i l s e a n | a r m a g e d d o n *

Leavetaking

2007-04-09T03:00:00.000+08:00

I pulled out of Joppet's street at 2:43am. The Swordfish was tired from the day's drive and i wasn't that far behind. The windows roll themselves down and the outside rushes in a flurry of images reflecting long walks and nights spent over blanket and under sky. On those streets and on that blanket I was always secretly pretending I was the happiest bedouin on earth. I'm sure half of that was true.

I tell myself I am memorizing the turns and the curbs because between light and thought, I fall to pretending that I am the queen's lost camera. I tell myself I am driving so slow because i drive too fast most of the time. And I tell myself I felt emtpy because the streets were the same.

But even the streets knew better.

On Mount McDo I went to find kalachuchi girl but she has either moved on to a different haunt or I was too late. Under the shadow of the alabang viaduct I searched for Manong Bulag but the bridge rehabilitation work must have forced him to find another place to sleep. Across an empty lot on Madrigal Street, I sought out the Patience Tree but he/she/it was fast asleep and I knew better than to wake a sleeping tree.

So I reach home a little less than just empty-handed. And I drag a sleeping bag out from my unhappy room. And I sneak back in to get all my pillows except one. And I take this handydandylaptop. And I thank the tincan gods for wifi.

And here I lie under an evil sky. Fending off evil mosquitoes. Writing this evil story on an evil laptop on our evil terrace. Banished from my evil room.

And I wonder about truffles. And how they taste.

And I wonder if the wizard really did give nothing to the Tin Man. That he didn't--didn't already have.

And I warn the dreamking that I am coming.

And I give myself to sleep.

Retaliation !

2007-03-21T22:22:00.000+08:00

Two days ago, after five months in suspended animation, my main computer, Piotr V died of natural causes. Among his predecessors, Piotr V would be the most resilient; surviving two comas, three brain transplants, and a massive stroke that conributed to (but not directly caused) his ultimate demise.

Yesterday, while I was happily cruising down EDSA, the Grey-Nameless-Car (that's what I call her cos she never warmed up to me) was struck by the strangest sort of engine-voodoo-funk that left me stalled between two lanes. Meanwhile cars are passing me by and the more helpful ones decide to contribute by honking their support--LIKE I WAS STALLED IN THE MIDDLE OF EDSA TO ENJOY A PLEASANT CUP OF TEA.

So my 'puter's dead. At tangina, kinulam ang awto ko.

The universe is clearly out to get me. Except I don't think it knows who it's dealing with. I'm sure the wiser, more prudent thing to do would be to placate the universe with offerings of human sacrifice, rituals involving scantily-clad tribal women, and songs of praise for its wondrous being. Except, again, I don't think it knows who it's dealing with.

I don't bend, universe! And I don't cower or placate! I destroy back!

So I'm walking around today bending spoons, unscrewing screws, crumpling paper, untuning guitars, disintegrating clouds ~ and look how much fun I've stumbled upon:

Enjoy the video!

( * And don't feel bad for the CD, it was found guilty of treason by an IAAF Military Tribunal and was sentenced to death by melting.)

Armageddon Plan 04-5a-0001 ::: 'Dig'

2007-03-16T03:18:00.000+08:00

fig. 0001z

There are a precious few things that are as demeaning as being the victim of one's own devices. I believe this to be even more true in the case of evil boys (and their teddybears) who plot to bring about planetary destruction. It's a feeling akin to the sensation of stabbing yourself with a spoon. It is also not unlike the feeling at the moment of realization that you have been peeing on your own foot.

Henceforth, all unhappy blogging activities are suspended indefinitely and the cause of the anti*blog shall once again be taken up with a happy mix of furious fervor and dastardly delight.

So let them hear us coming! Let loose the black balloons! Let the machine awaken!

Ah, :), an armageddon plan at last... *

* * *

Ingredients :::

1.) Shovels of every shape and size; shovels to dazzle the unbeliever!

fig. 0001a ::: happy shovels

2.) Pails (preferably with flower prints on the side for long life and happiness).

fig. 0001b ::: recommended flower pail

3.) An army of 'volunteers' (slaves) with wonderful singing voices and cheery dispositions.

fig. 0001c ::: IAAF 'volunteers' are given personal hand and neckcuffs FREE OF CHARGE!

4.) Whips and Cattleprods.

fig. 0001d ::: A 'BFC 3000 ULTRA' Cattleprod

Procedure :::

1.) Using the tools listed under 'item 4' of the ingredients section (that would be the... uhh... whips and cattleprods) 'motivate' the 'volunteers' into digging a hole to the center of the earth (as shown above in fig. 0001z).

2.) Singing while digging is encouraged!

3.) Pour icecubes into the hole until the planetary core cools and solidifies into a giant chunk of metal and mineral.

* * *

A Haiku Paves the Way

2007-03-04T17:58:00.000+08:00

I've mouthfuls of pears
That should never have been touched
It's no use spitting.

03 ∙ 12 ∙ 2007

tinatablan din pala

2007-01-12T01:49:00.000+08:00

Greetings, dear reader!

I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am to you for sticking it out thus far. You have been faithful and I will not forget.

However, certain matters of tragic consequence may be progressing beyond my control even as I type this and I cannot help but feel that it will all lead to a prolonged hiatus from this already beleaguered bastion of chaos and catastrophe.

So I am hiding armageddon while I still can. Rest assured, we have gone into hiding before and we have come back from those.

Everybody runs, right?

*(For access to armageddon in hiding: feel free to leave a comment or e-mail me at shadowless@gmail.com and i will be more than happy to show you my nifty little hiding place! It's much much more fun though if you look for it yourself!)

Hump

2006-12-16T22:39:00.001+08:00

I have recently (like two-minutes-ago-i-should-probably-mull-this-over-a-bit-more recent) come to the conlusion that camels will rule the world one day. It just hit me all of a sudden--the nonchalant chewing, the disinterested eyes--alam niyo yung 'Planet of the Apes'? Ganun. Pero ' Planet of the Camels'.

Planet of the Camels.

Nakakatakot.

Alaala ng Bintana ng Isang Bahay sa Zambales

2006-12-12T23:47:00.000+08:00

This is for a day to come when i will have the appropriate photo of man come back to windowsill where, as a boy, he learned to play guitar. My grandparents' house had such windows that tempt stories into telling, aswangs into peeking, and the occasional bat into flying circles above the dining table.

It is said that the people in town were divided into two; those that could hear the sea waves crashing kilometers away all the way into their homes and those that couldn't. I was one of those that could. Nowadays there is no such distinction. The houses are cold concrete cemented into callouses that keep the likes of prowling burglars and the sound of crashing waves from coming in.

The five a.m. pandesal is smaller. Rustic turns into rust. Once again, the distance we travel in time is farther than any planet or star.

They just don't make windows like they used to.

dragon dreams

2006-11-16T04:37:00.000+08:00

My left shoulder hurts like a bitch. The pain is such that it almost makes any sort of rational thought impossible. Such pain that deserves the creation of make-believe words such as 'tarfazull' and 'moofnuknuk'. Such pain that makes me exlaim random phrases in spanish such as 'Creo que no!' and 'estoy listo!'. Such pain that makes me take comfort in the excessive us of subjunctives.

If i had known it would get this bad, i would have agreed to visit the doctor earlier. If i were asked to paint an approximation of the feeling, i would paint it in purple haze. If i were more tribal and monkeyesque i would be dancing seizurelike and in such abonimable fashion as to anger the gods.

And then i am gathering my things as i prepare to board a bus. The driver is a camel in a spacesuit and he reeks of handcrushed leaves. On board were five clowns-a-clowning, five robots (one of which was holding a paper cup), a princess on her way to a ball, three orange-clad monks on a pilgrimage, and a sullen pig.

I sit beside pig because all the others scared me save for the princess who would've made me feel underdressed had i taken the seat beside her. And then the strangest thing:

The pig turns to me and says morosely:

"I could be a serial killer."

To which I reply:

"I love eating bacon."

*

fifi

2006-10-18T02:18:00.000+08:00

Five songs i sing out loud upon hearing but will never admit to :::

1.) 'Part of Your World' / from Disney's The Little Mermaid
2.) 'Stop' / Spice Girls
3.) 'Fushigi Songu' (shigi-shigi song) / from Shaider
4.) 'My Favorite Things' / from The Sound of Music
5.) 'Goodbye Girl' / Bread

Ah, what a predicament! Now you know! And i know you know! And now that you know that i know you know you must either: a.) tell me your five OR b.) shut this browser window and pretend you never read this abominable piece, and wait for your doom as I send the armageddon cat to commit unspeakable acts of terror upon you... *

feles

2006-10-15T03:18:00.000+08:00

Perched on my window is a black cat. Happily plopped, lazily wagging her long black tail is this creature so irredeemably vilified by popular culture and superstition that they still elicit some perfunctory response of unease from any and all they encounter.

This is not to say they don’t deserve it. Cats are some of the most self-obsessed, selfish, drama queens you could ever encounter. They are largely oblivious to things that don’t involve them, and can hardly be bothered to read a newspaper or peruse a research journal. They don’t care about the environment and don’t feel an ounce of social responsibility.

(A lot of these can be said about dogs too, but dogs can hardly be blamed because, well, duh, dogs can’t read!)

This specific cat, the one sitting on my windowsill is worse. For instance, she will me-ow at you incessantly (and oh-so-cutely) until you agree to play with her. Something you must agree to at all hours (they are nocturnal and sleep in small intervals) or she will decide to find her own fun (which translates into destroying anything she can get her happy little paws on). Other times, she will just plain ignore you. This cat also happens to know her name, but will only come when she wants to.

This is also the only cat I know who demands that her tummy and coat be rubbed while she is eating. Refuse to participate in this strange ritual and she will follow you and me-ow at you until you agree to go back with her to her food dish and be her subservient tummy-rubber.

She will never fetch. Or sit. Or roll over.

But she will chase after crumpled pieces of paper. And demonstrate feats of remarkable immobility followed by sudden bursts of seemingly caffeinated bouts of play. And, quite recently, seems to be learning one command, the most important command of all:

‘Destroy.’

Which makes up for everything.

She’s spoiled, she’s bratty and callous to sharpened perfection. But she's perfect that way. And even as I watch her rip through my thesis notes I find myself helplessly beset by bemusement and awe-- ooh-la-la; we have an armageddon cat.

fire

2006-09-25T00:26:00.000+08:00

Last night was a bedful of communist penguins (there were thirty-seven of them) and a clenched fistful of fevered dreams. The red penguins are from a recurring dream i've been having for months. In those dreams there are a hundred and twenty-six of them living in a secret mothership disguised as an iceberg. Their good ship is aptly named 'Der Hammer von Karl Heinrich Marx'. As for the penguins themselves, I have only so far gleaned the names of ten:

Caffeine, Piety, Greed, Honor, Janice, Humor, Humar, Gaiety, Pan and Saint Epilepsy.

Caffeine and Pan were my favorites; mostly because they were the only ones who had spoken to me in english so far. None of them were talking last night though. They just stood silent, thirty-seven penguins staring; one of them happily standing on my chest.

Somewhere between sleepless zombieness and fevered delirium i was only struggling to stay awake because i was curious to see if they would fall asleep before i passed out-- because i had always wanted to know how penguins sleep. Even aboard Der Hammer von Karl Heinrich Marx i was never privy to a visit to their sleeping quarters (if they had any) and the question had been nagging at me for months.

No answers were forthcoming that night, though, because sometime between three and four, the lead penguin (the one perched on my chest), opened it's beak and utterred a solitary word:

"Zerstören.", it said.

And i closed my eyes to the sound of penguin word like lullaby. And i gave myself to dream.

Do you know how penguins sleep?

armageddon beta test

2006-09-23T14:47:00.001+08:00

Let this test broadcast read as the sidebar reads:

"People of zee wurl, relax!"

And so it begins... *