Farewell, Tabulas.

One night, hotter than the previous nights as summer squeezes itself in this tropical archipelago, your head sweat with the desire to take a trip down the memory lane. So you clicked open the internet explorer on your desktop and struck the keys, your fingers light and easy, but almost trembling. “Stainedcanvas.tabulas.com” filled just the short space of the long address box. You halted, heaved a sigh of contentment as if you’d accomplished something monumental. A slight grin arched on your face. You lingered a bit in this moment, and then resumed with excitement as you hit the enter key.

Then you got surprised. The page you’re anticipating to load was not there. You checked the address. You got it right – stainedcanvas.tabulas.com. You knew you could never go wrong. You could forget what you had for breakfast, the name of the earthling you randomly met at the office, the taste of the halo-halo (a dessert) you braved to try at some food store, but not this website, never.

So you re-typed the address, this time, slowly, carefully, ascertaining not to miss a letter or even a punctuation mark. And instead of typing stainedcanvas.tabulas.com, you opted not to be lazy and typed the complete address, http://www.stainedcanvas.tabulas.com. Then you breathed, deeply, and swallowed the warm saliva to ease your dry throat. Let’s try it again, you told yourself. You struck the enter key with your index finger. You were certain, very certain this time. Then in a split second the page refreshed. Nothing changed, just the same page with nothing familiar you knew for the past five years. You were taken aback, hands and fingers locked together, resting behind your nape. You’re dismayed – terribly dismayed.

Then your eyes wandered all over this unfamiliar page, examining it. One caught your attention. How could you have missed? How could you have overlooked the words horizontally aligned on this strange white page? So you drew closer toward the small screen of your netbook, eyes squinted near this bright led screen as you panned from left to right, right to left, reading the texts, searching for the truth.

And so the truth confronted you. You never saw it coming. You thought this cyber page was an exemption, perennially invincible, and would not suffer the detriments of commercialism just as Friendster and other websites did. After all, you thought this page was not that mainstream. But then again, it hit you that there’s nothing in the World Wide Web that is not mainstream. One way or another, money is behind these things. Everything is funded. Somehow, there has to be some adequate returns to keep a certain web page up and running. And if bucks are not generated enough to keep the pockets fat and full, the owner may be compelled to pull the plug.

You felt the heat intensified in your head, creating more sweat snaking down your temples and then onto your neck. Your heart suddenly beat fast, senses heightened you could hear pulses emanating from under your wrists. The ceiling fan above you squeaked more annoyingly than it did, struggling to blow air that could not overpower the suffocating heat in the room.  Confusion overwhelmed your head, denting your sanity. You thought of the poems you scribbled on that old page, the nocturnal musings, the good and evil thoughts, and the self-indulgent words – they are all gone.  Guilt pounced on you. Why did you stop frequently posting on that blog? Why did you abandon it? But you didn’t really abandon it, did you? You just moved on and surmised that change would serve you good, and you would always visit it to peer at the old life you had. That page just graduated to becoming a memory box of sort, a keepsake of the past and everything that went with it. But unlike a memory box, that old page is now perennially gone together with a huge chunk of you, of your old life. And amid the fact that you couldn’t perfectly recall the things you scribed on that old page, the memory of Tabulas will linger forever, the memory of a friend you lost, a very dear friend. And on that, you know your brains won’t fail.

You heaved a sigh and convinced yourself, “This is change.”

This is change.

You hoped.

Old Boy

Old Boy

What would you do if you were snatched away from freedom one rainy night and confined in a strange room for fifteen years? You’re abducted away from your wife and little daughter for a reason unknown to you. You had nothing in that room but a bed, a TV, a toilet, your angst and pain. You’re gassed every now and then and rationed meals as needed. Your mind flew to delusions. And all of these fuelled your desperation to find a way to break free from this confinement; secretly, with a humble but dependable metal chopstick, you carved the usually-hidden part of the walls and intended a crevice. Luckily, your efforts managed one which was small but huge in hope for freedom.

Then in an instant you were dropped and woke on a roof deck – you’re free. But fifteen years had passed. News had it on the idiot box you mechanically watched during your incarceration that you murdered your wife; you’re a fugitive. You didn’t know where to start, and you’re too deranged to think about that. One day, a stranger handed you a mobile phone. A call vibrated from that phone – it’s he, your perpetrator: the one who set out the plan to temporary kill your existence. The moment struck you. Your lips jerked for words you longed to ask: Why did you imprison me? The strange man on the other line managed a response. He introduced himself a scholar and you were his study, his major. He urged you to think your lifetime over. He left a word:  Be it a grain of sand or rock, in water they sink as the same; you’re puzzled. Then you thought of vengeance. It smelled sweet. But you thought it tasted sweeter.

Then as you neared the finality of your sweet justice, the most fatal punishment than all that scourged you in those fifteen years hit you hard into the core of your soul. The truth you thought would set you free sent you back within the suffocating walls of disgusting realities you could never overturn and wished to have not known. And no amount, no other form of torment in those fifteen years could surpass this punishment – turning you to a creature bereft of humanity: a dog wagging its tail, woofing at its master.

This is not the first Korean film I have watched. I have seen several but none among them is as riveting, disturbing and clever as this Park Chan-Wook masterpiece, Old Boy. At first, the film wasn’t easy to follow. To some the absurdities at the beginning may send them searching for another flick worthy of their time. But if you are keen on peculiarities and can stretch your patience to several more minutes after spending first 10 or 15 minutes of peering at the screen and hearing monologues from what seemed to be a mentally-deranged fellow, you will find all of these shards and fragments slowly forming a beautiful and affecting piece.

This masterpiece is slightly reminiscent of the vengeance flick by the auteur Quentin Tarantino. It had a decent load of blood, violence, and humor. Most of all, the film possesses the mind-boggling, shock-inducing flair of the great departed Alfred Hitchcock. The film received accolades and awards from the international community. And after watching it, it’s never a question to me anymore why this work is up there alongside great foreign films of our time.

mad, mad world

I have a thing for some new wave songs. Mad World by Tears for Fears is a spot-on. The lyrics of the song hits you right in the core. And you’ll heave, “Oh, yeah! We live in a mad, mad world!” while enjoying the beat and the rhythm of the song as if the madness of this world calls forth boon with bottles of booze tossed here and there. I had to peer away once in a while though because of the new wave-ish gestures and groove. But that can be forgiven.

Meanwhile, here’s the talented Armi Millare of Up Dharma Down.

(click here to see the video)

Her rendition is heartfelt, haunting. Oh, those eyes. They pierce you right into your heart, and soon you will find yourself relegated to the melancholy of perpetual running in circles, of going nowhere.

And it strikes your head, “I breathe; blood still runs my veins.”

The madness reassures you.

.Of life.

hot potato

It’s cute.

The words you sell

to a lover’s ear.

But they say actions speak

louder than words.

So you whisper

hugs and kisses,

hugs and kisses

in the dark.

“Let Love unite us two;

let me show you how it

is true,”

ensnare you.

Until a tadpole rests itself

into the core of her waiting cell,

consuming it.

 

Then a life tinges

in her womb,

she says.

Sharp images of restlessness

from that crib

fog your eyes.

A noise emanating from

that tiny body shatters

your ears.

Can you give up

nights of women,

of wine?

Notes hard-earned

will find their doom

not on the carefree days

with the comrades –

not anymore.

Not anymore.

 

“Let Love triumph,”

declare her eyes

brimming with love,

love, love

as she waits

for your word of

finality.

 

Sweat crawls down

your temples.

It scares you.

freedom

Oh, it’s Friday night!

Their bodies gyrate,

sweating, under

the moving lights

of blinding colors

there in the dark.

Feet dance to the beat

of borrowed hours

of euphoria,

of bottles and butts

strewn on tables.

Freedom! Freedom!

They shout.

Minds oblivious to

the week

of paper works heaped,

rushed by a

dissatisfied boss,

and

to the dreams pursued

but always elusive.

Such is the fire their

bones won’t endure,

their hearts won’t take.

If money permits,

there’ll be merrymaking

all throughout the

ungodly hours .

If luck favors,

they’ll find themselves

wrapped in the arms

of a stranger familiar

with the thirst that

consumed them.

Such is the fire

they will endure!

Such is the fire

their hearts will take

all for the freedom where

there’ll be weeping

and gnashing of teeth.

Dead End

One of the biggest concerns of any humankind there is: purpose.

And when you find it, you must take courage to stride only on paths that would lead to achieving the ultimate purpose. No matter what it costs.

Do we assign it to ourselves? Or do we wait for God to shake and pounce our heads with endless realizations? Is it really something that we have to unearth in the deepest of our hearts? Or is it revealed to us in monumental epiphanies we never saw coming, and when it hits us right into the core of brains, it compels us and makes us weak all throughout the wee hours of the night, figuring out how we can ever achieve it.

And achieving it is like battling against giants so colossal you think the universe is about to weigh itself down on you – you who are so minute, so insignificant, so nothing. You try to run your life with ideals as purpose is ideal, hence, pursued. But the world is so not ideal. And you must be ready to wage war against it and the monsters it has starved for your flesh and soul.

You don’t want to be preyed upon by these monsters and claim your bitter defeat. But you are also tired of chasing your purpose. You surmise that safe is where there is no running after those dreams, that life would be simple, less painful if bereft of any desire to answer that call.

But more devastating is you’re trapped. The purpose has already stained your head and it won’t leave you peace. It always pleads and pleads until you crack your sanity.

And with trepidation, you’d repeat to yourself just as you would a mantra, “There’s no way out.”

“There’s no way out.”