The bottles of coke here in the U.S. are at least 1.5 times as large as the ones back in the bad old Philippines.

I find this highly amusing, of course. It’s an excuse to swig more of the stuff at a time. Writing on and on about the specifics of the taste and temperature of the stuff, while possibly consistent with the style used in these entries so far, will be highly redundant. I’m sure of it. Christ, you all know what it tastes like.

Apparently, it’s also ridiculously bad for you. Wikipedia says it can cause obesity, osteoporosis, caffeine addiction, and diabetes. And that’s just Wikipedia. 

My anatomy has a significantly different argument with the cold, translucent brown stuff. 

There’s something wrong with my kidneys, or at least the surrounding mechanisms thereof. I drink enough coke, and particles begin collecting inside all my fucked-up tubing.

Shit happens from there on out.

Shit like unbearable lower abdomen pain, screaming, and sudden disappearance from classes for about three weeks. And visits from some freaky doctor who is hellbent on cutting me open to “get to the bottom of things.” Given enough iterations, death will ensue. I think.

Of course, I still drink the stuff. It makes me feel better, even when I know it’ll actually make me worse.

We are fated to fall in love with the things that are fated to kill us.

in the middle of the night. 

You creep up the stairs. You creak down them. 

You walk through black hallways, stepping over piles and stacks as you go. 

Everyone else is asleep. Or simply absent.

Water rushes, inside the pipes, and outside the window. It is still raining.

There are no tics. There are no tocs. You do not own a clock.

You need a splash of water on the face, perhaps. To ward off forgotten nightmares.

So back upstairs, you go.

You turn the knob, and open the door.

Nightmare.

Something is staring at you.

You almost scream, when

your hand brushes against the light switch.

It is only a mirror, of course.

Of course.

Why were you afraid?

tic

toc

tic

toc

tic

are there patterns in the

toc

tic

toc

toc

or voices in the

Tic.

Toc.

Tic.

Toc.

or footsteps between the 

tics.

And tocs.

And tics.

And tocs.

Or a message, surely,

tIc

a message,

toC

somewhere in there.

tIc

Surely.

tOc.

There’s nothing there.

Tic.

Toc.

Sleep.

tic

toc

And stop

tic

projecting your sorrows onto the 

tic

and the

toc

of a lonely clock.

The world has turned to water.

It falls from the sky. It strikes tree leaves and grass blades, leaving momentary illusions of morning dew. It sluices across the rooftops, it flows down windows. It gathers in puddles and in waves across the city streets. It rushes past backed-up drains, rises into houses, up to shins, up to knees.

The children are playing in it, in its brown tint, laughing and jumping and swimming and splashing cars as they go by.

The cars roll past quickly, afraid that their engines will soon drown, and splutter, and die.

I fall asleep, listening to the tapping of the rain on my window, the engine whirring beneath me, the low rumbling of distant thunder.

Today is the first day of summer.

Pronounced “fyo?g”

In Psychiatry: A state or period of loss of awareness of one’s identity, often coupled with flight from one’s usual environment, associated with certain forms of hysteria and epilepsy.

In Music: A contrapuntal composition in which a short melody or phrase is introduced by one part and successively taken up by others and developed by interweaving the parts.

Thanks, Apple Dictionary.

A new series of highly experimental posts will begin within the next week or so. 

New entries in the series will appear at least once every two days after that.

Hopefully.

And hyperbole.

And short sentences.

Hell, short paragraphs even.

If you don’t, leave a rude comment and wander off to waste your time elsewhere. 

Yeah, thanks.

Still here?

Shit. That means I’m going to have to say something interesting.

After literal years of silence.

And a quick, unnecessary suggestion of an eventual return to activity. (Refer to previous post).

Followed by more silence.

For the longest time, there has been nothing to do here but mope around, stare at the monocolor theme, wonder at the unusual layout, maybe scroll down to the ABOUT section, and wonder at how utterly inane it is.

Or, take a look at the old entires. I’ve gone back, and read up on the old entries myself. To be honest, I am terrified.

Most people go back to look at old entries and go, “Shit! What was I thinking, man? What was I on?! That stuff’s too ridiculously emo/ stupid/ boring/ grammaticallyincorrect/ ridiculous/ boring/ emo / boring/ emo/ boringandemo! I can’t believe i wrote that while sober. I simply cannot.”

I don’t. I go back to my old entries, and think

“Oh shit. I don’t think I can ever go back to writing like this again.” 

Granted, the old stuff was a little maudlin. Maybe a little disjointed. Maybe a little corny.

But dammit, I like how the old stuff sounds. I like how it has a bit of its own voice. I like how it’s funny.

I hate how it makes me fear I’ve grown old and senile and boring.

Ten million years can do that to ya.

Time, once again, has lost all meaning.

The guy two rows or so ahead of me has been playing video-solitaire for over a full day now. Another guy’s screen has apparently become stuck looping footage of Jennifer Aniston for the last 9 hours or so.

But don’t ask me to talk about days, and hours and minutes…

Like I said. I’m stuck on a plane. Time has lost all meaning.

My own video screen has somehow reverted to playing a video presentation on “Airline Health Tips”. If I’m not careful, the guy onscreen says, I’m going to end up with blood clots in my legs.

Blood. Clots. In my legs.

Next, we’ll have alligators crawling out of the toilets, and AIDS being transmitted via improperly sterilized earphones.

And, I haven’t slept for 48 hours or so. But nevermind that, sleep is for the weak. Right Kurt? Fee? Anyone?

… I need a laptop with an internet connection. Yeah. At what-hundred-thousand feet. At my price point. Really really likely.

Still, weirder things have happened, especially to people who’ve stayed awake this long.

Like, what, blood clots in legs, and alligators in the toilets. That kinda thing, you know?

In X number of hours, given that time still exists somewhere, we are going to land somewhere cold.

And the first thing that they are going to do is dust the laptop, to check if it’s a bomb.

A bomb. The laptop. And it’s not Kurt’s, mind you.

A few minutes after that, they are going to ask if I have anything on my person, or in my baggage, that can be used as a weapon.

And, just to be cute, I’m going to grin, with as much charm as I can muster, and intone

“My dear… anything can be used as a weapon.”

Just to be cute.

Alright, that’s enough.

Now, God help me I’m off to watch “Fun with Dick and Jane”…for the third time in a row. Viva-la-freaking-airline-entertainment.

“This week is going to suck, isn’t it?”

“Like an airplane toilet, sir.”

-Ex Machina, the First Hundred Days

*Additional Edit::*

Obviously, I’ve managed to get here in one piece. That means only two things… Laptop. Internet. W00tag3.

Don’t take me for too much of a thoughtless ingrate. America’s fun, I know. Travelling is fun, I know. It’s expensive, and takes a hell of a lot of effort to coordinate, I know. My parents have taken the time, the effort and the money to set up this trip, so we can enjoy it, I know. I know. I know. I know.

I still sound like a thoughtless ingrate, I know.

When I was a kid, I always looked forward to these rare trips to the U.S. It was always fun to leave the daily blah-de-blah of most boring summers, and just go somewhere I wasn’t used to. It was always interesting to go around, and soak in the hustle and bustle, the quiet and cold of it all. It was always fun to marvel at the sheer amount of stuff i managed to see and bring back from America.

Things won’t have changed that much. There will still be stuff to see, and stuff to buy, and stuff to bring home. But will I enjoy it that much?

The thoughtless ingrate says nah. And nay, and no, and such.

See, while I’m off seeing and buying and readying to bring home, I’m also going to be missing stuff. A lot of stuff. A lot of important stuff.

The stuff that was summer to me.

Case in point?

Mr. Santos, and all the lessons and stories, and lessons-that-are-stories, and stories-that-are-lessons about everything, and everything else… and the undeniable fact that he’s one of the few adults I know who can actually give so great a damn about people, without perennially making them think that he doesn’t.

Dinn, and his gaming talk, and his endless pure insanity, and all the rest, the sheer sabaw of it all… and somewhere behind, between and beyond all that, the strength of his concern about each of his friends, and the sheer will that can drive him.

Bean, and his bottled, measured insanity, and the vodka-blood that runs through his veins and his brain, and the fact that he is the goddamned BATMAN, just like me… and the simple, quiet sense of responsibility he has towards each one of the people he cares about.

Levi, and the endless idea-spring that he’s somehow capable of generating, and his exasperating knack for making exactly worst possible comment at the best possible time… and the fact that he somehow manages to cram genius, inspiration, humility, guitar-slinging skill, searing pride, utter stupidity, and sheer idiocy, all into one twisted, twistedly brilliant mind.

Lence, and each one of his unfairly overpowered plethora of skills (everything except the violin, haha! *laugh with me here, I’m a kidder*), and his ability to turn sometimes-grating practice sessions into nothing short of a waking drug-trip… and his efforts to keep Felt, as a band, coherent, despite ourselves.

Addi, and his invincible, unbreakable helmet of a hairdo, and his musical skill (despite the often bad sense of taste)… and the patience that you sometimes see behind it all… and that unrelenting drive to be better, and better and better, in whatever it is he wants to do.

Wil, and how he’s sometimes understood the very least, but understands the very most, and how he can take each and every single thing apart, sometimes to fix it, and sometimes just to infuriate people… and how he is fuelled not by the numbers and the technicalities he sometimes get stuck in, but by the somehow grand, somehow simple dream that some day we are all going to make something worth seeing, worth playing, worth living.

Fee, and each and every moment that he is severely inspired, or inspiringly severe, or emo, or sabaw, or stupidly low, or stupidly high, or highly stupid… and the way he can understand without having to understand, and make the plainly impossible happen (blame the Mac, kiddo… blame the Mac.)

Cara, and the way she is the only person I know who is somehow capable of matching Fee’s moments of emo and sabaw, but also his moments of deep understanding… and how she can be sometimes turn into the innocent, uncomplicated brightness behind each situation, despite what she’s been through.

Andy, and the songs, and the music, and the way she’s the cool one, always the most likely to help take the difficult things and put them back under control, even though the heaviest burdens are sometimes her own… and her ability to act as the de facto psych-counselor for every member of this unlikely little barkada.

Crammerz Inc., those mentioned above, and those who will be mentioned in later entries, and the way that we are somehow able to function as a unit, despite the fact that everything always seems to be against us, and the way that you all make me feel like such a freaking dad sometimes, though I’m often the most immature among you all, and how, to hell with the Justice League, we still pwn all.

And more,

‘Bastian, and how despite all the inane wrestling references, strange expressions and misplaced comments, he’s somehow coming into his own, as a person who can be trusted as much as any member of this strange, strange group.

Shanti (or is it Shawn T… Sean Ty… or something.), and the insane, mind-numbing, eye-scraping, brain-scouring PINK of her desktop, and each manic WEEBEE, and the rest… and, through all that, the way she wants the best for friends, despite their… quirks (I say it lightly)

Camille, and each and every single one of her weird comments (for the last time, I’m NOT gay, and I do NOT play with dolls *they’re action figures, demmet!*)… and how she can be so confoundingly mature (and immature) for her age, sometimes even more so than her brother. (Please, Camille, for the love of God, take care of Feeeeeee…)

TinChan, and how each and every single conversation with her can turn into a trip into the deepest regions of the gibbering mental waste called BANGAG… and how, somehow, she’s still capable of genuine concern for people, despite the fact that she’s already been pulled into the most inane, insane parts of their personalities…

And that was my summer… You were my summer. All of you.

And now I’m going to be off soon, off into the guts of some giant metal bird. If anyone wants anything from America, drop me an email, or leave a comment here… Hell, leave a comment even if you don’t want anything.

And don’t be too surprised if you suddenly find a large, heavy box with unspecified contents suddenly shipped to your house from America… just, please make sure you bring the box to a warm place, and open it up fast… I hear those airline cargo holds are hellishly cold, especially for weirdo black-wearing bloggers who come from the Philippines and are loath to leave it.

…Damn it, I am going to miss my summer.

Sorry if I’ve shown some of you this before.

Last Night, At Three

For some reason

There are eyes

peering at me out of the curve

of a bit of staple wire.

And things

blinking in and out of view

between the coils of a spiral notebook.

And things

lurking inside the drawers and vents

watching.

And things

flickering through the lights

the computer screens

and the patterns in the marble.

And things

boring into the erasers

swimming in the paint.

And things

crouching behind the seats and desks

hiding on the shelves

behind the books.

And things

shimmering and floating

glaring from the pristine surfaces

of the mirrors.

And something

something

calling out to me

from behind and beyond the walls

of this dark, damned office.

It resonates in the speakers

In the white noise of static

In the wind and the windows

In the clock’s tick-tock.

And I am only afraid

that something may shatter, or open, or break

and let them through.

For there are things

somewhere in the dark

somewhere past what we can see.

Things that grabble and mumble and reach.
Things that want to get in.

Moral: Don’t sleep too late too often. It makes you see… stuff.