(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 3
VI
I asked my mother if she ever read what was inside my great grandfather’s diary. Tucked inside an antique cabinet, it is not that hard to take away the bundles of rope that served as the journal’s lock. She said no and reasoned that that was the specific instruction of her mother. She then went on lecturing about the virtues of keeping a promise. She implied that she was given trust to take care of these family treasures and she does not intend to break the tradition. Indeed, volumes of diaries were safely gathered at our cabinet. The oldest of which was the diary of my mother’s great grandfather.
What I thought was an easy task turned out to be a grueling labor. After exhausting my thoughts on the lists that I could write, I started to scribble whatever it is I felt at that moment. From the entries one would see curses, and mostly the word ‘boring’ repeated more than a hundred times. There were even entries of incomprehensible words done by mixing up the letters of the alphabet.
I listed down the alphabet from A to Z, then Z to A. I had about five entries of that. I would often tell myself how I hated that task. I felt trapped by a tradition whose real value I don’t understand.
VII
Mina was not that pretty but she’s not that ugly either. I really don’t know what transformation came over me but it prompted something inside urging me to imply what I feel. I never listened to love songs, but suddenly, Barry Manilow started to sound cool. As ever man is supposed to act everytime they felt what I felt, I did all that. I gave her flowers. I tried as much as possible to see her everyday.
“Hey,” she said one day. “What’s that behind your back?”
“Oh, this,” and I laid out a book. “My mother reads this kind of stuff. Thought you might like it.”
It was a Mills and Boone pocketbook I bought at a discounted bookstore. I gave it to her.
“That’s sweet,” she said as she received it. “I’ll try to read it.”
“Mina,” I paused. “There’s a note inside you might want to read.”
“Oh,” she leafed through the pages and found my note written on a stationary I took from my sister’s collection. She browsed through the letter and smiled.
“Know what,” she winked. “With more practice, I bet you can become a great letter writer.”
With that, she took off by saying she has some catching up to do.
That incident gave me the courage to give her the ring wrapped around the petals of a rose, the very first poem I made for a girl, and those little things I never knew I could do. I told her it’s all about the friendship she gave me. Setting aside courage, I needed bravery to tell her my true feelings.
All in all, her reactions were all the same. She just said thank you. I didn’t mind. I was happy with that. I knew she liked me. It’s just that something, just something deep inside, is also telling me I wanted her to more than just like me.
Mar 15, 2003
Mar 14, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 2
IV
My sister started writing on her diary when she was just ten years old. We never talk much, her being older than I am by three years. By the time I was old enough to be influenced by computer games and video arcades, my mother saw it as an opportunity for her to finally persuade me to start a journal of my own. I complied, thinking I could outsmart her by scribbling nonsense on every page of my little notebook.
After she bought me my PC, I would proudly wave at her the page where I scribbled nonsense on my diary. Sort of telling her that I’m doing my part of the bargain. As I’ve said earlier, no one among us reads another family member’s journal. That was a golden rule. My mom would smile. I would laugh hysterically at the back of my mind thinking that I outsmarted her.
At first, it seemed like an easy task. I started writing down all the animals I could think of. That was entry number one to entry number five. Then, I listed down in a letter-like fashion all the elements in the periodic table until I fill up a page. That was entry number six to entry number eleven. There were times when I would just sing a song and write the lyrics down. I figured that after two years, my mom would no longer need to be assured that I write on my diary.
Sample: August 24, 1989 (Entry No. 1)
Dear Diary,
Ants antelope armadillo anteater bear butterfly bat bird bobcat cat camel caterpillar catfish carrion candor dog duck deer dragonfly dogfish eagle elephant eel earthworm falcon fish flying fish fox, etc., etc., etc., . . and so on, and so on. . . .
V
“Hey lighter guy,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you here. What’s up?”
I flashed a smile.
“Aren’t you gonna speak up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered.
“Want a smoke?” she was teasing.
“Sure. But not here. The guards might see us.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll treat you to a sundae, ok.”
“Alright.”
We went outside the campus and went straight to where the college guys hangout. I was waiting for her to buy me a cigarette but she did not. Not knowing how to start a conversation, I just sat there, mixing all the stuff on my sundae. She stared at me for awhile as I was about to say something. I just closed my mouth.
“Aren’t you going to say something? I mean, hello! Do I have bad breath or something?” her eyes were wide open and I managed to smile.
“What do you want me to ask you?”
“Well, anything. Normal people are supposed to get acquainted, aren’t they?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “What is it again that you want me to ask you?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief.
“You are weird, aren’t you?”
Even before she was able to finish that sentence, I murmured.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What?” she shot back. “Okay, okay. Let’s just eat.”
She concentrated on finishing her sundae.
“You really love ice cream, don’t you?” I asked.
“You really are weird, aren’t you?”
One could tell that we were having a good time.
“Well, weirdness is - ” but before I could finish my sentence, she continued.
“Well, I like weird guys. The last time I met someone like that was. . . .” she did not finish her sentence. There was an awkward pause.
“I have a question. Why do you want to hang-out with me?”
She looked at me, as if trying to answer my question in silence. “Well. . . . you look nice and. . .”
“And?”
“And. . . you look like my brother.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll race you towards school.” With that, she sprung from her feet and ran towards the gate. I followed her though my bag was being a nuisance. I almost fell.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five.
“Bye,” she said. Then she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She then ran away.
“Hey,” I yelled.
But she was gone. I brushed my hand on the side of the cheek where she kissed it. I bought my first cigarette that day.
Entry No. 2
IV
My sister started writing on her diary when she was just ten years old. We never talk much, her being older than I am by three years. By the time I was old enough to be influenced by computer games and video arcades, my mother saw it as an opportunity for her to finally persuade me to start a journal of my own. I complied, thinking I could outsmart her by scribbling nonsense on every page of my little notebook.
After she bought me my PC, I would proudly wave at her the page where I scribbled nonsense on my diary. Sort of telling her that I’m doing my part of the bargain. As I’ve said earlier, no one among us reads another family member’s journal. That was a golden rule. My mom would smile. I would laugh hysterically at the back of my mind thinking that I outsmarted her.
At first, it seemed like an easy task. I started writing down all the animals I could think of. That was entry number one to entry number five. Then, I listed down in a letter-like fashion all the elements in the periodic table until I fill up a page. That was entry number six to entry number eleven. There were times when I would just sing a song and write the lyrics down. I figured that after two years, my mom would no longer need to be assured that I write on my diary.
Sample: August 24, 1989 (Entry No. 1)
Dear Diary,
Ants antelope armadillo anteater bear butterfly bat bird bobcat cat camel caterpillar catfish carrion candor dog duck deer dragonfly dogfish eagle elephant eel earthworm falcon fish flying fish fox, etc., etc., etc., . . and so on, and so on. . . .
V
“Hey lighter guy,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you here. What’s up?”
I flashed a smile.
“Aren’t you gonna speak up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered.
“Want a smoke?” she was teasing.
“Sure. But not here. The guards might see us.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll treat you to a sundae, ok.”
“Alright.”
We went outside the campus and went straight to where the college guys hangout. I was waiting for her to buy me a cigarette but she did not. Not knowing how to start a conversation, I just sat there, mixing all the stuff on my sundae. She stared at me for awhile as I was about to say something. I just closed my mouth.
“Aren’t you going to say something? I mean, hello! Do I have bad breath or something?” her eyes were wide open and I managed to smile.
“What do you want me to ask you?”
“Well, anything. Normal people are supposed to get acquainted, aren’t they?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “What is it again that you want me to ask you?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief.
“You are weird, aren’t you?”
Even before she was able to finish that sentence, I murmured.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What?” she shot back. “Okay, okay. Let’s just eat.”
She concentrated on finishing her sundae.
“You really love ice cream, don’t you?” I asked.
“You really are weird, aren’t you?”
One could tell that we were having a good time.
“Well, weirdness is - ” but before I could finish my sentence, she continued.
“Well, I like weird guys. The last time I met someone like that was. . . .” she did not finish her sentence. There was an awkward pause.
“I have a question. Why do you want to hang-out with me?”
She looked at me, as if trying to answer my question in silence. “Well. . . . you look nice and. . .”
“And?”
“And. . . you look like my brother.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll race you towards school.” With that, she sprung from her feet and ran towards the gate. I followed her though my bag was being a nuisance. I almost fell.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five.
“Bye,” she said. Then she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She then ran away.
“Hey,” I yelled.
But she was gone. I brushed my hand on the side of the cheek where she kissed it. I bought my first cigarette that day.
Mar 13, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 1
I
No, it was not the time I gave her a ring wrapped around the petals of a rose. Neither was it the time I made her a poem; words picked up from an old dictionary, like broken pieces of glass. The sweetest thing I ever did for Mina was when I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and whispered apologies for failing to give her more.
I may never find out whether she heard my plea or not. If she did, she did not show it. I felt free that day, like looking at myself from the outside. For the very first time in my life I knew I was real. And whatever I felt that moment was something I could hardly describe. I cried. I shamelessly cried that night and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
II
I keep a journal because my mother won’t possibly buy me a personal computer unless I have a diary of my own. I come from a long line of diary writers. The memoirs of my great grandfather are displayed along with the family antiques. We’re supposed to be proud of our heritage, having been brought up from a lineage of academicians and all those intellectual eggheads.
I mean, I don’t blame my ancestors for starting this endeavor. It’s more of blaming myself for not meeting their expectations. Come to think of it, it took a lousy PC for me to start writing down the chapters of my life.
I know it sounds weird but my family never reads another member’s diary. The journals of the dead are just kept as reminders on how voluminous their struggle has been to put us where we are today. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that writing a diary serves as a reflection and a continuos meditation on the mortality we have. For all I know, half of what is written on my journal is nothing but lies. I lie to tell the truth, that truth that I keep to myself, the same way I utter the softest whisper to make myself heard.
III
“Can I have a light?” she said, looking at the lighter on my hand.
“A what?” I replied.
“A lighter. You know, the one you use to light a cigarette.”
“Oh,” I managed to say. “Here.”
She lighted her cigarette. She took two deep puffs before returning it to me.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
No. I just keep one. For emergency and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?”
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“Are you new here?” she inquired, not looking directly at me and acting as if bored.
“No. I was born on this town.”
“Not much of a place, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen better.”
Frankly, I didn’t know how to react. She was right though. I grew up on a place where one would rather sleep than spend the night out.
“I’m from the south,” I can tell that from her accent. “Ever been to the south?”
“I don’t travel much,” I replied.
“Well, there really isn’t much to talk about my place. I come from a countryside where ricefields are everywhere and it is quite green all over.”
I just let her talk. High-school students were now flooding the gate where we stood.
“Know what I sorely miss about home?” she finally looked straight at me, cigarette at hand.
“Your family?”
“No, dumb ass,” she smiled. “I miss the little hill I call my own. There, I could spend countless hours looking at the stars.
There was silence. Weird. After three hasty puffs from her smoke, she brushed me goodbye.
“Well, got to go,” she said.
She walked swiftly away from where I am. I stood frozen, able to follow her only with my stare.
Entry No. 1
I
No, it was not the time I gave her a ring wrapped around the petals of a rose. Neither was it the time I made her a poem; words picked up from an old dictionary, like broken pieces of glass. The sweetest thing I ever did for Mina was when I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and whispered apologies for failing to give her more.
I may never find out whether she heard my plea or not. If she did, she did not show it. I felt free that day, like looking at myself from the outside. For the very first time in my life I knew I was real. And whatever I felt that moment was something I could hardly describe. I cried. I shamelessly cried that night and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
II
I keep a journal because my mother won’t possibly buy me a personal computer unless I have a diary of my own. I come from a long line of diary writers. The memoirs of my great grandfather are displayed along with the family antiques. We’re supposed to be proud of our heritage, having been brought up from a lineage of academicians and all those intellectual eggheads.
I mean, I don’t blame my ancestors for starting this endeavor. It’s more of blaming myself for not meeting their expectations. Come to think of it, it took a lousy PC for me to start writing down the chapters of my life.
I know it sounds weird but my family never reads another member’s diary. The journals of the dead are just kept as reminders on how voluminous their struggle has been to put us where we are today. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that writing a diary serves as a reflection and a continuos meditation on the mortality we have. For all I know, half of what is written on my journal is nothing but lies. I lie to tell the truth, that truth that I keep to myself, the same way I utter the softest whisper to make myself heard.
III
“Can I have a light?” she said, looking at the lighter on my hand.
“A what?” I replied.
“A lighter. You know, the one you use to light a cigarette.”
“Oh,” I managed to say. “Here.”
She lighted her cigarette. She took two deep puffs before returning it to me.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
No. I just keep one. For emergency and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?”
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“Are you new here?” she inquired, not looking directly at me and acting as if bored.
“No. I was born on this town.”
“Not much of a place, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen better.”
Frankly, I didn’t know how to react. She was right though. I grew up on a place where one would rather sleep than spend the night out.
“I’m from the south,” I can tell that from her accent. “Ever been to the south?”
“I don’t travel much,” I replied.
“Well, there really isn’t much to talk about my place. I come from a countryside where ricefields are everywhere and it is quite green all over.”
I just let her talk. High-school students were now flooding the gate where we stood.
“Know what I sorely miss about home?” she finally looked straight at me, cigarette at hand.
“Your family?”
“No, dumb ass,” she smiled. “I miss the little hill I call my own. There, I could spend countless hours looking at the stars.
There was silence. Weird. After three hasty puffs from her smoke, she brushed me goodbye.
“Well, got to go,” she said.
She walked swiftly away from where I am. I stood frozen, able to follow her only with my stare.
Mar 9, 2003
Mar 7, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Last Entry
All in all, I’ve killed seven people. No sense in telling you the gory details on how it transpired. Be content on the fact that I did not kill them without a purpose. They were not senseless. They provided me the revenge I needed on the men who murdered my family. Dog eats dog, they say. For one thing, I also got the money I later stole from them. It made my miserable life somehow bearable.
But no more talk about that. I’m afraid I might bore you. Instead, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. It’s kind of weird when you think about it. I remember the details vividly and I think it’s really out of this world. Anyway, I just need to tell you the story.
This dream I had is about a creature so cumbersome in nature yet so fiery in its eyes. I have seen the eyes of someone who has the same effect on other people. I take it that head of mobs don’t often have to be big in stature but their eyes must have the ferocity of a lion.
As I was saying, this creature is like a rodent though it looks more like a raccoon. It only lives on a particular island that I really don’t know where. The creature would climb down trees only at night and when the sun is up, it would climb back up and sleep for hours.
According to my dream, scientists have found a very disturbing behavior of this animal. They know that it feeds on little insects but they also found out that these creatures often visit houses. It would creep stealthily into the windows of the islanders’ homes and stay there. It is as if it’s guarding them from something evil from the outside. It would perch itself by the window and feast on mosquitoes and other household insects.
Still, according to my dream, people on this island have accepted this as a fact of life. Locals have called this creature “sleepwatchers,” mainly because of what it does. However, during one experiment regarding sleep patterns on that particular island, there was a sudden rapid eye movement on the person they were observing. This happened at exactly the same time a sleepwatcher was coming over. They shooed the creature away. On that instant, brain impulses from the sleeping person also started to wane. He began producing soft moans. The researchers tried to wake him up but they couldn’t. Fearing he might be suffering from a stroke, they tried to resuscitate him from deep slumber.
Suddenly, there were loud moans outside the house. More than a dozen sleepwatchers suddenly lined up from nowhere as if chanting a song. The sound was like that of a person dreaming. The scientists were in shock. They have heard of sleepwatchers doing that but they took it as sort of a mating dance.
The person suddenly stood up, opened his eyes, looked around him, and then went back to sleep as if nothing happened. The sleepwatchers also disappeared.
“Maybe it’s the chemicals spewed from it’s behind that transpired what happened,” said one researcher.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” cried another.
“Maybe still,” said one, “there are things that we really don’t know. For all it’s worth, maybe there are creatures whose brains are more sensitive than ours that it sees through our dreams.”
In my dream, a sort of documentary don’t you think, the locals not knowing what the sleepwatchers are really capable of doing, slaughtered these gentle creatures in great numbers.
----------------
Now I’m here at my cell. I committed myself here. The cops are good enough not to abuse me. They said I needed help. With the help of my grandmother who came with me, I told the investigator of the dreary things I did.
The fact that I confessed is because I don’t want them to get ahead of me. Before they can put me in, I’ve decided to surrender. Conscience? No. It’s more of quitting while I’m still ahead. A few minutes from now, I’m sure the investigators would visit me in this cell. They would ask the same questions. I already told them twice the things that I did. No sense in telling them over and over again.
Fact is, I think the investigators here got things all mixed up. They would come in pairs with no guns while wearing white robes.
“I pity her,” said one who came to see her.
“I could imagine the trauma she went through,” said the other.
“How about her mother?”
“She died while she was still young,” said the bearded guy.
“Is it okay if she hears the things we are talking about?” cried the other.
“She’s into a state of shock. Alternate reality.”
“Incest. How many cases do we have here?”
“She’s the only one who killed her father.”
With that, I could not help but laugh. What the hell are they talking about? The whole thing about incest is the funniest thing I could imagine. It’s so funny I can’t help but laugh. It makes stomach ache I want to cry.
Last Entry
All in all, I’ve killed seven people. No sense in telling you the gory details on how it transpired. Be content on the fact that I did not kill them without a purpose. They were not senseless. They provided me the revenge I needed on the men who murdered my family. Dog eats dog, they say. For one thing, I also got the money I later stole from them. It made my miserable life somehow bearable.
But no more talk about that. I’m afraid I might bore you. Instead, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. It’s kind of weird when you think about it. I remember the details vividly and I think it’s really out of this world. Anyway, I just need to tell you the story.
This dream I had is about a creature so cumbersome in nature yet so fiery in its eyes. I have seen the eyes of someone who has the same effect on other people. I take it that head of mobs don’t often have to be big in stature but their eyes must have the ferocity of a lion.
As I was saying, this creature is like a rodent though it looks more like a raccoon. It only lives on a particular island that I really don’t know where. The creature would climb down trees only at night and when the sun is up, it would climb back up and sleep for hours.
According to my dream, scientists have found a very disturbing behavior of this animal. They know that it feeds on little insects but they also found out that these creatures often visit houses. It would creep stealthily into the windows of the islanders’ homes and stay there. It is as if it’s guarding them from something evil from the outside. It would perch itself by the window and feast on mosquitoes and other household insects.
Still, according to my dream, people on this island have accepted this as a fact of life. Locals have called this creature “sleepwatchers,” mainly because of what it does. However, during one experiment regarding sleep patterns on that particular island, there was a sudden rapid eye movement on the person they were observing. This happened at exactly the same time a sleepwatcher was coming over. They shooed the creature away. On that instant, brain impulses from the sleeping person also started to wane. He began producing soft moans. The researchers tried to wake him up but they couldn’t. Fearing he might be suffering from a stroke, they tried to resuscitate him from deep slumber.
Suddenly, there were loud moans outside the house. More than a dozen sleepwatchers suddenly lined up from nowhere as if chanting a song. The sound was like that of a person dreaming. The scientists were in shock. They have heard of sleepwatchers doing that but they took it as sort of a mating dance.
The person suddenly stood up, opened his eyes, looked around him, and then went back to sleep as if nothing happened. The sleepwatchers also disappeared.
“Maybe it’s the chemicals spewed from it’s behind that transpired what happened,” said one researcher.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” cried another.
“Maybe still,” said one, “there are things that we really don’t know. For all it’s worth, maybe there are creatures whose brains are more sensitive than ours that it sees through our dreams.”
In my dream, a sort of documentary don’t you think, the locals not knowing what the sleepwatchers are really capable of doing, slaughtered these gentle creatures in great numbers.
----------------
Now I’m here at my cell. I committed myself here. The cops are good enough not to abuse me. They said I needed help. With the help of my grandmother who came with me, I told the investigator of the dreary things I did.
The fact that I confessed is because I don’t want them to get ahead of me. Before they can put me in, I’ve decided to surrender. Conscience? No. It’s more of quitting while I’m still ahead. A few minutes from now, I’m sure the investigators would visit me in this cell. They would ask the same questions. I already told them twice the things that I did. No sense in telling them over and over again.
Fact is, I think the investigators here got things all mixed up. They would come in pairs with no guns while wearing white robes.
“I pity her,” said one who came to see her.
“I could imagine the trauma she went through,” said the other.
“How about her mother?”
“She died while she was still young,” said the bearded guy.
“Is it okay if she hears the things we are talking about?” cried the other.
“She’s into a state of shock. Alternate reality.”
“Incest. How many cases do we have here?”
“She’s the only one who killed her father.”
With that, I could not help but laugh. What the hell are they talking about? The whole thing about incest is the funniest thing I could imagine. It’s so funny I can’t help but laugh. It makes stomach ache I want to cry.
Mar 5, 2003
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