Almost always I find these Booksale outlets magnetic, and though I tried my best to think about budgeting and the fact that about five minutes ago, near the mall entrance was this Michael Chabon essay collection Manhood for Amateurs, which I had bought for Php99, I made a beeline and went for that feeling I always get in Booksale, which feels like the rush of energy (or clarity, or sedation) after an hour of jogging, only ten times better.

I told myself to make a quick look around the outlet, do the skim-and-leave, but I stumbled upon really good books! My initial "cart" was around twelve good books, but after much discussion with myself I was able to make a decision to buy all the nonfiction books (since these nonfiction books look rare): James Gleick's Chaos, Stephen Gardiner's Evolution of the House, and an anthology, Contact 8, The San Francisco Collection of New Writing, Art and Ideas. All of these cost me Php175.

I walked out of the Booksale outlet thinking not about the books I bought, but the books I didn't. I mean, my Dad would love that Mailer--as with all novels about the Vietnam War, snipers, backpacking--and, well, probably the Lopez as well (Arctic Dreams is a recipient of a National Book Award, if I'm not mistaken). And that John McPhee essay collection about branding, among other things, is probably a gem. On top of it all is that Adam Zagajewski's essay collection for Php50! I mean, I've seen three copies in SM Marilao for Php175!