Was un-ordinary.  Had a bit and everything.  Was un-bitten.  Unusual.  Unbroken.  Looked up and found nothing but there was something so I reached my hand and was broken by the unnerving of a cold earthly stare that made me think that my un-ordinary cautions left me with a scar I haven’t felt nor touched  Was untouched.  Unminding.  But it was cold and raining so I had to run and seek my solace but the shed was not until five miles ahead.  I didn’t feel weak but I was weak because I never knew how strong I was.  Was.

Lifetime.  Moments ago, I consumed the breathing of an undaunted dark space that found my home and sweaty and scared that I could get lost in a puzzle of unending deadends that amazed my itching glucose then there was the light that blinded me but still I walked and ran and bled so I had to speak in tongues and couldn’t understand.  But I did understand because everything fathomed from the visions of my perennial wonderings and wanderings that never ever made me tired.  Then silence.  Out of the noisy blossoming of the fact that I was never a flower that made its scent noticed.  Still unnoticed after all.

A second.  There was an un-urge to refuse what was coincidentallly laughing behind me and when I had to turn my back, I felt the fangs that bit me and the venom of the longing that was never there but I had to get stuck and be blissful though no one ever empathized and knew about it.

Waiting is the cure, an enigmatic medicine for all sorts of invisible blisters and until is not a word that cannot swallow forever.  Your feet swell, your eyes lose their moisture but waiting is temptation waiting to be un-addicted.  There is so much about counting the hours because you love to be wasted and tired and un-knowing what  could be and will never be but waiting is not absolute.  The tick of seconds are spent on unwavering nuisance to absorb the unconscious desire to look at the clock and sit and undo nothing and then waiting is a sweet vengeance of a poetic justice that is unpoetic and bitter and uncinematic.  Yet we are drawn to its semiotic returns only to be happy about being unwanted, lost and not knowing what and who we are waiting for.  For.

Then there’s always a then.  Time to run in circles.  Again.  Again is a trauma.  A cause of paranoia, of lunacy of a loop that ends here and there and nothing else in between because ends are painstakingly selfless.  Because I was un-ordinary.  Had a bit and everything.  Was un-bitten.  Unusual.  Unbroken.  Looked up and found nothing but there was something so I reached my hand and was broken by the unnerving of a cold earthly stare that made me think that my un-ordinary cautions left me with a scar I haven’t felt nor touched  Was untouched.  Unminding.  But it was cold and raining so I had to run and seek my solace but the shed was not until five miles ahead.  I didn’t feel weak but I was weak because I never knew how strong I was.  Was.


over it, over pesto

Gavs, Shitz, Morts, Cardotch. Had fun at A Veneto’s-Trinoma kanina.

Sa uulitin.

that night at dante’s

Bebsism’s current emo mode: Over It – Katherine McPhee (kahit hindi ako pop person)

Pagkatapos ng nakakapagod na presentation ng nth revision ng ‘Tirador’ sa Ignite, ako, si Tere (Barozo), the film’s musical scorer and the gang (Direk Dante, Sir Bing Lao, Kuya Joel and Direk Arman) devoured our dinner sa garden ni Dante kasi bertdey ng dakila niyang assistant na si Mommy Tanya (o sige na nga, pati na rin ni Harley).

Musta naman ang Independence Day bilang bertdey.

Ayun. Pagkatapos lumamon, nagdiscuss na ng mga dapat gawin at baguhin para sa ‘Tirador’. Bilang boring-boringan na after a few sets of discussion (yung tipong paulit-ulit na ang pinag-uusapan), naisip namin ni Tere na magphoto shoot kunwari sa garden ni Dante, bilang meron siyang digi SLR.

Rephrase. Pumipiktyur na pala si Tere ng mga bagay bagay sa garden (plants, windows, mga ugat ugat na nakabalandra) nang ipinrisinta ko ang sarili ko bilang model.

Wala na ring nagawa si Tere. Ayun, minodel na lang ako. Una, katabi ng mga paso at mga natuyong putik. Tapos naglakad lakad kami konti. Nang biglang.. *bulb* Tweng!

Isang set-up na may maganda at malakas na ilaw mula sa itaas na pwedeng gawing set sa photoshoot. Siyempre, nagtama ang mga paningin namin ni Tere sort of “naiisip mo ba ang naiisip ko?” moment.

The next thing we knew, pinagpapawisan na kami dahil sa excitement. Ako bilang matutupad na ang pangarap kong maging model at si Tere, bilang natutuwang me narsisong willing gawin ang lahat para lang maging subject ng piktyur-piktyuran.

Ansaya. Grabe. Para akong nasa langit. Ansarap maging model-modelan.Yey. Natupad na pangarap ko kahit papano. Pero sabi ni Tere, karamihan raw ng mga pics na kinunan niya, blurry.

Bahala na. Andun muka ko. Wag nang choosy. Eto mga samples.

ala Silence of the Lambs…

or House of Wax…

o di kaya Eheads album cover… Hindi ako yung aso…

Malunod kayo sa relo.. Malunod kayoooooooooo.

Mamili… Psycho. Scream. Blair Witch. o Saw.


Today’s Bebsism: Make me laugh. Tell me about your miserable life. <Copyright 2007>

Bukas, bubuka ang lupa at lalamunin ang aking mga panaghoy. Pinagdadasal ko talaga na wag naman sana, pero pakiramdam ko, ngayon pa lang, hindi ko na mapapahiran ang malalamig na mga pawis na lumalabas sa likod ng leeg ko. Pakshet talaga. Kung bakit naman kasi kailangan ko pang pagdusahan ‘tong kapakshetan na’to.

Nagdusa na nga ako sa proseso, hindi pa ako nabigyan ng hustisya. Potangenang pera.

Bols, salamat nga pala. At least sinagot mo ang Today’s Bebsism ko. Lika, rant uli tayo. Yung rant na hindi nag-a-anti-climatic kasi nagmamadali ka nang umuwi. At yung rant na hindi lang tisis. Talagang rant na makakapag-anorexia sa atin.

Kinakabahan ako para bukas. Siyet. Binigyan na ako ng isang araw na extension, pero helpless pa rin ako. Di ko kasalanan ang lahat lahat. At ayokong maniwala na totoo ang Murphy’s Law. Isang panawagan para ke Sir Bing Lao. Poetic time ba ito?

Ayoko rin mag-bahala na. Pero parang ganun na nga ang mangyayari. Potaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Ayokong manisi ng tao. Pero gustung-gusto ko. Di ko lang magawa. Siguro, nice person nga talaga ako. Pero evil ako, evil. At hindi ako nakakarma.

Kinakabahan ako para bukas. Potangena.  Parang gustong bumaligtad ang lahat ng mga lamang-loob ko. Pero sayang rin ang kinain kong Yum with TLC kaninang alas otso ng gabi. Siyeeeeeeeeeeet.

the greatest narcissism

Ben introduced me to the greatest form of self-love early this year: Google-ing your own name.

Since I found pleasure in actually affirming my name’s existence, I’ve been habitually Google-ing myself at least once in a while.

As of this afternoon, this was the first site that appeared if you Google “Charliebebs”:

I was even surprised to discover that I’m in imdb! And surprise, surprise, this blog is gonna appear first if you search “bebs gohetia” and even “gohetia”! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeh.

There are at least thousands of Bebses in the world so when you search “bebs”, you’ll get this one. What the heck was that anyway? I didn’t bother understand the site. That wasn’t ME anyway.


au revoir

Bebsism’s current emo mode: The Outsider – Perfect Circle

Goodbyes are supposed to be said. With or without a final kiss. But some goodbyes? Poof.

There’s a kind of goodbye that keeps you wondering what you did to deserve being left alone in the rain or sulking behind the dark corner of your miserable room. It’s the usual paradox of packing the bag and silent closing of the door while you’re still lost in dreamland making love with him in an erotic mise-en-scene. This goodbye is dark, a stab in the knife, death without question. It’s grief without even knowing why. This goodbye. I’m a habitual victim.

Another goodbye, is too frank for comfort.

It’s the sudden rush of blood from your wrist. No time for pain, no time to mourn. Next time you know it, the goodbye has permanently left a scar on you you wish you were the one who turned your back. This goodbye, I’m a habitual victim.

Another goodbye, painless. Because it doesn’t mean a thing to you. You’re a sensitive heartbreaker and you can’t hurt people. You wish you have the courage to say it but you’d rather wait to be left behind. And all you can do is look away, his pain is your relief. This goodbye, I’m a habitual victim.

And some goodbyes? Not memorable. They are not written, not cherished, not remembered, not even offered a eulogy. They’re not unsaid, said or slapped. They’re just done. Without a script, without sentimental background music. They’re just part of the classic spontaneity where one turns his back and the other waves his hand. This goodbye, I’m a habitual victim.

Then another cycle begins.

that cold place

Three weeks and counting.  I’ve been passing thru the same pathway, subway and alley in that part of Makati, at any time of the day, in any weather condition, in any political situation and the rise (or fall) of the dollar and the instability of the stock market.  I’ve been there.

I used to hate Makati.  It’s world still revolves around pretentious people, filthy rich ones who have nothing to do but bum around Starbucks, shop their asses off, overdressed queers who look down on their fellow queers who don’t wear the same brand of tops they wear or go to the same gym they fuck around at, high-end shops that cater to those who can afford them and restaurants where rice queens are potato queens dine.

The place reminds me of the things that I want but I cannot have.  I still hate Makati now, just not as much though.

For the past weeks that I’ve been going to and from Ignite where I’m editing “Tirador”, I was part of Makati in all its faces.  From the moment it sparkles with the sunrise, I head home with the callgirls and callboys who are enveloped with the smell of cigar and loads of accent.  Or the moment it wakes up at nine in the evening, the traffic starts to get to your nerves, the lights surround the place as if to tell us we are a rich country.  Or at dawn when almost a few feet are alive, the almost cold morning breeze takes away the hatred I used to have for this place.  And along with it, the guilty pleasure of listening to Air Supply while the bus driver is eager to face an unglamorous death on the road.

But as I pass through the subways along Paseo, I saw the beauty of Makati.  It’s a cold place alright, with no sympathy for the poor but when I walk beside the semi-dark building, the unusual stillness it has during dawn is a relief, a detour from its wickedness with an aromatic lure that is not synonymous with crispy money.

It somehow assures you that it embraces you with its warmth or welcomes you with a sincere grin because you belong.

I don’t know.  I have so much biases against Makati.  I learned to love it the past weeks I’m there.  I’ll be working for another more week there. We’ll see.

hayop ka

Para sa’yo na sumira sa kung anumang magandang meron kami ni Carlo, kung sino ka man, makonsensiya ka sana.

Ayaw kitang isumpa.  Pero.. sana mamatay ka na!!!!!!!

Back to regular programming.

sa isang mamahaling cafe

Nyeta. Naiwan na naman ako.  Sasabihin ko na naman sa sarili kong sanayan lang yan pero hindi pa rin pala ako nasasanay.  Sige na nga.  Walang pakundanan ang pagkampay ng mga bakas ng lungkot na naiwan ng mga ngiting dating nagpalunod sa akin.

Kung sino ka man sa totoong buhay, sana maging masaya ka sa kanya.  Hindi nababagay ang taliwas kong mga ilusyon sa pekeng langit na kinalalagyan mo.

Magpahinga ka na.  Bubuntung hininga na rin ako.  Tutal, yun lang naman ang magagawa ko sa ngayon.  Wala kang larawan sa paanan ng alaala ko.  Walang iniwan na amoy ang mga yakap mong hindi ko naramdaman.  Walang mantika ang pagod mong mukha na hindi ko nasilayan at hindi man lang nagkaroon ng pagkakataong dumampi sa pagod kong kanang kamay. Sige, maiwan na kita.

Nga pala, ilang beses mo na rin pala akong iniwan.  Kaya ano nga naman ang kaibahan ng mga bagay-bagay. Di na bale.

Tandaan mo na lang ang mga kanta at mga poema at mga angas.  Baka sakaling maiparamdam mo rin sa kanya ang mga iyon sa aking pagkawala.  Dahil, sigurado akong hindi niya kayang makinig sa’yo.  O makiluha sa mga pagdarahop mo.

Iba-iba lang ang pamamaraan ng ating paglalaro.  Iisipin mo mang ikaw ang nanatiling nakatayo, pinalakpakan sa iyong napakagaling na pagkukunwari at ako ang naligo sa kulungan ng mga pagbabakasali, hahalakhak na rin ako.  Tutal, yun na lang pala ang magagawa ko.

Andyan pa pala ang numero mo.  Nakatitig pa rin sa akin sa panahon kailangan ko ng kasiping sa imahenasyon.  Nagsusumigaw, pilit na umaalma, umaalpas sa kulungan ng imaheng nabuo sa hindi ko maarok na dahilan.

Apakan mo ng iyong kauna-unahang hakbang ang nakakandadong pagkakataon na nagdugtong sa ating bangag na pag-iisang kahangalan.

Gustuhin ko mang lapitan ka, andyan ang masaklap na katotohanang wala sa atin ang nakakakilala sa isa’t isa.  Dahil kahit saan ko man idako ang aking matalas na paningin at malamig na paghahangad, isa ka lang parte ng laro na kailangan nang matapos pagkalipas ng nakakapagod na maghapon.