Street Kings (A dangerous living part 2)

My uniformed life ended with a resignation letter, that means freedom from corporate bonds (hello street-life). At this moment, while counting the last of my salary; wondering if it would end up until the 30th, I am thinking of having a racket. Some things pop in my mind, some old feats that I know. Thinking my way home after a nice chat with my buddies and beer, I remember this guy; a good ex-office mate and let's just call him Max. A bald dude who has a good physique and a nice car. He actually invited me on some races after our shift was up. He told me that our salary is not enough to earn a living or even filling his car's tank. So that is his reason why he has this kind of 'sideline'. 

While riding his good old car, he told me not to talk about this in the office. For someone might actually intrude on our doings and file some sort of conduct shit or whatsoever in his doings. So the ride to mayhem started. After swearing that I won't talk about this in the office, he showed me the world of the underground fighting. Here, there is no rules, there is no referee either. The fight is about endurance and how long can you take the pain from your opponent. At that time, I've seen this fat guy, maybe around 6' flat in height, he's wearing a loose shirt and a short jeans. He's got a tattoo saying this phrase "only God can Judge me" on his right triceps. I thought that dude is one of the crowd, but his appearance is disturbing but at that night, he is the one fighting for the money. Before the fight starts, the crowd will place their bets on their chosen fighter and then the 20% of the total winnings of the fight will go to the fighter. For example if the pot is 10,000 automatically the 2000 will go the fighter. And the remaining money will go for the betting crowd.

So here it goes, after the moderator asks for more bets, the fight is on. The fat-guy send a hard-hitting blow over the face of the other guy. But the guy didn't knocked his opponent on that blow. A counter kick hits his ribs and the brawl continues. After sending some hard punches and sharp kicks, the other guy won the battle with bruises and cuts on his eyelid.  Max told me that here, the only opponent of yours is yourself. If you fail to knock the other guy, that's your problem. He said to me that in this kind of game, there are only two sides; there ain't no draws here if you're fucked, then you're fucked! 

That's how it goes, he told me that on this line of fighting there are still match ups needed to agree upon. Because a 5 footer can't fight a 6 footer all by his hands and wits! Come on, life is not fair! That's why Smith and Wesson created its signature peacemaker! On the other hand, this is the rule of the street, fight hard and thrive with its rules! If you're feeble and dumb, you cannot win this harsh environment! You better plant sweet potatoes instead! 

We can find good lessons on everything around us, it's just that we are the ones who will pick the right decisions and wisdom out of the scenario we are in. In this case, street fighting is illegal, but some local officials still tolerate this because of its profits that is way beyond the legal fighting generates. In what I've seen, there are some professional boxers who are joining this kind of game! They're most susceptible in joining because the pot money lures them while they don't have a ringside fight. Some boxers say that this is a good training grounds to hone their skills as a fighter. Well, you are the reader you decide on picking what's a good shit and what's a no-no! 

Shock in the Shacks (A short story)

 Calamities are the usual visitors of the Filipino people every year. With broken houses, broken dreams, dead love ones and serious economic problems, we can say that this is a curse a Filipino must pass every year. With this, I wrote this short story. Enjoy....

Shock in the Shacks

by Axle Cano

There’s a hole inside Antonio’s room. No one knows why it’s there, but the only explanation that they know is that, Antonio wanted his room to be cleaned up after the storm surge devastated the shack village a week ago. Her mother screamed indiscriminately in sleeping Antonio, “Antonio! What have you done with the plank-pile!?” He get up as quickly as possible, wear the tattered shorts he had and answered his mother, “Mom, I don’t know, I will not even noticed it myself?” a puzzled kid wandering why there’s a hole.

Underneath the hole is garbage… full of garbage from the neighbors, from the other shack villages, from the near canal establishments carried by the flood. News’ are crowding the airwaves with what’s in and what’s not. For the shack people, what’s in is finding new materials for repairs of their houses. An army of kids below 13 are on their way to find scrap lumbers from the construction sites nearby. Scouring the newly flooded metro is hard, because of the pile of dirt flood has brought. But for them, it’s a new way to find living. All those scraps, garbage, plastics and other spoilage of flood are worth gold in their eyes.

“Tonyo, have you seen istak?” an asking woman around 18 approached Tonyo.

“Nope, not a trace… why’re you looking for him”

“He didn’t come home for the last few days, after the storm hits our boat-house. That is our concern right now.” Nearly sobbing as she continues.

“Hmm I will tell you as soon as possible, anyway got to go. There are so many things to do”

Antonio pushes his cart as quickly as possible. Every pile of dirt, he searches for materials they need, and for him to fix the mysterious hole in his room. After hours of searching, he nearly full his cart with some soaked mattress, few books that are nearly dried, coco-lumbers, tarpaulins of politicians who promised his mother and deceased father some good relocation site (their faces are in better use if they will put it on their shack). All of those ‘knick-knacks’ filled his cart.

On his way home, there’s a crowd going loco about a pile of garbage. Scavenging their way for good ‘trade’, some of them pushing each other in order to get the nice spot, and Antonio is not that interested to get in to trouble. He just continued to walk until he reached his favorite ‘fishing spot’. On that spot, he can get good stuff; the television that they’re using in their house is a big-fish from that canal.

Wandering and digging the petrified garbage is hard if it’s not rainy season, but after the flood, scavenging here is easy. While searching for precious ‘fish’, Antonio realized that the hole in his room is a part of an old oak barrel that his fathered salvaged from the pilings of Manila Bay. After some afterthought, he noticed something’s floating near his rope, the barrel! 

When he lifted the barrel, he saw Istak floating and all swelled up. 

A Dangerous Living, Chapter 1

It's been awhile since my last creative non-fiction has been published (as a blog), well schedules are to blame for that. In any case, no need for me to regret; time passes so they say. On the past few weeks I've been in my hiatus, a state wherein no creativity nor drive is available for me to create something out of this world or even what people expected me to do so. The question is, what happened? There was this kind of searching, a journey to which I am supposed to find the inner reflections that will guide me to my being.

The dangerous life

There's a fire burning outside the window, smoke lingers through the open space of the house. I can barely see due to the smoke, but one thing is certain--it didn't choke me. This is the dream that woke me that day, on the day that I realized that I am living on numbers. That everything around me is manipulated by norms, that being creative and revolutionary is a sin, that really chokes me! So it started that way, in a dream. Anyway, I do believe that my dream has its meaning. Not a mystical one, but a psychological instead. I am seeing smoke as an indicator of what's coming, something disturbing--like fire.

Things happen very fast, I am thinking of resigning out of my job. I've experienced apathy enough with that kind of work, literally that kind of work will turn a sane man into a zombie. Or a clockwork being having an off button at the end of the day and a start button in the morning after. Same old stuff, same old shit, same old fucking faces that you wanna hit. And then somebody's calling the phone, its your supervisor from Japan cursing you with his unreasonable rants. Poor old guy you can't answer the boss with what you are allowed to say in corporate etiquette. In my case, poor old supervisor, this guy doesn't care if he will receive another IR (incident report) for your dumb reasons and foul words throwing at me without any explanation. Voila, MEMO! A fucking memo for calling your boss a stupid dumb-ass who cannot speak English as fast as I am. Who cannot identify what's a significant market to a lowly not profitable one. For being smart and being proactive. A fucking memo for that! Well that's what I deserve, people told me. The only person that didn't laugh is my Fiancee, for she knows my capabilities. Anyway that's out of the question, I decided to leave the company. There are no razrez whatsoever, I packed up my things, say goodbye to a few fellow who treated my stay there and called em mates ( for we consider ourselves prisoners of 8 hour shift) and then that's it.

As I walk around the J.Vargas avenue, I've seen so many happy faces, I am wondering why? Maybe being a corporate dude/gal is their dream in life, maybe sitting in an office and doing what they boss wants em to do sooth their longing for completeness in their being. I am wondering? Does parents want their children to be lobotomized by the system? I dunno, but I think this way of thinking is idealistic and immature (me saying in the future if I will change my views about life and philosophy). A question will left my statement here hanging and for me to continue writing my rants, does living dangerously will show me something (the BEING) that is worth seeking?

What I Miss in Blogging

It's been awhile since I wrote something here. They say that blogging is like a way of life, everyday you will write everything that happened in your life, significant or not--just write it down. Well in my case, I treat my blog as a significant part of my being, to which my ramblings about life,death, and everything in between are intact. when time comes to reminisce those bittersweet whatever, I can just click it right away here in my URL. So for today, I am just updating my blog and preparing a debut poem to which a friend inspired me to craft and wield in my foundry of poems. And what a damn coincidence that I am thinking of Edgar Allan Poe's passage about sleep,( in my mind I was just thinking, "I should write this one") damn! I will just post it and here it is.

“Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.” 

―Edgar Allan Poe

Poems are likely to be found in ordinary language...

And ordinary language is most likely part of the usual

Sleep is part of the unusual, wherein

dreams are the catharsis of poems. Well, will you miss Morpheus?

 if he'll lulls you to sleep, but in waking

you'll forget everything? I owe it

 to the usual, for it manages to remember

 what you have lost,

through blunders.

the title of this poem is 'what we miss in sleeping', technically the reason why I wrote this one is a mystery. It is for the reader to interpret what I've said and what the poem is actually about in their own perspective. to that, a poet will never reveal his own motives/intentions in his craft.
P.S. tomorrow again I will write something.

ORTIGAS WALKING BLUES (PART 1: FUCK THE NORMS)

I am actually buying my time to think of things that can complete me nowadays, it is just that finding the real completion of self is hard to find. Whenever my eyes post its focus, it tends to shatter in a way that I can’t really comprehend; a scene to which my moving consciousness is alien. At the moment of planning the grand conclusion of my life, a strife appeals to be heard at the deepest realm of my thriving awareness of being a tidy man in a so-called ordered universe. At first the bite of reality was neglected, to the innermost complexity of my ‘undying spirit’ to resist the urge to be one with the many. In that point of time, the diversion to confusion starts to linger, away to the spirit of the so-called bohemian/idealistic/philosophical life. To which the conclusion arrives at the most contradictory endings of my so-called planned existence.

I used to live in a not-the-usual fashion, burning books inside my mind, burning cigarettes, roaming and exploring things with my muse, writing poems and drinking liquors with friends while talking about deepest metaphysical thoughts you could ever imagine, that was the lifestyle I am imploring to the world/society to understand. That is life per se on a man searching for his place in a diverse universe with different sorts of choices are to be made.

I remember once a Japanese movie character said to the protagonist while his practicing his samurai skills, the character actually said ‘too many minds must have one’ (I can’t recall the exact phrase but the thought is more likely the same). And to that phrase I remember myself being on the verge of thinking of doing different things at the same time. And David Hume actually talked to me that fast, like a lightning bolt struck me with a fraction of a second; ‘you cannot see the totality of the moon, only its partial side’. Damn! It makes sense at all! The tilting of my hourglass of life is near; I must find a way to cure the fits that’s eating me. The confusion that resembles the inner cycle of maturity, the confusion of leaving the old self, everything that composed my future reverberates like a pendulum in wooden room. The stings of reality crashes as it turns out to be unfolded, by the things before which are blurred turning to be clearer as the time of revealing draws nearer and alas the plight of transition came; I must react on the things at hand.

      I left my old lifestyle with just a snap. Forgetting the usual Saturdays, weekdays with the muse, liquor heavy Friday nights with some philosophical talks do not exist anymore. Reality came like death misfiring its stray bullets on the things I’ve enjoyed doing. The things that I am actually enjoying at this moment are thinking in a long blank just like ______________. That’s a non-sense for some persons, because they actually spent most of their time thinking on the 15^th pay out, the 30^th, the credit card and household bills all of that sort to which life of theirs are revolving.  Naïve for others that is actually their judgment over me that I am taking things not that seriously or I have got an immature views about things. Basically on ‘mature’ person’s point of view it is. For thinking about a date, a new phone, a nice car to put a loan is a mature man’s line of thinking. Not that sort runs inside my mind. I used to think about a world wherein everyone’s got a right to point things out, things they want to be. Things that can actually make their lives much better, the kind of stuffs an idealist dream of. Well as my confession continues, it is a form of putting objects on the blank spaces that I am thinking of. A leeway of some sort, call me weird but it is just like a game, like a million chance of a lifetime game. Putting letters that can actually make you won the price you dream of, for others it is a six letter word that comprises their aspiration W-E-A-L-T-H. A typical answer to everyone’s dream but what would be the completion of my million chance of a lifetime question? Come to think of it. The prescribe focus that standardized the goals are biting my limbs, as I walk through the concrete jungle of Ortigas, the conditions are much and much more becoming harsh. To the fact that clothing myself with long sleeves and tie doesn’t make sense at all. The furious stares and uncanny words starting to spray a tinge of stain in my modest being that of which everything that conspire to transform me to the many is putting blood on my back up; my philosophy. At some extent it is incomprehensible, but the way language games starts to mingle with my own language games solitude ‘Ortigas-dreamy-state’ the violence occurs. Eating my world, being fed up with intrigues that I am no involved with but they‘re keep on putting my place over it stacks up.  Politics of the office, fucking hardcore of faggots and their escapades are neither of my business. All I want is to forget the stereotypical bonds to which ‘others’ keep on imposing. Resistance, it is a tabooed concept on their part. You must conform on the sorts of their doing. You must put side in order not to be taken down, demotion; a fucking parasite! A splinter of the civilized world to which numbness is your best friend, for eating the shit in order to survive resembles the vomiting part! The part of which, you and I are situated to conform on their own gauge and standard. Most likely the mores of the society claims to be the standard, a way to which that presupposed concept to which it is repressed to the core affects the judgment of the people. It affects everything and the effect is vital. To which the inevitable part is the convulsive way of stereotyping. Thus the confession leads in a very furious revolt against societal norms. And as to conclude this shit of mine a phrase will complete the million chance of a lifetime question “FUCK THE NORMS!!!”

Nagyoyosi ka ba?

Isang maikling sanaysay para sa araw ng kalayaan, gamit ang kinalakhan kong wika...

Hindi ko talaga alam bakit sa tuwing papatak ang alas dose di ko mapigilang mangasim sa yosi. Tila ba may demonyong humahatak sakin paalis ng station ko para humitit sa labas ng mapanirang-baga na usok. Eh pano ba naman sa lamig ng opisina na pinagtatrabahuhan ko, sino ba naman ang di mapapayosi! Tanghaling tapat, tagaktak ang pawis, tila ako litson na pinaiikot ng kawayan sa nagbabagang uling. Di ko malaman bakit pa ako lumabas ng opisina gayong duon malamig, dito naman saksakan ng init.

            ‘Lights nga!’ ika ko dun sa takatak boy na maya’t maya umiikot sa gilid ng mga railings ng bilding na pinapasukan ko. Sa gilid kung san ako nakatayo malapit sa baitang paakyat ng gusali, nakatayo din yung mga taong giyang, na kagaya ko maya’t maya din ang hitit sa mga nagbabagang tabako na umuupos sa mga abo na nagsisilbing mga alaala ng kangina’y matikas na Marlboro. Pero sa totoo lang, kung may tatanungin ka bakit nagyoyosi yung mga tao dito, wala kang makukuhang matinong sagot eh. Laging hanging yung mga sagot kumbaga mga sagot ni boy pick-up minsan eh, walang direksyon walang pinatutungkulan.

            Teka nagkakalimutan, yung dahilan nga pala, teka nyemas naman “ano nga ba?” dahil nga ba pag humihitit ka nito para kang si Rudy Fernandez na astig hawak mo lagi ang fortune sa buhay mo? O para kang isang cowboy na gwapings na malupit maghagis ng lubid sa kabayo? Di man para kang isang action star na tamang nagyoyosi pampadagdag ‘bad-ass’? Isa yan sa tingin ko sa mga dahilan ng iba, pero kung uugatin natin yung lalim ng pagkahumaling sa nikotina di na siguro natin mahuhukay pa.

            Grabe yung init, wala naman talagang koneksyon yung init sa pagyoyosi ko! Siguro talagang naiinip lang ako sa paulit-ulit na pangyayare sa opisina. Papasok, magtatrabaho, makikipag-plastikan sa mga plastic na katrabaho, kakausapin yung iilang tropa sa station, mababagot, makakatulog ng dilat at mag-iisip na sana alas siete na at makaka-uwi na din sa wakas! Teka di ko napansin, kangina pala nung pababa ako sa elevator yun ang naiisip ko habang nagigiyang ako magyosi. At habang hinihitit ko tong yosi na to, naisip ko bigla; kaya naimbento ang yosi kasi nabobored ang mga tao.

            Tamang hintay ako sa sa pinsan ko kasi kanina pa ako nakalabas ng opisina, sya naman eh palabas palang. Grabe nakaka-bagot tumayo sa gilid ng bangketa na nakikita mo yung mga mukha ng mga burgis at mga nagpapanggap burgis na naglalakad habang kumakain ng magnum at humihitit ng starbaks (status symbol ang magnum at starbaks wag ka!). dulot ng pagkainip di ko malaman ang gagawin ko, hinawakan ko ang celfone, naghintay na may mag-text. Wala. Tumingin sa tabi-tabi, pinandaw ang paligid baka may tropa. Wala. Kinapa ang bulsa, may matigas; lighter! Binunot ko yung yosi sa bag ko, lights na Marlboro, sinindihan-hinitit-dinama ang usok-binuga sa ere-humitit muli. Paulit-ulit gang sa maubos ang isang stick, sindi ulit! Isa din pala sa dahilan ang pagka-inip sa pagyoyosi, Damn!

            Alas otso y media, wala pa ding pinsan, kalahating kaha na ang naitumba, pa-ubos na yosi at nandito pa din sa gilid ng banketa—naiinip (sabay buga ng huling hitit).

The Angst Connection

Dwell in the cold space

Beneath the soil in its place

Lie down and view the wilderness

Conclusions whether foolishness

Appeal to be drawn

Out of nothingness

Climb up to the edge

Wicked scenes to picture out

That certain coldness

One cannot explain as you long

For something out of nothing

But your thoughts into the sands

Dances away and it’s stillness it stands

As it runs out and slip within your hands

Searching life on the thread

Fire losing heat, arises now dread

Tell me something that you fears

Neither weary put yourself on tears

Cold spaces between us sears

Out here nothing you can feel.

Ortigas Walking Blues, Part three: Late in the morning garbage talk

“Working from seven to eleven every night…” Led Zeppelin starts to sing and my dream with the muse was dismissed. It is another morning my body says and I must shun away the demons of the bed. Because it is so hard to get up and wash away the hangover of a nice relaxing sleep. Only to notice that you must again face the reality of being a capitalist whore, a need for mind setting is a must. For a person like me, convincing me through introspection before standing up and preparing for work is a habit. Scratching head, throwing the extra pillow to the other bed is always the start of my waking up tantrums. At some cases, I am not like this especially when there is an appointment with my loved ones.

As I looked at the clock, it deceives me at first because I thought it is still 7:30. But when I checked my phone, it had already snoozed ten times! Rushing downstairs, I grabbed my mug prepared some coffee, sipped a little, and then rushed to the bathroom. There, I sang continuously, never heeding the ranting voices of my aunt and cousin.At 9:10, I already got everything prepped up! However, as I set forth away from the house, I realized that I forgot something. DAMN! It’s my fucking necktie! I went back, fetchedthe little thing, and rushed to the highway.As I waited for a jeepney ride, I didn’t get quite lucky either. Instead of coming at work late, I decided to just hail a cab with the faintest wish to salvage today’s office log in. I am not quite sure if all these are meant to be happening or if everything’s just plain coincidence.

Inside the cab, stress lingers for time is running out. Looking at the digital clock, the numbers six and nine annoys my eyes; it’s something like ‘you’re fucking dead meat if you’re going to be late again’ shit. Nine and six has always been a part of my childhood, because I used to have a classmate who is damn so religious. I remember that situation when I was cursing my classmate in the vernacular (PUTANGINAMO!!!) he approach me and slap my face. Shocked and awe resembles among my extremities, because I can’t make any decision whether I should kick her in the ass or bitch slap her ass. While in shocked, a prayer resonates like the sound of crumpling tin cans. Irritating! Damn! Afterwards some of my classmates reacted when she shouts 666! Get away from him; don’t get my classmate for he is a child from god. Fuck! Do I look like a devil? Damn! And after my nerves went in, she actually told me that I was possessed by an evil spirit, that’s why she slap me to the extent that I almost forgotten my name! She keeps on talking about revelation and the numbers 666 and 999. For the latter is god’s number and the former is fucking devilish one! Ha! Believing in that stupidity is something like believing that there is a something like except of nothing! Those numbers are just created in order for people to be afraid, or whoever is the person who invented the meanings behind those numbers; I will congratulate him, for he frightened 99% of my stupid classmates when I was in fourth grade.

The taxi ride reminds of different things. Stories that for some are stupid and irrelevant, everything goes as they say. Different foolishness and philosophies are created through a single taxi ride. And I’ve got this certain conclusion that taxi drivers are like barbers! Telling ‘supernatural’ stories about their experiences that sometimes they saved someone who is in trouble and in return the cool taxi driver gets a fuck on a gorgeous model he saved. That kind of stuff, anything goes. That sometimes the driver experiences being snatched by a group of thieves and he manages to escape them and hit them all that all of those bad kiddos end up in jail. Those heroic deeds that even in the movies won’t happen. Sorry for this, taxi drivers, but this is what I’ve noticed. 

But there is always an exemption, for I don’t generalize the totality of all taxi drivers, for my experiences always resides on the partiality of the many. I’ve got my favorite taxi driver too, his name is Travis Bickle. Alright you win, he’s not for real. He is a character played by Robert de Niro some decades ago. He is actually the philosophical one, because when he said that this should be this and this should be not, he will find a way to make things right. And I’ve got a favorite scene in the movie, when the senator who is candidate for presidency hops in Travis’ cab. The senator asks what Travis wants when he won the elections, Travis replies that he wants to cleanse the city. That washing away the dust and garbage of the society is the necessary things rather than doing Pop-Politics. And when the senator heard what Travis says, he nearly laughs for what my favorite taxi driver explained. But the thing is, the senator didn’t understand that Travis pertains to the thieves, pimps, gangs, and drug dealers that pollute the city of New York. If all of the taxi drivers are as sensible as him, maybe I will always ride a taxi instead of doing the usual bus-solitude trip. Anyways, the taxi driver that I rode in was stupid for he actually don’t know the traffic rules and he actually ended up surrendering his driver’s license. What a cost of delay damn!

When I woke up, I’ve got a jinxed feeling. I don’t know why but the thing is I’m going to be late again. Even though you planned to be early and motivated yourself, outside forces harasses the time that you’ve got. And that taxi driver fucks my time! Though blaming isn’t good but it’s his fault! When I arrived at Mr. Ortigas’ place, he actually reminded me of time, the time arrives 9:58 at the back of the building, that’s when the time I’ve texted our HR that I’m going to be late for a couple of minutes. Shame, for I’ve managed my time and I even rode a fucking taxi! What a waste of time and money! Damn!

My station is always the same, faces in front, side (left and right) and back. But what’s special is, I always had a back up. Usual killing time is on! To kill time is like sweeping leaves around the yard. Choosing which one will be sweep first and which one will be the last. Letting time flows until my first break reminded me of some gossips pertaining to office politics, personal intrigues and conformism issues. What a waste of time to deal with but sometimes it is kind of annoying especially when you’re one of the casts of the tongue-play. And I’ve got a message to you Mr. ortigas, do you know that your dwellers has a this issues? Could you please resolve it for me? As if, you’re a amoral entity though you can’t make a way. I should leave them until they’ve noticed that the time for them to clear up their garbage full mind has been swept up by the hurricane of KidlatTahimik or the torrents of Travis Bickle. Maybe I should’ve had my own catastrophe, and that is worth a sitting for I should think of it first.

P.S. I hate to admit but to some extent conformism is a necessary thing, in order for you to fuck it; the norms with it. You must be aware of the things they deal with.