Romancing the Muse

It’s been four years since you last saw her.

You stare at the blank document of your word processor. You force yourself to write something. Anything.

Nothing.

But white.

Technology has found new ways of mocking you. It was different then, when you had to punch letters into the paper with a typewriter. Each letter was a solid blow, bruising the pale flawless skin of the bond paper with black bloody prose. Creation has never been so violent. Now, the silent flicker of the ultra hi-speed refresh rate of your monitor relaxes your mind too much. There is no creation without violence. And your screen dares you to violate it—to devirginize its virtual sanctity.

You are enraged by this mockery. You start punching letters. The letters become words. Words become sentences. Sentences transform into dialogue. You desperately muster the sliver of anger the mockery has produced in you and you transform it into whatever semblance of violence you can come up with.

You read the words. They make too much sense. You delete punctuation. You edit lines you picked up from a stray conversation. One word. Two words. Three. Violence starts to creep up your fingers as you furiously punch in the backspace key. And then...nothing. A blank page stares at you again. The screen is once again inviolate.

Peaceful.

Mocking. White.

This is the time when you start to miss her.

You recall the circumstances of your last meeting. What she was wearing. How her hair was done. What perfume she had on. You were at both ends of the backseat of a cab on the way to the last show of your last play. Your fingers were barely touching. She was pleading for you to say something. Anything. You kept silent.

For some reason everything was so clear to you. You have forgotten her. It was not your fault. It was not you who left. She did.

Of course you were hurt. But four years is too long to nurse that ill-feeling. A lot has happened to you in the last four years. You’ve been busy.

You got yourself an 8 to 5 job. You started to follow a strict schedule of waking up, going to work, hanging out with your bosses then your friends, and spending weekends with family. The cubicle which you used to see as a cell became your command center. You finally gave up the bohemian lifestyle. You enjoyed the perks of your twice-a-month pay check. You could afford your own flat. You lived on your own, paid your own bills, bought yourself an expensive pair of your most coveted rubber shoes. You binged in fine-dining restaurants. Slowly, you developed a steady rhythm and routine of life—what most people might call the “quiet life.” But despite the stability of your new found existence there was that undercurrent uneasiness within you.

This peaceful routine is oppressingly unfamiliar to you. But since she left, you have been dismissing it as “withdrawal syndrome.” It is only natural—you’ve been with her ever since you learned how to write. People who quit smoking probably feel the same thing. There is really nothing wrong with you, you tell yourself.

You keep on telling yourself.

Keep telling yourself that.

This is writers’ block.

It took you four years to realize this fact. You never saw it coming. You always thought that writers’ block is something unpleasant—sleepless nights struggling with the noises in your head. You thought writers’ block is your inability to choose from the chimeras populating your constrained, boxed-up imagination. Sometimes you thought of it as an infinite void. You could see yourself walking in space, scanning for an iota of an idea, a story, a character, a theme, a line of dialogue.

You were too engrossed with your pseudo-bourgeoisie hedonistic lifestyle to see that there is art even on your sleepless bed. You were too comfortable drowning yourself with pop culture TV to find music amidst the noises in your head. You have forgotten that even ghosts tell stories and that there is beauty even in nothingness.

Writers’ block. It terrifies you now that you face it without her.

Now, you so fucking wish she were right here beside you.

Epiphanies are so cliché. But truly, it somehow opens your third, fourth, and fifth eyes that were blinded by stupidity and sloth. Suddenly you remember right.

You were at both ends of the backseat of a cab. Your fingers were barely touching. She was pleading for you to say something. Anything. You kept silent. You thought it would ruin the moment to say anything. At that moment you decided to live your plays rather than write them. The cab stopped. She left the car to watch your last masterpiece. You stayed to live it. It was not she who left. It was you.

Four years you lived. You grew tired of writing stories and so you decided to just live them. You didn’t have to please anyone. You didn’t have to think of an audience. You weren’t pressured for originality and structure. No expositions, rising actions and denouements. No conflicts. You were better off without her. You were free.

And then she calls.

After four years she gives you a call out of the blue. You are silent for the first part—hell, for the most part—of the conversation. You don’t know what to say. You are now too accustomed to a kind of silence that promises nothing but resolutions and happy endings without the climax. But the sound of her voice deemed it vulgar to be at peace with yourself.

She asks you how you are. You exchange pleasantries and small talk. You catch up with each other. You’d love to tell her what you’ve been doing the past four years. You’d love to tell her you’d been busy. But you don’t know what to say when she asks you, “So, what have you been writing lately?”

Before you put down the phone, she promises to visit you soon.

This has the makings of a romantic soap for TV. You couldn’t sleep. The excitement stirs up something violent inside you. You start to hear voices. Too many voices none and all of which is yours. You start seeing ghosts walking about your room, fighting for space over your bed which has turned into a stage. And then darkness starts to creep in. Your space is both constrained and infinite. This feeling is very much familiar. You used to dismiss this feeling as “brain fart” or “intellectual masturbation.” You used to accuse yourself of wasting time and letting your mind wander off whenever you are in this state. You used to call this writers’ block.

You have to write. You feel it. But there is a war inside you. How can you write with an unclear mind?

There is no creation without violence.

You open your word processor and you stare at the blank document. Peaceful. Mocking white.

Fuck you.

No. On second thought, you’d rather do it yourself.

Feverishly, your fingers well up with enough violence to commit sacrilege on that white, virgin space.

Black blood all over.

Then silence. That familiar silence that used to accompany you in your meditations on the paradoxes of creation.

You stare at the bloodied screen of your laptop. Those four years without her was necessary for conflict to arise. Creation is impossible without violence. Now you understand, your romance is complete.

You hear a familiar voice coming from behind you. The voice that had always stirred up that violence inside you and pushed you to create. You turned your head and saw her smiling at you.

And you realize that it was her romancing you all this time.

Hinanap Kita

hinanap kita sa halik ng habagat

ngunit wala ka sa habagat,

wala

hinanap kita sa tamis ng tanaga

ngunit wala ka sa tanaga,

wala

hinanap kita sa samyo ng salita

ngunit wala ka sa salita,

wala

hinanap kita sa kilig ng kuliglig

ngunit wala ka sa kuliglig,

wala

hinanap kita sa aninag ng araw

ngunit wala ka sa araw,

wala

dahil naroon ka pala

sa aninag ng araw

sa kilig ng kuliglig

sa samyo ng salita

sa tamis ng tanaga

sa halik ng habagat

sa kaluluwa ng aking tula

Ang Mangkukulam

Walang sinuman sa amin ang nagkamaling sumubok na tumingin sa mga mata niya... kahit isang saglit lang. Sa lahat ng pagkakataon na makakausap namin siya, na bihira naman, iniiwasan naming tumingin sa mga mata niya. Kung palarin kaming makausap siya, sa ibang bahagi ng mukha niya kami tumitingin. Sa labi, sa ilong, sa noo, sa pisngi. Pagkakamali mo ang tumingin sa mata.

Mabibilang sa daliri ng kamay mo ang mga nagtangkang tumingin. Ang iba’y panakaw, ang iba’y habang kausap. Lahat sila’y iisa ang kinahinatnan—nawawala sa sarili, nabaliw, nilayasan ng katinuan. Ngunit ang lahat ng ito ay mga kwento pa lamang—mga sabi-sabi, haka-haka. May nakapagsabing anim sa mga binatilyong bigla na lang nawala sa sarili ang biktima ng sumpa ng kanyang mata.

Nariyan si Roni, barkada ko, na-admit sa mental last sem. Catatonic na raw sabi ng nanay—hindi nila matukoy ang dahilan. Si Christian, ang presidente ng student council, bigla na lang hindi pumasok. May balita raw na parating kinakausap ni Christian ang sarili. Si Lloyd, nagsasalita ng German sa Philo class namin. Nadismiss. Pati teacher, nabiktima. Si Dr. Alcantara, ang teacher namin sa Bio, pinagresign na ng Dean. Bigla na lang kasi itong kumakanta ng kanta ni April Boy sa gitna ng lecture niya. Nahuli ito minsan ni Dean na kumakanta ng “Ikaw Pa Rin” sa gitna ng lecture niya tunkol sa DNA. At ang pinakamatindi, si Yorrick na Captain ball ng varsity—ayaw nang pumasok dahil sa paranoia. Pakiramdam niya, parating may gustong pumatay sa kanya. Pinadala ng tatay sa rehab dahil napagkamalang nagdodroga. Ilan lang sila. Ilan lang sa mga naunang nagtangkang pumorma o manligaw. Ilan lang sa mga nagtangkang tumingin sa malalalim niyang mga mata. Lahat sila nabaliw.

Ngunit walang nakapagpatunay na siya nga ang dahilan ng mga nangyari. Walang makapagbigay ng pruweba na may sumpa nga ang mga mata niya. Gayunpaman, kahit mga haka lang ang mga ito, wala na sa aking mga kaibigan ang sumusubok na makipagtitigan sa kanya. Dahil wala pa, kahit isa sa mga nagtangka, ang nakaligtas mula sa sumpa ng kanyang mga mata.

Isa ako sa mga nagtangka.

Nakilala ko si Ana sa gala night ng huling play na ginawa ko sa University. Pagkatapos ng curtain call, sa gitna ng mga congratulations, yakapan, at sigawan, sa gitna ng mga nag-iiyakang cast members, nakita ko siyang papalapit sa akin.

Alam ko na agad ang unang dapat kong gawin. Kailangan kong umiwas ng tingin. Ngunit hindi na maiiwasan ang pagtatagpong ito. Lumapit siya sa akin para i-congratulate ako. Agad kong ipinako ang mga tingin ko sa kanyang nakapagtutulalang ngiti.

“I loved it. It’s probably the darkest play I ever saw...”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“I meant it to be. By the way, my name’s Ana.”

“I know...”

Hindi ko alam kung ano itong pinapasok ko. Nakita ko ang ilan sa mga cast and crew ko na natigilan, napatingin sa direksiyon namin ni Ana. Parang sinasabing: “Huwag kang titingin sa mata, Huwag sa mata!”

“It’s nice meeting you. Iwan na kita. I don’t want to steal you from your company.”

Pero noong sandaling iyon, hindi ako takot mabaliw. May kakaibang misteryo ang bumabalot sa katauhan ni Ana. May kakaibang panghatak, kakaibang balani. May humihila sa aking manatili sa tabi niya kahit na alam kong kabaliwan ang gawin iyon.

“If you’re not busy tonight, we’re having our cast party at my place...you might wanna join us...you know...for booze and stuff...”

Ginantihan niya ako ng ngiti. “I’d love that.”

Sa New York lumaki si Ana. Bumalik siya dito sa Pilipinas dahil may kinailangang asikasuhin ang kanyang Nanay. Dito niya tinapos ang kalahati ng kanyang high school at dito na rin niya balak tapusin ang kanyang kolehiyo. Bunso siya sa tatlong magkakapatid. Senior Manager ang ate niya sa isang kilalang bangko sa Makati samantalang ang kuya niya, o kuyang-ate, ay nasa kung saang sulok ng Malate, tumutugtog ng gitara sa gabi, ibang instrumento naman sa madaling-araw.

Si Ana ang paborito ng kanyang ina na gabi-gabi niyang kasama maliban lang ng gabing iyon. Maliit pa si Ana nang namatay ang tatay niya. Binaril ang tatay ni Ana sa harapan niya. Nagmamaneho noon ang tatay, katabi siya sa harap. Red light—huminto ang kotse sa isang intersection, nang bigla na lang, may isang lalaking naka-shades ang tumapat sa bintana ng kanyang tatay, tinutukan ng baril sa ulo, at pinaputok. Hindi niya maalala ang naramdaman niya noon. Bata pa siya masyado para maalala. Hindi rin niya naintindihan kung ano ang nangyari. Pero hindi niya kailanman malilimutan ang mukha ng lalaking bumaril sa kanyang ama.

Malayo ang narating ng kwentuhan namin. Mula sa pamilya, eskwela, mga hilig, bisyo, barkada, hanggang lolo’t lola. Humanities pala ang kinukuha niya, major in literature kaya sobrang interesado siya sa mga writers ng school. Matagal na pala niyang sinusubaybayan ang mga sinusulat ko.

“This is your most angst-ridden play.”

“Hindi naman talaga ako angst-ridden. Maloko lang talaga akong magsulat.”

“So are you working on any new plays?"

Habang lumalalim nang lumalalim ang aming pag-uusap, lumalalim na rin ang tama namin. Marami kaming natutunan tungkol sa isa’t isa, marami na rin kaming alkohol sa katawan.

“Labas tayo,” aya ko.

Iniwan namin ang tropa sa bahay. Kalahati sa kanila’y lasing na, may ilang sabog sa tsongki, at nakita ko na ring lumabas ng kuwarto ko ang lead actor at actress ng play ko.

Binaybay namin ang malamig na kalsada na iniilawan ng malamlam na titig ng buwan.

Hindi ako makapaniwala, na kasama ko ngayong gabi ang pinakamaganda, pinaka-seksi, pinakamaputi, pinakamakinis, pinaka-“M”—lahat na ng “M”—mabango, mapulang labi, misteryosa, mahabang buhok, mayaman, mabait, malusog at malaman... Ang pantasya ng bayan, ang pinakapatok, ang pinakamabenta sa market, ang pinakaaabangan sa takilya, ang cover girl at centerfold ng school organ, ang dream kepyas ng mga seniors, ang di-mahawak-hawakan, di matitig-titigan.

Pero hanggang pantasya lang kaming lahat. Hanggang isip lang. Dahil sa takot sa sumpa. Pero ngayon, kasama ko siya, naglalakad kami, nagkukwentuhan, nagpapalitan ng mga sama ng loob, ng mga pangarap, ng mga buntong-hininga, ng katahimikan. Minsan, mas malalim ang makipagpalitan ng katahimikan kaysa ng mga karanasan.

Medyo hilo na kami pero nakapako pa rin sa isip ko ang isang bagay: “Huwag kang titingin sa mata, huwag sa mata.”

“Are you scared of me?” Bigla niyang tanong.

Hindi ko inasahan ang tanong na iyon. Pareho na kaming medyo nahihilo. Kumapit siya sa braso ko at inihiga ang ulo sa aking balikat.

“Is it true?” Tanong ko.

Ginantihan lang niya ako ng ngiti. Hindi ko man tukuyin, alam niya kung ano ang tinatanong ko.

“What do you think?”

“Tingin ko, totoo.”

Hindi ko alam kung ano’ng pumasok sa kukote ko. Nasobrahan na siguro ako sa alkohol. Hinawakan ko ang mukha niya, nakapako pa rin ang mga mata ko sa kanyang labi. Dahan-dahang dumampi ang init ng aking labi sa kanyang labi habang hinahawi ng aking dila ang kurtina ng kanyang pag-aalinlangan. At sa loob ng isang mahabang sandali, nalunod kami sa dilim ng sandaling pagkurap ng buwan. Naghiwalay ang aming mga labi, at wala nang gustong dapuan ang aking mga mata kundi ang kanyang tingin. Noong gabing iyon, naligaw ang aking ulirat sa lalim ng kanyang mga mata.

* * *

Iyon ang huli naming pagkikita bago siya umalis.

Hindi na muli ako nakarinig mula noon galing sa kanya. Hindi ko na siya nakita sa campus. Nabalitaan ko na lang sa isa niyang kaibigan na bumalik na siyang New York. Tapos na siguro ang inaasikaso ng kanyang Nanay. Umalis siyang walang paalam, nang hindi tinatapos ang kanyang mga sinimulan.

Hindi ko alam kung dapat kong ikatuwa ang pananatili ng aking katinuan matapos ang gabing iyon. Hindi ko alam kung napatunayan kong sabi-sabi lang ang sumpa tungkol sa kanyang mga mata o nakaligtas ako mula rito. Nakaligtas nga ba ako? O hinayaang makaligtas? Pero minsan naiisip ko na mas mabuti na lang ang mabaliw. Minsan, sinasabi ko sa sarili, na mabuti pa’ng wala ka sa sarili kaysa malaman mo kung ano ang hindi mo naangkin—ang hindi mo na maangkin.

Hindi ko na ulit nahanap ang labing iyon. Iyon ang halik na kung saan ihahambing ko ang lahat ng mga halik na aking naangkin, at matatanto kong wala ni isa sa kanila ang makatatapat dito.

Sinubukan kong hanapin kay Shiela, ang naging lead actress ng sumunod kong dula—ang una kong dula sa labas ng pamantasan. Commercial model si Shiela pero gusto niyang matutong umarte kaya siya sumali sa acting workshop ni binibigay ko pag summer. Hindi siya talaga marunong umarte. Pero nang makita ko siya, sabi ko sa sarili na kaya ko siyang paartehin. Walang taong walang talent. Kahit hindi ka marunong umarte, kaya kitang paartehin. Lalo na ang isang commercial model na katulad ni Shiela.

Hindi talaga makuha sa kahit na ano’ng workshop si Shiela. Hindi siya uubra sa entablado. Gusto ko mang kunin siyang bida ng dula ko dahil siya ang hitsurang hinahanap ko, kahit sinong walang alam sa teatro ang magsasabing gago ang direktor kapag ipinagpilitan siyang maging artista.

Alam ito ni Shiela. Dumating ang auditions. Alam niyang di niya ako madadaan sa santong dasalan, kaya dinaan niya ako sa santong paspasan. Sa mas malambot na entablado siya nag-audition sa akin. Papasa na. Marami pala siyang “theater” experience.

Bago ako bumangon sa kama, hinalikan ko si Shiela, hinahanap ko ang labi ni Ana. At tumitig ako sa kanyang mga mata, hinihintay na maligaw ang aking ulirat.

Iyon na ang huling paglabas ni Shiela sa entablado.

Sinubukan kong hanapin kay Mary Ann. Si Mary Ann ang teacher ko sa integral calculus. Typical grade A nerd pero kung tatanggalan mo ng salamin at ilulugay mo ang buhok, pwede na. Parang sa commercial ng Pop: “Siya ‘yon!”

Nabasa ko sa kung saan na ang mga matatalinong tao raw ang mga pinakasenswal. Base raw ito sa konsepto ng tabula rasa—“nothing is in the intellect without passing through the senses.” Kung gayon, mas matalino ka, mas marami ang dumaan sa iyong mga pandama, kaya mas senswal ka.

Tama nga naman. Itong si Mary Ann, kung gaano ka-academic sa klase, ganoon ka-wild sa kama. Kung anu-ano ang pinagagawa sa akin. Memoryado yata ang kamasutra (academic nga!). Pati yata lahat ng mga ritwal ng mga pagano nagawa na namin, at tipong nagresearch pa siyang mabuti dahil habang naghihintay siya ng orgasm, naglelecture siya tungkol sa historical at social contexts ng mga ritwal na ito.

Pero nang hindi ko nahanap sa kanya ang labi ni Ana, at ang lalim ng kanyang mga mata, hindi na ako ulit pumasok sa calculus. Pagkatapos ng sem, bagsak ako, overcut. Kinailangan kong i-retake ang subject sa ibang teacher—si Mrs. Tigershark, isang dambuhalang terror na di ko maintindihan kung bakit naging misis. Eto, kahit anong talino nitong babaeng ito, hindi ako maniniwalang senswal siya.

Kung saan-saan ko hinanap si Ana: Kay Daisy—yung waitress na may dalawa nang anak at naghahanap ng mayamang foreigner na magdadala sa kanya sa ibang bansa; kay Jeli, yung dancer na sinasayawan muna ako bago kami mag-sex; si Denise—yung account executuve ng isang agency na sobrang tahimik sa kama, takot na marinig ng kahit na sino, pakiramdam niya parati’y may nanonood sa kanya; si Maia—yung TV producer ng isang di-kilalang TV show na hindi makaraos kung hindi kumakain ng pizza habang nakikipagtalik; si Marie na ayaw patira sa kepyas at pagkatapos ng tatlong linggong pagtitiyaga ko sa pwet ay nalaman kong lalaki pala (putangina!); at si Alex—ang CEO ng ad agency na pinagtatrabahuhan ko, na FF (Fucking Friend) ko at ka-OPM (On pag magkasama).

Kay Alina siguro ako pinakamatagal na naghanap. Nakilala ko siya sa kiddie birthday party ng pamangkin ko. Siya ang naghost ng mga games. Simpleng babae lang si Alina. Hindi siya matalino pero masipag. Nagtatrabaho siya sa Jollibee pag umaga at nag-aaral sa hapon at gabi—paunti-unting units, makatapos lang. Accounting ang kinukuha niya.

Halos dalawang taon din kaming magkasama ni Alina. Marami akong natutunan sa kanya, at masasabi kong malalim rin ang pinagsamahan naming dalawa. Naging matalik kaming magkaibigan. Naramdaman ko sa kanya na kailangan niya ako, at mas naging malinaw sa akin ang pagkakaroon ng silbi, ang pakiramdam ng may nangangailangan sa iyo, ang pakiramdam na ang mga braso ng isang lalaki’y hinulma ng Diyos sa balikat ng babae. Tinulungan ko siya sa kanyang pag-aaral. Kahit mahina ako sa Math, nagtiyaga akong aralin ito para magapang niya ang kanyang diploma.

Nagtatrabaho na ako noon bilang creative director sa isang advertising agency nang grumaduate si Alina. Sa graduation party niya, niyaya ko siyang magpakasal.

Akala ko’y tuluyan ko nang malilimutan si Ana. Pero habang lumalayo ang alaala niya, lalong lumilinaw sa akin ang hindi ko naangkin. Nanunuot sa balat ko, tumatagos sa bungo, kinakain ang utak ko. Parang obsesyon, habang pinipilit makalimutan ay lalong naaalala, habang nilalabanan ay lalong nagwawagi.

Namatay si Alina isang linggo bago ang aming kasal. Isang gabing pauwi siya galing sa trabaho sa bangko, hinarang siya ng mga adik sa isang eskinita, pinagsamantalahan...pinatay.

Isang buwan akong wala sa sarili. Gabi-gabing nagluluksa karamay si San Miguel. Nag-aaliw sa mga ilaw na patay sindi, at sa mga balakang na gumigiling. Kilala ko na ang aking sarili. Hindi madali para sa akin ang lumimot. Kaya hindi ko inaaliw ang aking sarili para makalimot. Inaaliw ko ang aking sarili para lumikha ng mga bagong alaala sa pag-asang makalikha ako ng alaalang higit pa sa alaala ng gabi ng huli naming pagkikita ni Ana.

Dapat ay nagluluksa ako sa pagkamatay ni Alina. Pero ibang bagay pa rin ang pinagluluksaan ko...hanggang ngayon.

* * *

Ilang taon na nga ba? Lima? Anim? Hindi ko na matandaan. Natututunan ko na ang lumimot.

Pero kung kailan ko natututunang makalimutan ang lahat, bigla siyang dumating.

Iyon ang huli naming pagkikita.

Natagpuan ko siyang nakaupo sa isang coffee shop, mukhang may hinihintay. Wala siya pinagbago kundi mas maganda siya. Hindi ako magkakamaling siya iyon. Naroon ang panghatak na naramdaman ko noong una niya akong nilapitan. Para akong compass, wala nang ibang pupuntahan ang mga paa ko kundi ang North...siya.

“Ana?”

Nagulat siya. At ginantihan niya ako ng ngiting tulad ng ibinabato niya sa akin dati. Hindi siya tumanda. At lalong mapusyaw ang pula ng kanyang mga labi. Naka-shades siya, parang nangungutya, ayaw ipakita ang misteryong bumihag sa akin sa loob ng ilang taon.

Hindi kami pareho makapagsalita. Kahit kamustahan. Sapat na ang palitan namin ng katahimikan. Mas nakabubusog ang katahimikan sa mga sandaling ganito kaysa sa magkwentuhan.

“Kailan ka pa bumalik?”

“Just two days ago.”

“Sino’ng kasama mo?”

Bumukas ang pinto ng coffee shop at pumasok ang isang apat na taong gulang na batang babae kasama ang yaya nito. Sinenyasan ni Ana ang yaya na maupo sa lamesa sa kabila.

“My daughter.”

Mahabang katahimikan.

Sa ganitong paghahanap, hinahanap ko bang talaga ang daan palabas, o ang karanasan lang ng pagiging ligaw?

“I just wanted to say hi. I really have to go. It’s nice to see you again, Ana.”

Ginantihan lang niya ako ng ngiti.

“You still haven’t answered my question before.”

“Which one?”

“Is it true? Na lahat ng lalaking tumitig sa mata mo ay nababaliw?”

“Yes”

Tinanggal niya ang kanyang shades. At muli, ipinamalas niya sa akin ang malalim na daigdig ng kanyang mga mata kung saan naligaw ang aking ulirat. Matagal. Pero sandali lang. Sa isang tingin—parang nagkasya ang ilang taon kong paghahanap sa liwanag ng kanyang mga mata.

“Goodbye Ana.”

Ngiti.

Lumabas ako ng coffee shop. Dire-diretso ang lakad ko. Hindi ko alam kung saan ako papunta. Hinahanap ko sa tinabunan kong alaala ang gabing bago siya umalis. Ang init ng labi niya. Ang ulirat kong naglalaro’t naliligaw sa kristal na uniberso ng kanyang mga mata. Ang kanyang pag-aalinlangan na hinawi ng aking dila. Ang gabi ng aking pangangahas na danasin ang sumpa. Ngunit wala akong mahanap. Wala.

Dumiretso ako sa kwarto ko at binuksan ang drawer ng tukador. Inilabas ko ang aking revolver. Hindi ko alam dati kung bakit ko ito binili. Ngayon, alam ko na.

Dati, hindi pinapayagan ng simbahan na bigyan ng Katolikong libing ang mga nagpakamatay. Pero iniba na ito ngayon. Sabi nila, hindi daw natin alam ang nangyayari sa kaluluwa ng mga nagpakamatay. Maaaring humingi sila ng tawad sa Diyos sa huling sandali. Maaari din namang wala sila talagang kasalanan dahil wala sila sa sarili. Mga baliw lang daw ang bumabawi ng sarili nilang buhay. Mga baliw lang daw ang nagpapakamatay.

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways...

Two questions need to be answered from my previous blog: “Why do I hate her?” and “Why is loving her and loving art mutually exclusive?”

The more pertinent question is the first but the more important is the second.

Maybe the answer to the first question will lead to answer the second.

Why do I hate her?

Again, it is not a violent desire to inflict pain on her, to take revenge, or to destroy her. No, I do not feel any desire to strangle her, shoot her, or bash her in the head. Nothing of that sort. I do not have a passionate anger, bitterness or ill will.

I fell in love with her. And for a time I was actually capable of giving up writing. No wonder the muse left. I was contemplating adultery.

I wasn’t expecting to be reciprocated. But I wanted her to be my muse. For the first time, I was living the lives of the characters I wrote. It wasn’t fiction anymore. I wanted to stop writing and start living it. For the first time, I was in my own play. I was doing things I never imagined I could do. I was enjoying myself…maybe a little too much.

We were friends. Or I thought we were. But I took for granted the irrational female prejudice (a hasty generalization, I know) of classification—friends can never be lovers. But I knew that from the beginning. Hell, I was in love. I never cared for the resolution. I was in for the climax.

Then suddenly, she decided that I crossed the line. (Was I not entitled to fall in love and express it?) Five months after confessing to her that I did—through no fault of mine—she just decided to excommunicate me.

And so I attempted retraction before my execution. I confessed my being a mason, returned to the Faith, and retracted all the anti-clerical contents of the Noli and Fili. But the Church would not take me back.

Until now, I cannot understand how I got excommunicated. I mean, I have been in this situation several times before. Of course, it was the immature but natural reaction of most women. I would have understood it had she reacted immediately after my confession that I crossed her line. But it happened much later. Five months of doing what I was doing—expressing this evolved passion into actions and not anymore just words. Something we talked about and agreed upon. After five months, she just decided that I should be punished for falling in love. Just like that.

I’d like to think that we were really good friends; that she would understand that what had happened to me was not intended; that our friendship would transcend whatever passions evolved from it. Shit happens. It just happened. She knew I was not expecting reciprocation anyway.

I wanted her to be my muse.

She decided that it was a crime.

So why do I hate her?

Hate is not directed toward the other. It is actually directed to the self. It is the emptying of the self so that one is unable to give anything to the other. The contrary of Love.

Unconditional love is seeking the good of the other without expecting anything in return. Romantic and tragic but noble. Rejection is sometimes inevitable. Rejection is simply the inability of the other to reciprocate. “I’m sorry. I do not feel the same way, but thanks,” as teeny-bopper flicks would put it. Now, cutting off the relationship with the other because one decided to give himself freely is another story. Not reciprocating is different from despising the giver simply because falling in love was not part of the deal.

I’m sorry. I’m not Jesus Christ. He took it even if what we gave him was more than rejection.

* * *

She is just not worth it—leaving the muse for.

I refuse to have anything else in myself that I could give her. And so I destroy myself to stop myself from giving. Because I know if I still had anything, I would just give it to her.

I have to hate her. I have to have nothing to give to her. I have to give it to my art instead.

I have to hate her.

Because

I am still in love with her.

* * *

Me? Bitter?

Dissertation on Hate

For the first time in my life, I learned to hate.

I always imagined hate as something that is equally passionate as love—passionate anger, passionate bitterness, passionate desire for revenge, passionate ill will. Hate was angst and rage precipitating into tears, condensing into sweat and blood, transforming into physical violence unto the self and the other. Hate was death by torture, the atomic bomb at Hiroshima, the gas chambers of the ghettos, the dagger of Hamlet and the knife of Cain.

It wasn’t. It isn’t.

It’s much simpler than that.

Of course in the beginning, it may have started from a hint of bitterness. Bitterness is nursed by anger and frustration. This grows into a rage over time and eventually. The heaviness of your heart will tire you and cause your soul to die and lie on the sea of infinite angst.

But you ask yourself, where did the bitterness come from? Bitterness is the inability of man to see beauty in things. He develops this sense of taste when he has grown accustomed to disappointment, rejection, denial, and frustration.

* * *

I cannot remember exactly when I started to hate her. I only came to realize now that I actually have grown this monster inside me as I tired to breathe in the thick impure air of Pearl Drive at midnight. I was contemplating my unfinished play. Finally, I discovered what it was about.

It would be my dissertation on hatred. The story becomes clearer to me now. The protagonist, Leon, could not finish his play—which he claims to the best play he would have ever written. He could not finish it because he is full of hatred. I have known this for a long time. I do not understant why I hadn’t thought of it before. Maybe because from the moment of conception of this play, I hated it. And so, I couldn’t finish it.

A few months ago, I started writing the play which would be the best piece I would have ever written. The play turned out to be my worst, despite my best efforts. Now, I think, I am starting to understand.

My writing, my art, has been my wife, my passion, my life, my true love. Nothing could take me away from it. Not even the promise of a comfortable life. Ever since, I believed that one cannot produce true art without Love. Love is the necessary condition for the creation of art.

That was the reason I could not finish that play—the play I decided to call my best, my coup de gras, my masterpiece. I could not write it because I hated it from the moment of its conception.

I hated it because I fell in love with someone else. I fell in love with her.

I still couldn’t figure out why they had to be mutually exclusive. This is something I will have to meditate upon some more. But for now, suffice it to say that for some unexplainable reason, in order to love one, one had to hate the other. There had to be that binary opposite—something like loving virtue and hating sin, or the other way around.

But now, I think I am ready to finish that play. Because now I realized, I have come to hate her.

* * *

Hatred is the death of the soul. There is a sense of peace in it. But this peace is the peace of emptiness. It is not the pleace of universal harmony or organic unity. It is the peace of a vacuum—the peace of nothingness.

Now that I think about it, hatred is not really something that is directed towards the other. True hatred is self-destruction. Not the violence of destroying existence but the dead silence that comes afterwards. Hatred can only be directed to the self. Because when one hates, one murders his soul.

How?

If hatred were the binary opposite of love, and loving is giving one’s self without expecting anything in return, then hatred is giving nothing. Since it is natural for man to give himself out—to share himself (as his creator shares his Being with him), the act of hating is the deliberate emptying of the self so that he cannot give anything to anyone. Hate incapacitates man to share himself. And so hate reduces man to nothingness—a state worse than being evil.

Now it is interesting to note that Love and Hate have similar roots. Or, to me, love and hate have the same mathematical representation—ZERO.

Love is the emptying of the self in order to share—thus the person is reduced to being ZERO. Because one has given his entirety to another. Hate is similar. Hate is the emptying of the self so as not to be able to share anything. And so again, the person is reduced to being Zero—nothing.

The only difference is that in Love, by giving everything, you are transformed into something more because it is given back to you eventually, in one way or another. True love is always rewarded. In hate, existence is negated. Nature is destroyed. I wish I took my calculus seriously so that I can expound on this further. This could be the material for the other plat I am working on (ZERO).

* * *

This is tiring.

Wonder if I made sense…