Sunday, January 30, 2005

millennium slambook

full name
tessa marie babiera santos

etymology of name
tessa: (hebrew?) reaper
marie: (hebrew?) bitter
babiera: whatever it is, it certainly is not italian; just sounds so
santos: holy

fetish
hair, nails, teeth and body hair

depression diversions
studying math and symbolic logic

flashes of pathos
masteral courses in philosophy
philosophy majors
first sunrise of the millennium
waterfront casino filipino

latest frustration
i wish i knew how to do back flips

latest indulgence
annoying stephen paul

fight songs
when smokey sings
starlight - supermen lovers
little drummer boy - jars of clay

fight films
il postino
a league of their own
ocean's eleven
there's something about mary

fighting words
"could be..."
"if they want a girl next door, i suggest they go next door" (thank you, joan crawford)

profane words
"gi-ahak lang"
"inatay"

debilitating weakness
guilt tripping

wedding march (should the need arise)
run on - moby

phobia
ghosts, dogs and caterpillars

most bizarre dream
i murdered my friends in true gothic style...

serious sex fantasy
on the rooftop under a drizzle

foreplay duration
two minutes to two hours

Saturday, January 15, 2005

redefining anonymous crowd

i have never been one for writing much. unlike most people who claim that adversity or ecstasy brings out the most profound in their literary meanderings, i am quite the opposite. i don't write under extreme conditions. i have always held human emotion with the sanctity of saints, and i would feel guilty of sacrilege if i try to commit the intensity of feeling to words. words will never be commensurate to actual experience.

here ends my excuse for not writing much.

i now have the luxury of sitting down and composing an entry because the santo niño procession is nowhere near its end. the office is dead center of the main thoroughfare, so unlucky me could only shoot pathetic glances at the throbbing throng of people funneling into our boulevard. an hour ago, in one decisive action, i kicked my four-inch heels into a dilapidated paper bag, wore the rubber bathroom slippers and gathered enough bravado to thread my way through the phalanx and cross towards the moving traffic lane. i got there with candle wax drippings and my freshly pedicured toenails in ruin, but i had my head up like some triumphant explorer. until all taxi cabs refused to take me to ayala center. i couldn't blame them. avenues in that general direction were all blocked. this sinulog was beginning to eat me alive. so after 30 minutes of aimless walking and waiting in vain, i let go of all hopes to escape this fishbowl and traced my way back to the office. as i prepared to take a deep lunge across the main path, i saw the procession's catalyst looming in the concrete horizon. the glass-encased antiquated santo niño of magellan fame. my face must have transformed from irritated to alarmed when i saw the disparate crowd from the sidelines, without warning, collect around my area, their hands up in reverence, with candles leaking hot wax onto innocent (pedicured) feet. i refused to be caught helpless, so with all my might, i sprinted in counterflow, incessantly yelling "excuse me" over the drone of latin prayers and finally hopped onto the sidewalk that leads back to our gate.

now i'm here. and there's a young french guy in ayala center wondering where the hell i am.