Do you know that scene from that episode of Spongebob Squarepants, you know, the one where Spongebob and Patrick and everybody else are playing rock instruments, they're in a stadium, and they're singing "Sweet, sweet victory?" Well, that's my soundtrack, for today, Roger Federer has finally won the French Open.
Right now, I'm watching it, and it's so wonderfully beautiful that the Swiss Anthem is playing and a solitary tear falls on Roger's face.
Soderling just called him the greatest tennis player ever, and he's joking that nobody can beat him eleven times in a row. Fun stuff.
Now, for you non-tennis fans there. There are four Grand Slam titles that a player can win: The Australian Open, Roland Garros, Wimbledon and the US open. He's already won every title out there, except for the French Open, because Rafael Nadal (then number two, now number one) has continually asserted his title as king of the clay courts. Well, until the world number twenty-five beat, Robin Soderling, came out of nowhere and beat him. He eventually beat Nikolay Davydenko and Fernando Gonzalez to eventually reach the finals against Roger Federer.
Federer has recently lost his edge. If Nadal ruled clay, he ruled grass--and Wimbledon, but that also changed when Nadal won the title from here last year. (If you think about it, it's like they traded titles. Only Nadal battled Federer in a grueling five hour match to get it.)
Nadal is out, and has been called unfit to play for the Wimbledon warm-ups. Would Federer eventually reclaim his English crown in a few months?
Ever since Federer lost his number one ranking, I stopped watching tennis. It was just depressing for me to see my idol (HSB: The commentator said that it's a shame that Federer din't win it from Nadal. He will. He will.) losing. But I think I'll be spending a few good hours watching tennis again.
Probably every week this summer, I'd ask permission to go to Yna's house. More or less, my parents (or mostly my mom) have the impression that we'll do nice stuff: play computer games, eat, watch a movie, talk, bake or play cards. My mom had this hunch that I go somewhere to drink, but she never found out where, and when, until now.
I went to my home town of Las Pinas and went friend hopping. Meeting with one group of friends, and then to the other.
With one group, Dean, a friend-bandmate talked about his ex-girlfriend. About licking her cunt in motels, about her Chinese ex-boyfriend who claims that his parents have allowed him to date Filipinas, about a night they spent drinking booze you barely thought was alcoholic, about how'd great it'd be if she were in the band, and about how he plans to come back to her. He meshed emotional drunkenness with a couple of glasses of beer and some nasty shots of raw rum. We ended our time together by walking in the rain, him still talking about her. At one point, I told him, keep talking about her while you still can. Tomorrow, you shouldn't. Why? It's an excercise, I stupidly answered. We walked up to the church so we'd pray for forgiveness. He pissed on a tree. He chased after a cat, and after humorously failing to catch it told us, "I miss eating pussy." He threw the rest of the booze onto sidewalks, walls and plots of grass. He held us, telling he loved us, and I told myself I'd never forget this. I took a bottlecap, remembrance.
With the other group, it was with Yna and my usual group of friends. Only this time, Nikki was around, and she taught as a couple of new drinks. After all, we needed something new after we've been drinking sprite vodka and beer (Well, I'm the only who drinks it.) all the time. On the trip to get the stuff for the cocktails, they were all joking about sex. (Yes, Sinangag Express.) We did our usual things of playing card games: pusoy dos, go fish, crazy eights and if we wanted to, we could've played bullshit. We watched a couple of funny videos on You Tube: the wiener dance, the yes dance, Yu-Gi-Oh abridged, urban ninja and Dr Tran. I had to hurry up, because I promised the previous group of friends I'd hang with them again. (Mostly because we thought a lady friend of ours would come; she didn't.) I had to leave after helping them have sex. Err, buy from Sinangag Express. I missed out on cookies and eating with them, but hey, I got a hug as consolation. I took a bottlecap too, remembrance.
And yes, I forgot to talk about my mom, up to this point.
(At this point, I have to apologize. Whenever I begin to talk about my family, especially my mother, it just seems like suddenly, a headache suddenly comes into my head, and then everthing becomes a blur.)
She got pissed. I took too long. I was supposed to be back by eight. I got there by eleven. She took the wheel from me, and drove as fast as hell. I was clutching onto seatbelts, a little scared. When things began to slow down, she began to sermon me. Everything she said, I was able to rebutt, or at least, soften. To some point, I've already programmed myself to answer to every one of her sentences, but it all just happens in my mind, and the only response she'd usually get is stiff silence, with the occasional 'yes' or 'no.' Yes, after she blazed through the streets of Makati, fuming mad, in my mind, I didn't care.
Well, until she found those remembrances.
(And here's where everything becomes a blur.)
She storms into the condo, putting the bottlecaps on the table and asking me for an explanation. I mumbled that we (lie) drank them at Yna's. (She didn't know I'd meet Dean.) She asks me who taught me to drink, and she bangs on the door and shouts at the maid (who used to be a frequent alcoholic), accusing her of teaching me how to drink. I go to my room, and I fall to the floor, back against my cabinets. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I was caught in a void, where muffled voices and bangs could be heard. I locked my door, but she got the key and opened it. She asked me more questions, this time, more angrily. I go out of my void. A part of me asks, why'd you go out? Question after question after question; the easy ones answered, the hard ones received with silence. She asks me something. I knew that if I'd answer it truthfully, that if I let out those simulated conversations in my mind, I'd win. I wouldn't win against her, but I'd win something. And so I do, and it silences her. Barado, maybe. And then she begins again, and things begin to slow down. (Somewhere in between these events, I was trembling to answer why I wouldn't tell her things and ask permission; it all goes back to that night when I suggested something, and she banged the car furiously, angrily--and I was just paralyzed. Forgive me if I can't remember. As I say, some things are blurry.) The conversation ends with her as meek as a lamb.
After washing up, I come up to her room and apologize, and she answers, in a gentle voice. And now I wonder, what'd I win?
No, you will not die like those epileptic children who got killed by watching Pikachu's yellow lightning. Instead, you will die, wasting your time, and rotting away running through the Multiplies, Plurks, Twitters and Facebooks of your friends. Sure, I admit it's a good thing that you can keep up with your friends, but come on, why not try to meet them in person?* Most likely, the friendship you've built is made with real time.
Let me tell you why I don't like chat. A study shows (I'm referring to this study if you're about to point that where's-your-source finger at me.) that over 40% of what you say is lost in e-mails. Chat's more or less the same thing. Sure, you've got that :)) smiley, but how many of you are really laughing when you animate that yellow bugger that keeps laughing (when its jaw should be falling off already)? Do you really LOL when you say LOL? Or are you just smirking, or being polite?
Okay, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt that it's a good thing that you get to talk to your friends, but I'm gonna go back to my suggestion that you should spend real time with them. (For the record, if ever you hang, I don't want you to spend time in malls, but that's another story.)^ When you talk to them face-to-face, consider this:
A landmark study, out of Cal State LA in 1967 and proved a bunch of times since then, it says 55 percent of human communication is based on your body language, how we stand or lean or look each other in the eye. Another 38 percent of our communication through our tone of voice, the speed we talk, and how loud. The surprise is only 7 percent of our message comes through our words.
(Quoted from Rant by Chuck Palahniuk)
There's this one webcomic I read (If I recall right, it's Shortpacked.), with a strip that points out how anybody can diss anybody on the internet, but when you're together in person, you're all polite. It's either behind a mask of anonymity, you show your true, rabid self, or with yourself bare, you show your fake, polite self. Or vice-versa.`
The internet is here to stay, and a single blog entry with a couple of considerable statistics is not going to change things. Well, I'm not going to stop you either if you want to live your life, rotting**every minute in front of a screen. I just want to tell you that there's plenty of good stuff outside the net. Like what? Hmm. Like the real world, I guess.
Footnotes: * A good way to find out if you're not close with somebody, or if you dislike him/her, is when you talk to that person only in cyberspace.
^ Personall, I'd like to live in France. Why? Not a lot of malls. Bookshops, cafes (No, not you're goddamn Starbucks or coffee chain, but actual dens of intellectuals, where geniuses like Camus and Sartre used to hang out in.), if you're lucky, there's a river to go to or what not. Personally, I think malls are manifestations of how people are becoming more materialistic and becoming dumber. (Though to be fair, book stores in them make me feel otherwise, but if a place is riddled with Twilight books, it knocks off my good spirits.) Every week, besides from going to church, people go to malls. It's like a religion, and like most faithful, (or faithful) they listen to the gospel of Nike, Bench and Timezone, without examining it.
` You can think of it like a fight club in cyberspace. Only, it's retarded when you notice that punching is trolling, and the bleeding stops whenever you hit the disconnect button.
** Remember, your eyesight's always the first to rot. Brain's second. If there was a study that proves that brain activity slows down when you watch TV, how about the internet?
~ A special thanks to Yna for having me write a decent entry after a couple of weeks and being my proofreader.
P.S. Want an edgier take on why the internet is making your life suck?
Morning Woke up badly. Sleeping late worked. Desired effect achieved. Dad brings breakfast. Still haven't talked with mom.
Noon Headed to Katipunan. Listened to Modest Mouse for most of the trip.Was running late, and Czar stopped the taxi at McDo. I told myself: "Run, you fucker! Run!" And so I did. It was refreshing.
Afternoon Wish's singing was amazing. Was a douche around her mom, talking relatively blatantly about money and swearing. Rock Band 2 and Guitar Hero: World Tour. It was real swell.
Night Felt really good on the way home. Listened to classical music on the LRT. The ticket seemed more illuminated and I understood what Mansfield said about light, a little perhaps.
Ate a 39er at Jollibee. Being thrifty is a refreshing experience.
Mom (indirectly) texted. Resurfaced bad emotions.
Walked home. Imagined someone trying to mug me on my way home. I'd throw my wallet to the road, when he turns his head, I'll push him there; maybe he'll get run over. I'll laugh, and play Mozart's "Funeral March" for the fucker. That was only a bloody daydream.
Car accident on the end of the bridge. A taxi and a private vehicle. Thanked God.
I just heard it on the news tonight. (Yes, the news from ABS-CBN. Yes, the news that reports common crimes like--err--rape, theft and murder.)
So, if you haven't heard what Alec Baldwin (I only know he stars in 30 Rock, and I don't even watch that show) said, then here it is.
The Emmy-winning actor quipped that he was "thinking about getting a Filipino mail-order bride at this point ... or a Russian one." (From Yahoo! Canada news (Yes, Canada.) )
It outraged a lot of high-profile people. If I heard right, Pia Honteveros is one of them and she's saying that he shouldn't joke about it.
Something horrible just happened to me today, so I really can't discuss this in depth, but if ever I'm alive in the next few days, expect me to write about this.
So, here's my response to all those high-profile people snapping out against Alec Baldwin. Every time I go to Glorietta or Greenbelt, I usually see a foreigner--most of the time American, one time Australian and one time British--with a Filipino woman. Now, I'm supposed it's dick-faced if I assume that the dudes are with mail-order wives. (I think you'll find those senators and activists dick-faced too when I start going at their statements more thoroughly). But I highly doubt that they'd elope with a common Filipina, who barely speaks English fluently, if it wasn't for said reason. Tell you another thing I bet: I bet those same people go to those fancy malls, and I'm sure it's pretty inevitable that they'd see the same kind of people I'd see.
Get real, Philippines. It's called neocolonization, and it so happens that getting mail-order wives is a form of it.
Expect, again, in depth content, if ever. And also, a defense of Hayden Kho.
Shiz like: 1. How Hayden Kho is being diagnosed as insane (Changeling, anyone? And Camus's The Stranger?) 2. How hard or easy is it to get a mail order wife 3. Russia's response to it (I suppose they're supposed to have tighter asses.) 4. How people attack Baldwin. One senator explains his outburst with his failed marriage. I mean, what the hell? The divorce rate in America is almost 50%! And also, it is not about the accused, it's about what he said. Alright?
What's the difference between these words: 1. Fuck 2. Shit 3. Goddamn
And these words? 1. F*ck 2. Sh*t 3. Godd*mn
You're left to your imagination. Meaning, with the second set, the second word can be shot or shat (which is the past tense of 'shit', so no) or shet (which is the Filipino word for "shit"). With the first word, it could be fack, feck, fick, fock, fu--oops--. As for the third word, goddemn would be the Filipino word for it.
Anyway, I'll consider the negative effects of being flagged. Maybe, just maybe, there'd be a swear-free Oh No Vic. What do you people think?
You're a goddamn piece of shit for not caring about your so-called best friend. You're a goddamn piece of shit for talking more to his girlfriend than him. You're a goddamn piece of shit for being dense to the first two facts for a fucking long time. You're a goddamn piece of shit for being relatively cheery because of it. You're a goddamn piece of shit for not grasping that he, as strong as his body is, can actually have a heart that can actually get heart. You're a goddamn piece of shit for not caring.
Once upon a time, you and the gang went to a sit-down-and-order restaurant because his girlfriend was going to treat everybody. Hours of merriment later, you beg the gang to go out for Rock Band. So you do. It's just supposed to be for half an hour, because one has shit to do, and your mom wants you to start heading home. It lasts for an hour, mostly because of you, partly because your friends let you. You all head out. Time to go home. Friend asks you to take him home with your car. You refuse kindly (or so you think it's kind) saying that it's really time for you to get going. Friend argues that you already spent half an hour beyond your time; why don't you take him home? You kindly refuse once more (refer to previous phrase in parenthesis) and kindly offer him money for a cab. He says screw you and heads a taxi but not before flipping you off. You speed off into the night, pumping your anger into the pedal and actually reaching a hundred kilometers per hour. And then you exclaim really, really loudly, "SHIT!" before slamming your fists strongly into the steering wheel.
Ever notice how gay people spell 'boy' as 'boi'? My friend takes that to the next level. [22:39] Scream Emo Nemo: oh, and...i know i'm famous when people make toys out of me [22:42] solitaire_guy11: one day, they'll make a butt plug out of you. [22:44] Scream Emo Nemo: ay gai
I want somebody to punch me in the face. I want to fight somebody, brutally. I want to fight until my teeth fucking bleed. I want to scream in fury and in anger at my weak arms, barely powerful enough to actually hurt somebody. And then maybe, I' d start writing--I'd start living.
Hello. I'm listening to the Strokes and I'm pissed off at the fact that you're missing out on good music, just because the only shit you consume is hip-hop and mainstream rock. (Oh yeah, Pete Wentz, I'm looking at your overrated ass.) I mean, is there any other music that you listen to besides from Fall Out Boy and whoever? Well, I'm gonna admit that I don't really knock off all of hip-hop; I like songs with lyrics that aren't about bling, sex, cash and niggas. And I like Kanye West for the fact that his clothes fit.
I get a lot of good music from the radio, but I choose my stations--and they usually have no hip-hop (again, lyrics). Jam 88.3, Nu 107, sometimes that techno station 107.9 and sometimes that classical station 98.7 whenever I want to pretend I'm a conductor while I'm caught in traffic. I get a lot of good music there. I discovered the Magic Numbers, Peter Bjorn and John, (partly) the Strokes, Weezer, Razorlight, Phoenix, and a lot of other good shiz.
If you're not in my circle of friends (way to be elitist, Vic!) , then I'm guessing you don't listen to the kind of music I do and I can more or less pigeonhole you into the listener category which I loathe.
Bands!
(And these are just some.)
1. The Strokes 2. Apples in Stereo 3. Peter Bjorn and John 4. The New Pornographers 5. Kaiser Chiefs 6. Aerosmith 7. The Who 8. Jimi Hendrix (And the JH Experience too) 9. Daft Punk (And that's not even rock.) 10. Death Cab for Cutie
If you could, give me a peso for every band you don't know, and I'll give you five if you do know a band or two.
Lemme end this post (that sucks because I'm too pissed to think straight) with a couple of charts which express my opinions.
Well, the caption for that pic from DieselSweeties.com (great webcomic) is that it's elitist. Meh.
Take a look at that last chart. Yes, Miley Cyrus and Ashley Simpson. You're shitting on those good people. (I got it from Cracked.Com, by the way. It's by Winston Rowntree.)
Anyway, maybe you'll hear more from me about it. Maybe. Thanks for reading.
Wednesday afternoon. I know I should be doing something worthwhile. Watch the award-winning, deep movies I bought in Divisoria. Finish the books in my library. But no, I'm here using the internet. The internet. It's like a wonderful void, a place of mindless mindfuck wherein you mindlessly waste the already limited time of your life. If you're on the internet this summer vacation and you're bored, that means you're not doing anything worthwhile--and that life, short, appears long.
Being an existentialist, i.e. a firm believer in free will, this article just made my skin cold. I think I'm kinda lucky that I'm kinda sleepy tonight so I don't grasp the full horror of this article, but here's a highlight on David Wong's article from Cracked.Com (Yes, it's from Cracked--SHIT) about how scary Heisenberg's discoveries are.
Now, I'm going to follow the same disclaimer he did.
TURN BACK NOW IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ IT.
If you do want to read it, just press Ctrl + A as to highlight the text.
Enjoy. Err. Or not. REALLY NOT. Heisenberg let out a long laugh. "Fool! When you were a babe at your mother's crotch, you had a brain built on the genes handed down by your parents! And they got theirs from their parents, all the way back to the first life formed by an accidental cell mutation! And everything you've seen or heard in your life since was fired into your brain as electrical nerve impulses from your eyes and ears. We can measure those impulses! They are physical things! And each of those impulses, what you called 'sights' and 'sounds' threw certain chemical switches in your brain, all of which can also be observed and measured! And those switches, as they turn as predictably as gears in a clock, are what we call 'thoughts' and 'emotions!' And what you know as your 'self' is just the accumulation of chemical changes made to a genetic blueprint! We could change it in a lab! We could make you fall in love! We could make your soul from scratch! EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER HEARD ABOUT FREE WILL VERSUS FATE CAN NOW BE MEASURED IN A LABORATORY! THE DEBATE IS OVER!"
I had a reasonably good following when my blog was at its high. I made a lot of long, good posts, and about eight of my friends read it and about five of them really appreciated it. With my first post, I predicted that my blog would eventually burn out due to ningas kugon. I was right. After about twenty posts, I stopped for about two weeks. A few days before the stop, I was considering to write on a daily or an MWF-ly basis.
Last week ago, Yna, a friend of mine (Geez, Vic, of course, only your friends read your fucking blog!) told me to post on my blog again and that she didn't want my last post to be about furry sex. About a month ago, my professor told me to write a book about religion. I was supposed to respond with something like this:
Four reasons I can't write a book about religion (or at least, why it's difficult): 1. Ningas kugon - The start of the book would probably be great, but it progressively gets lamer as the reader moves further. 2. I haven't read much. If I wanted to deconstruct it, I'd have to bury myself in catholic, atheist and agnostic texts, including the bible and The God Delusion. (On a side note, a lot of people in Gaia's Extended Discussion forum diss Dawkins for critiquing religion without really reading the bible. I'm not sure how true that claim is.) For me to do that, I'd need loads of Red Bull, coffee, alcohol and possibly weed, and I need to dump my internet. 3. I'd need even more Red Bull, coffee, alcohol and weed to even finish it. 4. I'd be a pioneer in the agnostic and atheist movement in the Philippines, and I'm going to get some serious flaming from the religious bigots in this wonderful, enlighted nation. At least I'm going to get that from my parents, and I'm more worried about scorn from then than from a mindless, faceless mob. If I'm going to get the heat, I don't want to be alone.
But if I ever do get to write it, I think it'll be the greatest achievement in my life. I want to die about a year after.
What's Verse Attack?
Last Sunday I went to church. Well, not really. Mom went to the mall because she had to buy some stuff before it closed, so she dropped me there so I can go on my own. Being a non-believer, I didn't want to, so I spent most of the hour reading on a seat in the fabulous mall near Greenbelt--err--whatever the name of that church is. With about fifteen minutes left in the mass, mom told me where she was and I met with her thinking I attended somewhere else in the area.
Verse Attack, right.
Here's my weekly mass routine: 1. Turn off hearing for the first fifteen minutes. 2. Try listening to the readings. Deconstruct texts. 3. Get pissed at pastor for doing a cliche homily (which consists of starting with a joke, making an acronym like WATCH or HOLY or whatever.) 4. Turn off hearing again. 5. Say peace to mom. 6. Hold mom's hand when it's Our Father time. 7. Communion time. Tell mom I'm going inside so she'd think I'll come to get communion and pray and what not. 8. Talk to Jesus and tell him how sorry I feel for him that most of the people in the church don't follow him the way they should be. 9. Get one of those random little paper verses. 10. Bla bla bla end of mass.
So, look at number nine. See, at Greenbelt whatsitname church there's a bowl of random bible verses. Here's what I do with them:
THE ACTUAL VERSE ATTACK
"I have come that they may have life and that they may have it abundantly."
John 10:10
Real life does not come in finding yourself... It comes from him.
I think this kind of implies that you should fuck identity and fuck self-discovery and you should just go find Jesus.
It's kinda hard to find Jesus. I mean, what gospel should I follow? Because you do know that every gospel is really different from one another? Or should I just cherrypick the good stuff like organized religion does? And how do I find Jesus in the bible when the first gospel was written 33 years after his death?
I think, if ever, I'll just pretend like everybody else does. You know, at least once a year with those sobby retreats.
"If two of you join your voices on earth to pray for anything whatsoever, it shall be granted you by my Father in heaven."
Matthew 18:19
Where two or three are gathered in prayer, the Lord is present.
I really feel sorry for the solitary guy that prays for a pet dinosaur.
Wasn't there a text in the gospels that whenever you pray, you should lock your door and pray privately? I'm confused.
Oh, while we're on the subject. I always see these petitions in the church. On a piece of paper is a really long prayer and if you pray that everyday for a month or two or whatever nine times a die and bla bla bla and leave nine copies in the church, whatever you wish for shall be granted and it has never been known to fail.
I wanted to try it out. I wanted to ask for a pet dinosaur or for Jesus to come ride a bike with me ET style, but it's so damn boring and tedious.
And so that's Verse Attack, kids!
Thanks to http://www.sandersweb.net/bible/verse.php, I can get a verse everday or every MWF so I could do that everyday! Isn't that great?
1. Yna 2. Pau 3. Anlo 4. Marianne 5. Mikko 6. Ma'am Frances 7. Jai
And yes, it's depressing to find out that what you're really toiling on has only been noticed by seven people--and all of them are your friends. Anyway, at least most of them read my entries thoroughly and have given positive feedback, considerable comments or interesting questions.
If you've read my previous post, I'm running out of things to write about, and thanks to the responses from my readers, now I have something to write about--or rather to respond to. The following content in Verdana is from Mikko--a friend of mine who's a devout Catholic (but it seems to me he's a devout Christian).
---
i always believed that God let us have free will that we may understand things in our own way. if God just wanted us to believe and do everything strictly according to what He wants, then what's the use of free will, just so he can see us burn for choosing the wrong choices?
That's one of the inconsistencies in Catholic doctrine--that free will is a gift, but followers must follow God's plan. Therefore, free will is a gift that must be returned.*
But then again, what's even more distressing is the thought that free will is more trouble than we think. For starters, it's the reason why people actually stray from God's path. One answer is that, since men are created in the likeness of God, and since God is free, so is man. But then again, God isn't really free either because since God is all good, he can't do bad things. If you follow that logic, then you can infer that God is not all good because he has done bad things, such as the case with Noah. Most people would argue that he's doing it for the better of man. Then again, he advocated meaningless slaughter in some books in the Old Testament. (It's likely that nobody knows about this because this info has been repressed.)
Let's go back to Genesis. So, Adam and Eve were made with free will. What if they weren't created with free will? The problem with not creating them without it is that they wouldn't be like God, but then again, I've already pointed out that there are holes regarding likeness and free wil. The problem with giving them free will is that they are prone to deterring from God's will. The case with Eden and free will is probably the first case of being stuck between Charybdis and Scylla--or in modern terms, a rock and a hard place.**
maybe its God's idea for a good laugh?
One version of Faust ponders on the possibility that humans are God's play things.
well, i dunno, i don't think so. i think the reason we have free will is so that we could believe and understand God in our own way, so that our connection to him is that much more personal and important.
There's a problem with having a personal God, especially if you're Catholic. Catholicism is a religion that asserts absolute views, and if things are absolute, there is little, if not none at all, room for relative understanding. Organized religion has constantly failed to understand that, and so, there fails to be a clear message when one priest preaches this message, and another preaches a contradictory one.
But that's just the case if you're straight-out Catholic. If you tend to cherrypick the stuff you believe in from Christianity, then it's probably alright. There's some stuff that Jesus says that I like.
i always believed that the bible, and other church stuff, are just guidelines to live by, but not really mandates of heaven to "obey or die". the thing is, i think people are taking christianity way out of context, and because of that, most people are either dogmatic hypocrites or pretenders as you say.
Speaking of taking Christianity way out of context. It turns out that the gospels are inconsistent. Harper Collins discusses in his book, Jesus Interrupted, how the crucifixion is rendered differently in all of the four gospels. In Mark (if I remember right), Christ is seen as confused and wondering why all of this is happening, and in the end, exclaims "My God, why have you forsaken me?" In Luke (again, if I remember right), he is calmer and tells God "Forgive them for they do not know what they are doing." I don't remember what's special with John (but I do remember that it's the newest among the four) and Matthew, but I do remember that he said that what Catholicism is doing is meshing the four together.
Here's an abstract from the book: (http://www.harpercollins.com/books/9780061173936/Jesus_Interrupted/index.aspx)
The authors of the New Testament have diverging views about who Jesus was and how salvation works
The New Testament contains books that were forged in the names of the apostles by Christian writers who lived decades later
Jesus, Paul, Matthew, and John all represented fundamentally different religions
Established Christian doctrines—such as the suffering messiah, the divinity of Jesus, and the trinity—were the inventions of still later theologians
Oh, and did you know that the first Gospel was written 33 years after Christ's death?
you might think my post is not related sorta, but it really is...and i'm sleepy so magulo yung statements ko haha.
vic, don't lose faith in the religion, if anything, consider yourself the real believer for knowing what's wrong and what to do about it. even if you say you don't believe anymore, if you look at it from my point of view, you've been living your life just as the bible would say you should, even if you're just being yourself. you know why?
cuz you care.
I find it hard believing the Bible. For starters, the Old Testament is just brimming with misogyny, sexism, violence and sex. There's also the probems with the gospels, as Collins pointed out. But don't worry, as I said, there are some words in the Bible that I believe in, but only some.
p.s. vic, masturbators can be good christians too. take it from me. ^_^ LOL I LIEK BUTTZ
I bet you do.
Endnotes
* COPYRIGHTED BY VIC BAUTISTA COPYRIGHTED BY VIC BAUTISTA COPYRIGHTED BY VIC BAUTISTA COPYRIGHTED BY VIC BAUTISTA COPYRIGHTED BY VIC BAUTISTA
** Again, COPYRIGHTED BY VIC BAUTISTA. As for Scylla and Charybdis, it's a fig of speech obtained from The Oddysey.
The maid is loudly singing the songs she has always sang. It overpowers the weak speakers on my laptop, and it's pissing me off. I clutch the back of my head and put my head down on the desk, and go "augh."
I have a couple of options. 1. I could tell her to shut up. She either complains loudly that she's just singing or she gets offended or hurt and stops. 2. I could wait for her to stop singing. After all, it's just probably ten or so minutes. I listen to music almost the whole day, and I sing too, and I sing the same songs over and over again.
On a tab on my browser is Arthur Schopenhauer's "On Noise." What the fuck, I am clearly overreacting to and overthinking the maid's obnoxious noise.
I'm in the living room. On the desk is the laptop, a cold cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun bitten once. I'm frustrated.
I stare at the white screen on my blog, and it's a fucking reminder that I'm running out of stuff to write about. Wait a sec, I'll recap my possible blog posts:
1. The wisdom of Nokia 2. Bahala
Sounds good, right? I don't know what's really stopping me. Maybe the new, uber-fast internet connection? Maybe the ningas kugon has finally caught up on my blogging? Maybe writer's block? I don't really know.
I was thinking of posting a blog entry every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, that is until I went dry. To think, the first two weeks my blog was on, it was on fire--sometimes I would post two posts in a day.
Who would I be disappointing anyway? About five people take my blog seriously, and I get good reviews for it. But then again, I'm still clinging to the hope that I'll get a wider readership, or maybe this will get published. No, I shouldn't think like this. It should be less about the readers and more about the writing. Also, I shouldn't count my eggs before they've hatched.
I was thinking about writing about religion again, but I've somehow decided that it's a challenge for me to write about something else, but then again, more or less, every writer has his forte topic, right?
Rules: Copy to your own note, erase my answers, enter yours, and tag at least 10 people including me. (I have multiple personalities. 5 to be exact. I made another 5 because I'm too lazy to tag 5 other real people.)
Use the first letter of your name to answer each of the following.
If the person before you had the same first initial, you must use different answers. You cannot use any word twice and you can't use your name for the boy/girl name question.
1. What is your name: Vic
2. A four Letter Word: (Shit, ang hirap 'pag 'V') Vovo
3. A boy's Name: Vich
4. A girl's Name: Vich
5. An occupation: Voltes 5 operator
6. A thing you own: Valium? (Damn you, letter V!)
7. Something you wear: V-shaped thong
8. A food: Violet grapes
9. Something found in the bathroom: Vajeyjey D:
10. A place: Victory Liner terminal
11. A reason for being late: VOLOLOLOLOLOL
12. Something you shout: VAAAAAAAAAAZINGEEEEEEEEEER ZEEEEEEEEEE
I said in my last post on religion that the fifth installment would be the last, but then again, I got this comment from my friend-reader, Pau, and it was too good a reply to not be noticed and--err--replied to.
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hm. i knew this long ago. the goddess Hel.. how people made contributions that molded this ideology..
and the part with: “If you don’t behave for the rest of your life, you’re going to burn in hell!” (hsb. which i think is related to my professor talking about how elders would scare their children by saying, "don't go there, may mumu" instead of just saying that it's dangerous)
And that reminds me of all the times when children play with things on the ground, and their parents would exclaim "Dirty! Dirty!" I swear it's so fucking retarded because the kids would do it again in a matter of seconds. It's either the parents keep stopping them until the kids finally get sick of it and stop altogether or it's either the kids keep getting their hands "dirty" until the parents finally get sick of it. If I get a kid, I'll call his attention and say "This is what you can do" and then dig my palms onto the ground and then wipe it with a handkerchief or whatever.
I remember then that for almost everyday in my life, my mother nags at the maid. "Do this, don't do that" (and that would be a far too simple and too inaccurate way of putting what she actually says) which is more or less a form of "Dirty, dirty!" I told her one night to try a different approach. She told me she tried doing so, and the day after things didn't change a bit. I think I told her a few days after to try that approach for a week or so, but then I realize, do I have the right to tell her to do that when I don't even want to try to keep telling her that for a week or so?
In my case then, it's either I advise her for a week (or a year--or ten) until she gets sick of it and does what I want her to do, or she keeps telling the maid to don't do this and do that, but the maid doesn't get sick of it and does what she wants her to do--she--and I--get used to it, and we get invisible earplugs. Oh, how the adult world and the world of children are so similar--yet different.
as for what i am doing? well, i can't really include the fact that we participate in world vision (which is kind of supporting one child through financial donations yearly) http://www.worldvision.org/home.nsf/index.htm because i'm not the one who's donating money-mom is.
When I opened the link and saw the face of that little kid smiling, it made me go "Oh shit"--and in a good way. I wanted to try joining one of those programs wherein you give P500 a week to a charity. I was thinking that I could do it, but it'd take a fourth off my allowance. Well, it's either you spend it on comics or you spend it on helping a poor kid. And you can probably guess what I decided. Hopefully, I get to do that when I get a job.
On a side note, if ever you decide to donate to an organization, as much as possible, avoid giving to an org that just feeds. You know the saying "Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day; teach him how to fish and he'll eat for a lifetime", right? So, it'd probably be better if you help an org that gives people jobs or kids education or something like that. (Side note: Got the idea when I remembered that author of "Dead Aid," a book that argues that the help people are giving to Africa is done wrong.)
besides, i don't think people only need finnancial help. i'll try helping in little ways like comforting people and giving them hope and prayers. a smile can also lift people's worries.
don't worry about it, i'm sure there are many christians who are trying to help. :D I'm afraid that by "many" you mean "a lot, but not most." And that reminds me how Jesus said in the Bible that the road to damnation is wide, but the one to salvation is narrow.
Thirty years into the future, it is April 16, 2039. I am forty-eight years old. I have written three non-fiction books: one is about Sophocles’ Oedipus and Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the second is a book that manages to launch the minority of atheists and agnostics in the nation into unifying to criticize the faults of religion and the Philippine church and the last one is an anthology containing essays, fragments and blog entries on various subjects such as psychology, philosophy and literature. I have also come up with three successful novels: a book chronicling the conflicts revolving around my workaholic mother (perhaps the postmodern version of D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers), another about a child, who once saw Christ’s face on the fog in a window but eventually grows up to be a god that attacks heaven and the last one about the obscure journal of an alcoholic writer. One night, as I am drunk, a man loaded on cocaine stabs me and I die unable to decide whether to say “Einmal ist keinmal”* or“Es muss seine!”** (It is pointless, since there is no one else in the alley.) I ask for my ashes to be made into a champagne supernova in the sky.
Thirty years back into the present, it is April 16, 2009. I am eighteen years old. My mother enters my room and loudly asks the maid what happened to the installation of the TV cables. They exit, and her angry voice and the maid’s weak replies are muffled by music. The dog is under my desk, beside my feet, where he is safe from the banal absurdity of my mother’s daily squabbles. Without warning, she comes in again. I look back and greet her from my seat, but she only looks at the ceiling lamp and takes the radio from my room. (Yesterday, she was complaining about how I didn’t greet her anymore.)
I pause, out of things to write. I sigh.
Earlier today, I was at an internet cafe, and I finally manage to update my blog once more. I ask my usual readers to give my new entry a read. One of my friends told me that she commented on the story I posted, and I saw that it was, once again, positive feedback. She later tells me that she likes reading my entries because they’re insightful.
Minutes before, two fortuities (opening my e-mail and seeing an old friend’s invite) direct me to go back to Gaia Online. I first came to that place as a starry-eyed, conservative Christian. I stop visiting when a pro-life post of my mine is gutted by several pro-choice activists. I come back a sceptical, ultra-liberal agnostic.
About fifteen minutes later, I think of advertising my blog on Gaia through my forum signature. I fear that some bored intellectual would click it, and it, brimming with my new, unconventional beliefs, would still be gutted, not because of starry-eyed, conservative bull-kitsch^ but because of horrible form.
Now, I consider that it might be highly unlikely that it would happen as such.
I’m beckoned to dinner. I finished quickly, and my dad asked me why I finished so soon. (He asked because we ate burgers together this afternoon and because he was still eating when I was about to return to my room.) I answer him that I hurried because I was writing when they called me.
I return to my desk, and suddenly, I find myself unable to write. I close my eyes and I see the little me in my mind trying to grab my fleeting thoughts—some are flying, some are running and some are sinking. I feel my bones getting weaker and weaker. In one imagination, I kneel; gazing into the light shining from above and turning my dead palms to the illumination, I turn into stone. In another, I turn into an infant, and on my face is an expression of seriousness and worry—a look that only an adult can assume.
“Write, write,” I tell myself. “Write, write,” I tell myself.
There is a familiar rigor in my arms, and I don’t know exactly why I go like this from time to time. It is like being in a pool of tar, with my fingertips and my face free from it. Above me is a plume and I know if I take it, it shall take me away from the mud, but there is the chance that even though I’m out of it, some might still remain on my shoulders. It is also like being a puppet on strings for a giant shadow of me.
From below the depths of the tar, an ominous and terrifying voice does a deep laugh and tells me “Many times, I have made your writing inconsistent or horrible.” It seems that the plume is giggling at me, but it does not emit a feel of terror, but that of strange reassurance.
I do not dance, and I know I shouldn’t, but the giant shadow makes me do so. At first, it feels awkward and forced, but eventually it feels refreshing and liberating. I look at the giant spotlight that casts itself on me, as I wilfully take that bow of unique irony.
Thirty years into the future, it is April 16, 2039. I am forty-eight years old. I have written three non-fiction books and three novels. Most of these stop making sense at some point, because my arms begin to feel weak, because it becomes inconsistent or horrible because of a living abyss of tar or a giant shadow of me or because I turn into stone or into an infant with a worried expression. The examination of Oedipus and Hamlet becomes a surreal tale of two kindred souls, with hands entwined, dancing into the white nothingness. The critique of Philippine religion becomes a story of how a mischievous yet intelligent adult teases and plays with a naive, spoiled child dressed in a bishop’s outfit. The anthology of essays spirals into an anthology of whimsy. The manuscript of the novel about the workaholic mother ends up slammed into a garbage can, and upon close examination, the last page contains scratches from my nails. The one about the child who saw Christ’s face on the fog in the window concludes with the god and God doing a high five and drinking beer together. One day, an alcoholic writer, already drunk, goes onto the top floor of a thirty story building with his material in hand. He dances and prances and leaps into the air, as he falls, he gleefully watches the pages of his writing gently floating. He has no last words. With the living abyss of tar, the floating plume and the giant shadow of him, he laughs at the thought that a stone man with dead palms facing upward will end up shattered on the ground or that an infant’s face will no longer exude worrying.
---
* Einmal ist keinmal – A phrase used many times in Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It’s a German phrase that means whatever happens once might as well not have happened at all.
** Es muss seine! – Also appears recurrently in the same book. It’s a famous line from a composition by Beethoven. It means “It must be!”
^ Kitsch – Kundera says it’s “the absolute denial of shit, in both and literal and figurative senses of the word; [it] excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existence.” According to Microsoft Word’s thesaurus, it means tasteless, brash or outlandish (which is probably why he also said that “repeated use... has obliterated its original metaphysical meaning.”)
So, this one is pretty much overdue. The plan for it was that I was supposed to write about religion every day until the Holy Week ended, but I wasn't able to do so because there's no internet in the condo (I now live in Mandaluyong.)
On a side note, I think the ningas kugon is beginning to catch on with my blogging. If you're one of my 3 or so followers, maybe you could help me in writing. Gimme a topic and I'll think about it and maybe I'll write about it too. (Contributors get a free hug.)
The man who lost his morality
I remember this one time in CCF class we were talking about how morality was a God-given, spiritual gift that you can never remove. I remembered this article I read in Newsweek (or was it Time?) about morality. A mild-mannered average Joe was in a train station and was just minding his own business when suddenly something went wrong with a train and a huge, steel part of it just hit him really, really hard on the front of his head—or in other words, his frontal lobe—the part of your brain that’s responsible for morality. After a while he was able to go on even though his frontal lobe was severely fucked up. The thing is that he was able to kill people without ever feeling that it was wrong—in other words, he didn’t feel guilty about it. I did more than just remember it; I told it to the teacher and asked what he thought about it, and he just shoved the same answer to my face over and over and over again: “It’s what you’re fed.” I’m fed science, and I think he’s implying that it’s wrong.
Lucifer leaves hell
My favourite Sandman arc is “Season of Mists”—the one where Morpheus has to go to hell to get back whatsername. He goes all sentimental and goes all “I might never come back” with all of his buddies because he’s afraid that Lucifer will kick, torture and brutally gut out the stuffing out of him. When he gets there, no—nothing—hell’s empty. Fortunately, I have a copy of the last issue of Lucifer (for the record, I’m not a Satanist) which is a wonderfully woven Sandman spinoff by Mike Carey. The following conversation is more or less where the spinoff started, but it was written by Neil Gaiman.
---
Lucifer: There. Those were the last of them. We’re the only entities left in hell, Morpheus. I was the first one here, and it looks like I’m going to be the last.
Morpheus (inside of those black, squiggly speech bubbles): Lucifer, what is HAPPENING?
Lucifer: I keep telling you, Dream Lord. It’s over. I am leaving. And I have closed down hell. Morpheus: How? How can you even--?
Lucifer: Easy. Ten billion years, I’ve spent in this place. That’s a long time. And we’ve all changed since the beginning.... I’m tired, Morpheus. So tired.
Morpheus: You knew me when I was an angel. What was I like?
Lucifer: You were very PROUD, Samael. But you were also very BEAUTIFUL, and wise—and PASSIONATE.
Morpheus: Was I? Yes. Yes, I was. I cared about so many things. I suppose that was why everything began to go wrong.
Lucifer: You know—I still wonder how much of it was planned. How much of it he knew in advance? ... I thought I was rebelling. I thought I was defying his rule. No. I was merely fulfilling another tiny segment of his great and powerful plan.... But I am woolgathering. I apologize. You don’t mind if I work as we talk? There are no more entities left within the bounds infernal, but I need to secure the last gates.
You also rule a world, Morpheus. A world of sleepers, and dreamers, of stories. A simple place compared to hell. I envy you.... Can you imagine what it was like? Ten billion years spent providing a place for dead mortals to torture themselves? And like all masochists, they called the shots. “Burn me.” “Freeze me.” “Eat me.” “Hurt me.” And we did.... Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spent my entire day sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive.... “The devil made me do it.” I have never made one of them do anything. Never.
And then they die, and they come here, having transgressed against what they believed to be right. And expect us to fulfil their desire for pain and retribution. I don’t make them come here. They talk of me going around and buying souls, like a fishwife come market day, never stopping to ask themselves why. I need no souls. And how can anyone own a soul?
No, they belong to themselves. They just hate to have to face up to it.*
Yes, I rebelled. It was a long time ago. How long was I meant to pay for that one action? So now it’s over. I’ve sent all of them away. All of hell’s inhabitants.
Morpheus: Where—have you sent them?
Lucifer: Away. I don’t care where they’ve gone. Heaven. Earth. Limbo. The far realms. Who knows? But they won’t be coming here anymore.
Morpheus: And what YOU do now?
Lucifer: I don’t know. To be honest, Dream Lord, I haven’t given it much thought. I couldn’t return to the Silver City---even if I wished to. I could never again be an angel. Innocence, once lost, can never be regained. What will I do now? I could lie on a beach somewhere, perhaps? Build a house? Learn how to dance or play the piano? It matters not. I have had my fill of the old life, and that is all I care about. Perhaps this is the ultimate freedom, eh, Dream Lord? The freedom to leave.
---
And I know what you good lot of Catholics are thinking, "Oh, those are lies. That's what the devil wants you to think."
Well, here’s what Christianity first thought about the devil.
The origin of Satan
I heard most of this from my English blockmate. I suppose he got it from Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion or some show from the Discovery channel. ^
Hell started off as Hel—she was the goddess of the underworld. Sure, the underworld was a hot place back then too, but a hot place isn’t bad considering that the Nordic lands were really, really cold. Hel’s pad wasn’t always a place of burning forevermore; it used to be a warm place to rest in peace.
So how did it end up the most unpleasant place in all of human imagination? Christianity faced a lot of persecution in its early days. There was nothing in Christ’s teachings to stop the Roman guards from beating the crap out of them, so one day, they had an idea: “I know, let’s make a horrible, horrible place where these douchebags will go after they die!” Hence, hell.
In other words, hell was an invention made by humans (as if religion isn’t already one) to keep people in line. In a way, it’s an equivalent of spanking a kid. Instead of “If you don’t behave, I’m going to spank you!” you have “If you don’t behave for the rest of your life, you’re going to burn in hell!”
A world without religion
(It'd be awesome if you read this part while listening to John Lennon's "Imagine")
If we don’t have religion, then how else is society going to function properly? Where would mankind be without questions such as “WWJD” (What would Jesus do?) or “What do I do and don’t do so I won’t go to hell?”
It just so happens that mankind has something called empathy. It’s much more believable and it’s much more natural, and it just so happens that we’ve lost touch of it. How? We lost it to laughing at mindless violence: Saw or Final Destination or Ogrish or whatever shit that involves uncannily gruesome and bloody acts. We’re desensitized. We’re high on sedatives like consumerism and hedonism (which again, ironically, is against Christian doctrine). We’re high on the idea that everything is alright, and that everything will be alright.
Religion-wise, people are drunk on the idea that if they just pray every damn day of their lives, they’ll go to heaven. Well, it doesn’t work that way. Didn’t Francis of Assisi (Am I right with this one?) say that “Faith without action is dead”? Nah, you’re doing something. Yes, you good Christians are. I’m sure Jesus appreciates the change you donate every Sunday. ** Yes, yes he does. I know that change will do oh so plenty to help all the people in the world who live on less than a dollar. How many you ask? Oh, I thought you knew!^^ Silly me! NEARLY HALF THE WORLD’S POPULATION LIVES ON A DOLLAR OR LESS. Oh, they’re too far you say? They’re from Africa or some other part of the third world? Well, we live in a fucking third world country. Damn it, you could at least sign up for Gawad Kalinga or some Youth For Christ stuff! Now, if Jesus doesn’t tell you to help that half of the world (and I bet you do, oh so good Catholic), how else are we going to do it?
That’s the challenge.
As for the rest of you: happy Easter, you hypocrites. Jesus rose from the dead to weep till the next Black Saturday comes.
Endnotes
* My bold and italics ^ I have to check the sources. Augh. ** The money actually ends up in poor parishes. I’d like to assume that people in slums and street kids don’t go to church. On another note, I’d like to repeat the case of the tax collector who was willing to give up 10% of his income. There are a lot of organizations around the Philippines in which you can donate a minimum of P500 a month (or was it a week?). One of them is Children’s Hour, wherein you donate just an hour’s worth of your salary in a week (or a month?) to help poor kids. I’d like hundreds of Catholic donators to shove into my face that they actually help orgs like these. Till then, I’ll laugh at their faces. ^^ (Too many endnotes. Augh.) I’d like at least ten or at least five or LESS Catholics to tell me that they actually know this prior to reading the post, and I’d like them to tell me what they’re actually doing.
I wanna give a tip of the hat to Bessi who gave me some cool encouragement.
Shit, getting this story from the depths of my laptop is like digging up skeletons for me.
Oh, why didn't I post my stories and my poetry on the internet? I was always afraid somebody would take them from me. It's so easy to just copy-paste somebody else's work and call it your own. I mean, I wouldn't even know!
How many great people got famous from plagiarizing? H.G. Wells, T.S. Eliot and Martin Luther King. (I'm not implying that my work's great though.) (Side note: Got that from www.cracked.com/article_17198_5-great-men-who-built-their-careers-on-plagiarism.html)
Anyway, here it is.
The Bar Circle
A Short Story
By Victor Bautista
It was an unusually hot season. So unusual that it made me think that nobody would ever want to die on a day as hot as this. It makes one mad, and nobody, but madmen would want to part from this world in a disgusting fit.
On a fateful day, I went along with the lunacy of the sun (or did I escape it?) and went to a tavern. It was, of course, empty and only the bartender and a lone man were there. Ah, this man’s a failure or a drunkard, I supposed. Either way, he was a fool. Going to places like these in broad daylight leaves one with a lingering, terrible impression. It was a good thing it was just the three of us.
I placed myself a stool from the greasy man, and then I asked for a beer from the good chap (the bartender, I mean). I asked for a tall one, so he could leave us be and take a rest since most nights, the bar would be set ablaze with men on fire. It made me wonder who’s better off among these two fellows.
The bad chap lifted his heavy, drunken head and pointed it at me, but the black of his eyes was nowhere. By Jove! It was if he was in some kind of indulgent enlightenment! He was more fascinating than I first assumed.
After noticing that, I noticed that he had an extremely thick moustache with a messy head of short hair. His forehead had wrinkles. He had bags under his eyes, and while the ivory look of his eyes seemed mighty erudite, his mouth exuded a contrast with a deplorable dumbness.
He shook his head violently and came to his senses. Now, he saw me. Ah, that bloody bastard! He put his head down, and when it came up again, he just grinned and began his monologue. His speech was amazing, and I didn’t know myself if it was naughty or meaningful; either way, I listened to that coot (though I had to take a step or two back from the odour of his breath).
“Damn! Damn the university and their elitist sciences! Ha! What rubes! They think they’re angels from up above who give everybody the right to say what they ought to say and who give the power for everybody to have some kind of wonderful, never-before understanding. Well, they’re wrong!”
He paused for a while, as if he were flabbergasted with himself and didn’t know what to say next. I took that time to cram down a big gulp—refreshing.
He sighed then started again, “Damn the university for not taking me in! Damn them! They say they stand for art; they say they stand for the Lady, yet—My God!—all they do is shut us out. Their intentions, their intentions are for you and for me and for everybody to just read the stuff that everybody can understand. But what about the rest of us? The philosophers, the scientists and the intellectuals? What about the bloody brilliant deviants? Art for art’s sake. Phoo! I’ve never heard such distasteful lies in my life! Art ain’t for art’s sake, or it just can’t stand on its own... stake, somebody else has to see it! You know what you’ve done? You know what you’ve done, you bloody bastards; you just put a limit.”
He stood up and took a deep breath, and like a lion pouncing, kicked the stool (but it didn’t fling too far). He shouted with all his might, taking out all the air from his tired lungs, “YOU THINK YOU’RE TAKING DOWN WALLS; YOU’RE JUST MAKING ‘EM!”
Slowly, he crouched; his palms pointed upward.
Damn me. After that wonderful experience (despite the potent stench at the end), I had a sincere grin on my face. Once I noticed, my head went hard and my face turned blank. Sobriety... I drank the rest of my drink bottoms-up.
After that, the good chap came out of the room behind the liquor cabinet. On the other side, the bad chap’s face had suddenly turned blank like mine. The fun was over; we both knew it. Suddenly, his eyes returned to that lofty look—which now looked distant, not smart. The bartender lifted the stool and put it in its right place, and he did that with the drunkard too. He held him by the shoulders and propped his back on the bar. In a quiet whisper, “Alright, old friend, just rest easy.” It was as if he let a stray animal in and allowed the poor creature to rest its weary bones.
“Terribly sorry, mate,” he said. I wanted to ask about the wild fellow, and he knew that from the serious look in my brow. In polite aversion, he offered a free drink and apologized for the “over-the-topity of it all” (it became the prayer of this sordid temple).
I gave him a wide, sad smile and refused.
But I liked the scenery here. The cool, empty room apart from the blithering heat. The lethal kindness of that bartender with a black apron. The obscure complexity of that wanton scholar. That’s why I replied, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” I liked it here, and that was the only reason I came back.
And so, I did. Everything lost its lustre from that point on, the amusement was gone and it was replaced with an intense (perhaps scientific) despising of him, that instead of repulsed me, attracted me instead.
From time to time from that day on, I had a feeling that I would have liked to asked him what his problem was, but I was afraid he would bite. And if he did, it would be utterly, terribly infectious—deadly even. That fear made me half the man I was. Utterly pitiful of me. Good thing it’s just in this limbo, and it’s a better thing the good chap had good alcohol.
By the third day, I found the joke within this entire predicament. Peeps go to the tavern in the night to forget and be merry. But here I am. The furious sun’s outside. My only friends are a madman and a bartender that takes in strays.
Damn, the fact that it went by so hastily was the most over-the-top; I got along this deplorable line so fast, and the sad part was that I was assimilated—and beyond that, I could’ve sworn I almost did his weird eye movement sublimely and that the bottles seemed to look down upon me—like idols (gods even) upon lowly worshipers.
By the seventh day, I had a potent urge to set this man straight. By this time, he felt like a distant cousin from a distant land, hence, the call for duty.
Maybe I had too much or had too little. I set my head down.
It was such a conundrum, this dilemma. I was so disgusting! Why couldn’t I get out of this place? Why? Why?
I knocked a lot at the bar, and when my friend came out, I asked for a drink that would hit me hard in a second. I fell like a brick afterwards. The last thing I remember was sounds of buzzing up high and tapping on the floor.
By the second week, I got totally used to it and it became a habit. Shouldn’t have.
By the fifteenth day, he finally broke out of that disgusting cycle. But only for a while! Damn it, only for a while! “P... P...,” I was going to utter something. It could have meant everything or nothing, but, anyway, I kept my mouth shut. As his head was tucked away from the sun, he mumbled the only words that made sense, and I reckon he was saying how tedious and pointless this circle was, and I was tipsy then.
