monologues of the mentally misbegotten

the best thing about leaving

2010-11-07T22:14:00.015+08:00

is the reading
which I have forgotten
in weeks

or poetry writing
in your house
at the garage
where the cats sleep

or at the red sofa
that sinks

or perhaps, at the garden
ah, yes! the garden
where we hear
the words your house

speaks

* i have never written a poem after the "trees" attempt i did when i was in grade 3, so please bear with me this time. i've been running out of words for quite a time, but i promise (yes, this time it's for real) that i'll intubate myself, get these stuck words outta my throat, pin them down on a piece of paper and bring them back to life.

* for Larry, who made me realize how tragic it is to see books inside a store unnoticed or unread, and for Franz, who has written quite a number of poems for me in two months.

Just because

2009-05-07T00:52:00.014+08:00

STRANGE as it may seem, one of the most difficult point in time to pen down thoughts and weave words is when one is happy. Or in a state of bliss, for quite a given period, or even just a little while, during a tedium of the every day.

Happiness. Which is not that hard to spell, not even so hard to say. I am hap-hap-happy! And yes, it's Tiggerific, dear me!

But how to explain? Just how can you explain? When words suddenly grab you by the throat, and you're stuck with trivial giggles coupled by that stupid (oh so stupid sardonic) smile sa bao as well as nothing to muster other than Wala lang, basta.

Wala lang, basta. Because you don't know, or you do know, but just can't ridiculously find the right words to give away. Or perhaps, you see yourself scribbling phrases on a grocery receipt, or on a plastic coffee cup, or even on toilet paper (ha!). Those terse verses, those out of the blue lines, those that most probably don't really make sense to others, but perfectly does to you.

Wala lang, basta. Was all you can say, and maybe you just think it's much, much more comforting (and terribly honest) to succumb the rest to silence and leave the others guessing. Suppose you've gone peculiar. Suppose you've gone mad. Suppose you suddenly became mute (and perhaps deaf). Or suppose you are happy (yes!). Suppose you are in love?
Other than chortling with the rest of the hypotheses one could think of, you come to realize that it's such a surprise, how our once overly sentimental, emo-recollecting, and seemingly poignant poetic selves can't somehow pen down (or say) those lines for the sheer (and insane) reason of wala lang, basta or just because. ;p

Finding Bonie's Shalala

2008-07-22T16:50:00.012+08:00

IF it had been as easy as drawing dandelions on white sheets of paper during wee hours of the day, or perhaps counting pages of a book (of five books) left unread in one of the nooks of a yellow room, those questions raised since the past few moons of taciturnity would have been, with no trouble, answered. And if it had only been pointed out by maps, old and new, multihued or black and white, it's quite plausible that anyone could have (and would have) been able to find it.

Finding it, whether by happenstance or through the tedium of day by day comings and goings, is one's hardest point in time as penning down these thoughts and weaving them into words. Especially those that are ineffably effable. Those that one tries to speak of, but can't. Those that would have been, but never was. Those that had been there, but could never be found. Those synonymous to love, hope and of happiness.

Of happiness and the sheer thought of finding it, with your self (your whole self) and perhaps unexpectedly bumping on to someone that could lead you to it's way, it's reality. That it's not one-way street, but unlimited-access highways, one has to recount the Cheshire cat's counsel "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to." That it's not always rich and vibrant with colors, but could sometimes be shades of gray, and one should bring along that little light inside one's self when it would all of a sudden turn pitch-black and unmoving.

And with these, one realizes that shalala is not a town petered out. Not just a town of metaphors and similes, not of nostalgia and ephemeral utopias, but of hope. It dwells despite of topographical non-existence. And to those who, like me, are trying to seek it, other than knowing where to go, one has to be keen in seeing .

for Marlon

Love, Over the Counter

2008-05-29T17:06:00.013+08:00

For the few who have considered the white walls of a medical institution as their second home, where they take care of the ailing for eight hours, be it in the fast-paced and critical emergency situations, or just in the station, giving monotonous medications, there is nothing, perhaps nothing more out of the ordinary than those inflicted with the disease correlated to love.

The lack of love is a disease, that is. Where gambler mama cried for repentance to her 12-year old daughter after having found her tied to a rope up on their house’s ceiling, semi-conscious and cyanotic, whom she had hurt physically just two hours ago. Or the Muslim teenager who was grasping for life after being shot by to-whom-it-may-concern bullets on a cold, drizzling night. As well as another man, bleeding, after having been mauled to death by his blood brothers nga “ni-enter.”

The need for love is a disease, that is. Where a diabetic old man with a swelling left foot at Bed 15 cried out “Dili naka ganahan nako? Kwarta nalang jud imong sige ug pangayuon?” (Hindi mo na talaga ako gusto? Pera nalang talaga ang lagi mong hinihingi?) to his 30-something girlfriend every other afternoon, but still gave her a chance to change ways. Or the pretty girl who drank a bottle of bubbling shampoo after a big fight with her boyfriend, yet found him at her bedside, holding her hand, giving her tender loving care.

An antidote is imperative. And you wish (oh yes, you just wish!) that those who succumbed to such malady could encounter without ado its phenomenal after-effects. Like the worried husband at Bed 20 who tightly embraced his once-disoriented and restless wife in the middle of the night when she finally recognized him, reassuring her with “Ma, ako intawn ni” (Ma, ako po ito). Or perhaps, our dearest (yes, our dearest!) at Bed 1, bloated and sweaty who held his wife’s hand while saying “Salamat sa tanan” (salamat sa lahat-lahat) in a whisper just before he took his last breath.

And with those long (or sometimes brief) encounters with strangers (and some strangely familiar few), those uncanny coincidences and turn-out of events that foretold why, indeed, the greatest disease isn’t medical but the need of the heart, we come to terms with the soft parts of ourselves, who, like any other, are predisposed to ailments or not, would want that panacea. That capsule. That tablet. That teaspoonful. That fundamental need for love, over the counter.

pediatricks

2008-03-19T13:30:00.008+08:00

At the last look, the left side pocket of my blouse that was supposedly chock-full of éclairs and flat tops early in the morning had been deserted when the clock struck 2 pm.

The sweets. Sealed in multicolored wrappings. Gold, blue, orange, green and white and brown. That smelled of enticing vanilla, tangy strawberry and yummy chocolate. Who wouldn't want them? Who wouldn't do anything (and I mean anything) just to have them?

And though the delights were tempting enough, I didn't consume them on my own (I wish not to suffer from odynophagia and I am known for medical noncompliance). Nor would I let my colleagues gobble them during the shift (they were too occupied to notice my baon, which is a good thing). They were bound for a better purpose. Intended for the common good. Compelled on a mission (close to world peace) that would probably (and hopefully) peter out (if not pacify) those piercing tiny sets of eyes and ear-splitting shrieks.

For how do you solve a problem like a howling little ate? Who shouts "danger! danger! deynjerrrrrr!" just when she sees you holding a medicine cup filled with purple-colored liquid? Or that little super kuya on the other bed who used to boast of super powers and aviary skills but got startled at the sight of needles and started to break free from the hands that tightly gripped his just so he could reach out the toy gun on his dad's lap and shoot my colleague?

Gawd. It would've been hours of shambles and mishaps. But lo and behold! Wonder of all wonders, the gooey sweets saved the day! Little ate agreed to take her medicine in exchange of the strawberry éclair's. And kuya? Two flat tops. But of course, a short dialogue with him about the hospital's support on gun ban was inevitable and any firing attempts would mean another vein shot.

So, in this daily circus of a profession I am in (Nursing is where people are, yadiyadiyah), I have learned that it's a must to innovate tricks that could improve one's efficiency. Gentle words. Tender touch. A few sprinkles of sugary magic. And you'll see smiles from those little ones when you bid them goodbye.

for Bonie

Foreword

2007-12-31T05:03:00.003+08:00

PERHAPS, the very instant you see someone aimlessly walking towards you, wearing unpaired, worn-out tsinelas (or with bare feet), tattered clothes and muttering to himself, there is one noun that comes to mind: crazy.

Not that everybody thinks of it that way, but generally speaking, so they say, the scene would attribute to a less-than-a-second conjecture that he/she has some loose screws, thereby bringing about nerve impulses, activating one’s sympathetic nervous system to indicate a u-turn (away from being harrassed or whatever) and run.

Run. That's exactly how my getaway plan would be. Forget the surrounding sea of people. Forget the cranky-driven, madly-honking cars in the street. Forget the injury-prone ankles and feet wearing the newly-bought high-heeled shoes. Forget everything. Just run. Away. From the madman.

However, about two years ago, in as short (yet long) as two weeks, I (and some others) have been compelled to submit to the desensitization of that fear: I lived (“exposed” is supposedly the term, yet the former justifies the experience since most of my time had been devoted and spent there) with what we call the lunatics.

Anxiety-rush and the putrid smell of cat litter filled the atmosphere the first time I stepped inside the institution. And though equipped with psychosocial theories and self-awareness lessons (the primary armor for such interactions) taught in class, nothing, indeed nothing, prepared me to what lies ahead.

Left with no choice (running away would mean a failed grade in Psychiatric Nursing), I took a deep breath and began my two-week exodus to the world of the mentally misbegotten.

So there I was, standing near a neat, normal-looking man, who, in a minute or two, stomped his feet, pointed to the sky and shouted “Kuyawa ana uy!” as if he saw some intelligent life form floating above him. I, in turn, gazed up and found nothing but clear, blue sky. Then suddenly, someone tightly held my hand, stared at me with a smile and said “Hi Mam! Morning Mam!” I, though alarmed, smiled back and convinced him to let me hold him, instead of him holding me (now you have an idea how to deal with someone like him). And then there’s this lady who pointed her finger at me, and told the white-uniformed students surrounding her that she speaks only to me because I wore blue.

Blue and slightly ruffled (I have learned how to interact with them without any thoughts of running away). It would have been fit to describe my first few days and I wouldn't deny I almost went gaga with my attempts to rationalize and delve the supposedly mind-boggling psychopathologies. Yet those day-to-day monologues (and if you’re lucky, it would be dialogues) of the misbegottens, whether undeniably inane, scandalous and petrifying, could sometimes impart lucidity to a rather, thought-to-be mentally-hinged individual like me.

"Do not keep emotions entirely to yourself, it's detrimental to your health," said one cracked mind (the monologue's been said exactly the way it is written in this paragraph, they are grammatically correct, mind you). That got me.

So much so, crazy or not, I took the advice and wrote this very first soliloquy.

for Josefa and the monologues she shared