Category Archives: Summer ’10

Mister Twister


At the Supreme Open Call. I met a lot of interesting people. That guy in red, sitting next to me, is way awesome.

“I try to bring my own insanity to the announce table. Inside my head there’s this whirlwind of nonsense. People seem to enjoy my music preferences; I’ll drop a Smiths or Rush album title once in a while. I hope that everyone who hears me also hears that seven-year-old kid who’s still inside me having the time of his life.”

~Matt Striker
WWE Magazine, January 2010 issue: On his mouth for winning the 2009 Announcer of the Year WWE Magazine Award




The best part of the night was when we got into our own car, opened the windows (for the air-conditioner was hot – imagine!), and sped off towards home. Miraculously, I wasn’t dizzy any longer (I now am seriously thinking about buying a convertible five years from today). Fresh air was rushing inside the car. Wind furiously whipped against my face. City lights were surreal. It was kind of noisy though. And one car let out exhaust right on my face. There was even this one time that when I woke up and – what the hell?! – some guy’s tire was gritting really loudly on the freeway! Right. Next. To. Me.

Where did Kat go? Would you like to find out?
Read the rest of the entry here. :>

What an Interesting Day!


It rained. By six in the afternoon, I felt sort of fragile and nervous again. As though it were one of those days in July and I fail to become impermeable to the rain. It was an interesting feeling, for I suddenly had the impetus to bring out my textbooks and work on a Mathematics problem (maybe even get myself familiarized with those Asian History facts while I’m at it!) But there were no textbooks. There were no schoolwork. It’s May. By the time I had myself composed, knowing what was real, the impulse only was a pipe dream and the whole incident became a laughing matter. It looked like dawn outside, I remember. And I was standing in front of the screen door, thinking, how in the hell could run time so quickly?



“I wake up crying, and I look around my room, and it’s sunny. Birds are singing. It’s morning. I can smell coffee downstairs and I think, ‘He’s okay. Jesus and thank you God, the old man’s okay.’ I don’t hear him talking or anything, but I just know. And I think what a stupid idea it was… the sort of idea you could only have in a dream where everything seems so real… and I start to swing my legs out of bed… sometimes I see my ankles go into a patch of sun… it feels warm… and then I wake up for real, and it’s dark, and I’ve got the blankets pulled up around me but I’m still cold, shivering cold, and I know that the dream was a dream.”

~Ned Wilcox, From a Buick 8 by Stephen King p.12

When I was six years old, I had a dream that would surprisingly follow me as I grow older. In the dream, it was Christmas and I can hear Santa Claus down the street playing the role of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Of course like any other dream that would turn out to be scary after all, a girl I do not recognize blocked me before I could get to Santa. And after some unnatural circumstances, I found myself walking next to this girl; following her like she urged me to. It’s nighttime but I had no idea what particular time it was. I would later tell this youngster that I am getting upset, and that I would like to go home. In the dream, we would always find another road and someone dear to me will be waiting at the end. I always try to run to them or call them but something constantly held me back. Then at some point in the dream, my companion and I reached a world of epitaphs and faint terror. I’ve always known it at the back of my mind, and she knows it too. I don’t reveal it and she doesn’t tell me, but I know she is dead. And I woke up crying.

Thinking about it now, I can neither recall how she was dressed nor how she looked like. Frankly, I don’t even remember if I really did catch a glimpse of her face. And if I try too much, my thoughts only bring me back to her hair. It wasn’t as messy as what you see in horror flicks. It was meant to be pretty, I think. But after a day’s hassle, it just came to be that way.

The electric keyboard is poised inches from where I sit. A Harry Chapin repertoire is careless placed beside the musical instrument; the writing on it as clear as print. Pens, most of which have lost their ink, are scattered next to From a Buick 8 – a book that I have read only yesterday but has immensely captivated me nonetheless. The excerpt from the book, which I had written prior the rest of this entry, is a mere coincidence of my present condition. Of course, none of my loved ones gave up the ghost. I only concur with what Ned has to say about the dream.

The setting in this room is familiar to me. Hell, everything during the summer is familiar to me. Only this one is surreal, as though I have literally gone back in time. An incoming sophomore student, exposed to the beauty of devotional books and indoor sports. Fur Elise dainty on the keyboard. A new song about to be learned, a new book to be read further. Even the dream I had the other night seemed familiar. Real, too. I awoke, looking for someone – anyone, praying that “that dream was a dream”. Contrary to Ned’s situation, I was right away filled with bliss.

With that dream I mentioned above following me like a plague as I grow older, I have become an expert with my dreams-to-be. By the time I was ten, I constantly thought about that nightmare and I was somehow inclined to stop dreaming about anything for a whole summer. I would wake up before a dream would turn out bad or otherwise, sleep-talk my way through them until someone tells me that I have to shut up because people are actually trying to sleep.

But just the other day, I had the dream again. Only this time there were three girls, not one. And I was going back home, and not to a party. And it wasn’t Christmas, but my birthday. And I woke up with my heart pounding so hard I could just hear it, cold sweat running down my back, my hands awfully cold. But I had no tears in my eyes.

I Am Selfish


I’d like to believe that this isn’t such a big deal. That I should try being in Zethan’s shoes before I start yapping. But it bothers me so much, I simply can’t. There are times I’d think that Zethan forgot; purposely or accidentally, I’m dubious. And it is rather insulting – I might add – that Zethan didn’t even try to do anything about it. I am disappointed and a little embarrassed and a little angry – and (once again) very insulted. It’s been two days since, and I am still mad about it. Perhaps it’s because that only happened and could happen only once, yet so many chances have gone to waste. Praise all those whom I never encouraged. It turns out that they are even better people that what Zethan is to me.

I am trying to comprehend. And again, I can’t. I don’t understand. It’s too narrow and bitter for me. I know that I don’t have the right to be selfish; I kicked that to the curb years ago. But the attitude is coming back and it is unsettling; distracting. Like imagine people forgetting your birthday. That’s how it feels. All the Zethans in the world are always looking away.

I don’t want to sound like a megalomaniac, so I won’t make much of a foolish yak any longer. But right now, I just feel completely and utterly betrayed.

Zethan is a composite person.

Miss Na Kita


I have looked upon myself in the past week more than I had in a year. Lingering indoors has done nothing to me other than imbrue my clothes and pain my arms. Outdoor exercises as walking and jogging, on the other hand only makes me doubt what I already believe from reading health columns. I have chafed the entire area round my neck, and it has been as red as the darkest shades of crimson. It’s a 30/70 chance of feeling better. I don’t want to believe that I have completely given up. Day by day, I would easily recognize dinner to be breakfast; lunch to be dinner; breakfast to be snack. The cycle is repetitious and as vicious as the busiest breweries out of town. Even when things become completely unexciting, time still runs so quickly. I don’t even know when’s the best time watch television anymore, or how to insert the schedule in my day for that matter. I am praying for May to dawn. I see it as a grace that will make me happy.

I actually really meant to write an ode. But I’m afraid my poem-writing ability has stopped working for me a long time since. It has departed. And frankly, I don’t believe I will ever get it back again. It’s a sad thing, yes: to lose something that mattered to you as a decadent child, and to end up coveting that very same thing as a teen. Here you are yearning and desiring for the whole world to see, just so you can have it back. This reminds me of a scene from Step Brothers, in which Dr. Doback revealed his childhood dream of wanting to become a dinosaur. It strikes me funny because that take is relevant to me now. I mean, how much would he have obtained had he not rested from it? In some such way, I have become familiar with that question at the back of my mind.

The heat has come down like a terrible plague. I have been rejecting it more than ever as well. I have actually been in so many escapades already, hoping to take a short walk down the street or up the street; depending on how much I wish to get inspired. I have seen this town grow before me, and it is a slow and steady growth that I get to be a part of. It’s not such a horrible thought, I guess. But it also isn’t very romantic when you think about it. This house feels bare and the entire street has turned a molten gray of cinders and waste. As of late, I have realized that this is a lazy town, and it has reminded me more of my childhood more than I thought it can ever do. As a child, I had often wondered how it would be like to be a little bigger and how great it would be to be my own man. Well I am almost fifteen now – seventeen days, six hours and fifty minutes to be exact. And honestly, reflecting upon those many, many walks I charged myself doesn’t exactly mean a thing anymore. It didn’t mean much after I had come home, it doesn’t mean anything now, and I am more than certain that tomorrow will speak of the same.

In the morning, cars are started; revving and ready. Tricycles blast at full velocity; a commuter would walk away with a solemn face; and garden hoses are opened in frenzy. At noon, the dogs lay asleep; the streets become quiet until the silence turns deafening; the sun leans down even more; workers have their lunch set; carenderias lay full. In the evening, the cars come back from a day’s repose at some random parking lot; tricycles eagerly search for one last passenger; commuters return with a friend or two; water declines and insects gnaw at the garden; cats beg for food; workers hog the karaoke; shops are closed as early as nine. The routine is so predictable; I can probably tell you what one of my neighbors will be doing right after watching the evening news!

I can now feel the summer temperature almost literally in my head, dancing; swaying. It is a sting that I’ve known before, but hadn’t felt for quite some time. Truly, it is an odd feeling being in a condition as such. Lunch feels five inches up my belly and my eyes have become more than lethargic from the incredible heat. These are the moments where I can’t help but feel lonesome and discomfited. No one knows. And the thought of this quietly sinks down uncomfortably, watching people writhe and wither out of defenselessness. Lying at home isn’t such a difficult thing for me to do. I’ve done it for the past fourteen years: every day, every month, every year. Only now, I can’t help but wonder why I feel a little slighted and a little ensnared; trapped. I don’t entirely don’t care. I actually have contemplated about summers past more than anyone I know. I think and I think and I think until I only start to wonder just how blue my heart has become. I have reached a nadir of my existence, yet I’m still here – in between the vital lines of being young and being old. I feel like an ode that is long forgotten. A poem with no more verses. An ability that has long gone. I want to get back, of course but I can’t, nor do I have the slightest idea how to. I doubt anyone would have recalled either way. And once I try, once I feel as though I have already won life’s biggest accolades, another day dawns and I realize just how far happiness drives on.

I’m not Compeyson because he’s too stubborn; and I’m not Provis because he’s too batty. I am pissed and scared and and lonely and tired all at the same time. But I still have my senses in tact. In a while, I’d know that I love what I am doing; only I can’t sense that now. Everything will pass so soon. Happiness, though least likely, will come to me when I’m at my best. I know that. I just need a little breather and someone to prove me that. It’s a problem not having an inspiration, isn’t it? Well, it won’t be for so long. Never had I experienced getting sick on summer day up until this moment. Stay put, soldier. Even Pip got sick on his back.

It’s funny how I remember so much from the past and tend to forget the present. I have made this entry a recollection hub. It honestly feels like an arm dealt with great apoplexy. I don’t want to feign to make you see the obvious. But I certainly am not getting any younger. I am growing each day, but I’m afraid I’m learning less.

“You just need to rest.”