Of Supernovas and Parallel Universes

You know how the forces of the universe
Are so powerful they can compel stars
To explode into blazing supernovas?
Then transform them into endless black holes -- 
Ominous, mysterious, beautiful?

Those are the same forces that pull me to you.
The same energies that push you to someone else.
So, tell me, What can I do against such raw power?

Braver souls may have fought.
May have raged with tears and blood.
May have pulled their guts from the inside out,
Placed them in front of their shields made of bones
Tied together by bloodied heartstrings,
And charged forward, challenging fate to break their conviction.

And they may have succeeded.
Or perhaps they may have been destroyed in the silly war they have waged.
But they would have fought hard,
Until there were no bones left to break.
No blood to spill.
Is love a worthy prize for such terrible sacrifice?

Alas, I will never know.
For I have the courage of a worm;
I have the strength of a bubble floating in the wind.
Fragile.
Unable to defy the limits of my circumstance.

I will never be able to stop you from going to her.
After all, who am I to you?
You live in a universe that revolves around her.
While I'm here -- in my messed up, wretched world --
Forever haunted by the ghost of your smile.

Angelina

The boy stole furtive glances at the young maiden serving merienda to the small group gathered in the family’s little sala. He was young, no more than fifteen years old. Still a teenager, really. But in those days, a fifteen-year-old could take the responsibilities of an adult.

The year was 1937. And this was the year when the boy decided he would take more responsibility than the adults in his family were willing to allow him. This was the year when he decided that he would become a man. But not today.

Today, he was content to behold the beauty that was worth her name – Angelina. Just thinking about her name made him think about seraphs and heavenly music. Oddly, it also made him think about the chirping of the birds and the refreshing mountain breeze. How one name could flood earthly and celestial sensations within him was beyond him. All he knew was she was beautiful beyond words.

But she was also older, blossoming like a gumamela in her eighteen years. She loved him. He knew that. But the fact that they were third cousins left the boy in confusion. Did she love him like a younger brother – like she so often proclaimed? Or was there something more? The boy wanted something more. He was hoping for something more.

He knew he was young, but he could already take care of her. He had been working as a fruit vendor in the public market. His uncle had given him a small area for his fruit stand. He was a good businessman too. Just a few months in his post, and he already had a bunch of suki – mostly housewives who were impressed by his guts and charm. If only he could use those traits when talking to Angelina. He was always left speechless every time Angelina graced him with her attention. All he could do was smile dumbly and stutter his way to a humiliating comment or behavior.

Like now.

“Oscar, are you listening?”

The boy named Oscar was snatched from his reverie and away from the deepness of Angelina’s brown, almond eyes. “I . . . uh . . . Yes, Nang Lina . . . You were asking about business, right?” Oscar stammered.

“Yes, buang. What else?” Angelina laughed softly, covering her lips with her hand. “You start on your merienda now. Maybe you’re just hungry.” She gave him a sweet smile then moved on to their other relatives.

“Yes, Nang Lina, my fruit stand is quite popular among the ladies now,” Oscar told Angelina, feeling stupid for his belated response. “Ha! Oca is only popular among the married ladies! We should send out warning signs all over town: Be careful of Oscar Exaltado! He will charm your women away using his fruits!” One of Oscar’s uncles busted with laughter after he exclaimed this, clearly amused by his own joke.

“Don’t joke like that, Tiyoy!” Oscar exclaimed defensively, cheeks flushed from embarrassment. He heard Angelina’s chuckle above the pounding of his own blood. He looked at her then, eyes pleading. “”I swear, Nang Lina, I . . .”

“I’m sure Oca has ensnared a few maidens too,” Angelina said, looking at Oscar endearingly, patronizingly. Oscar did not like it. He bit his tongue and sulked in the corner of the sala, nibbling the tinanok that Angelina gave him for merienda. “This tinanok na saging is good,” Oscar said, defeated.

“Look at what you did to the poor boy. You all should know that he is working very hard. He can take in a wife at this very moment – if he wants to.” Oscar’s lola said this with reprieve in her eyes as she looked around the room, but she smiled warmly when her eyes landed on Oscar. His heart warmed as he smiled at his lola. He suddenly realized he had been bullied too much by his relatives. But he liked to think he was not a pushover. His easygoing nature just did not want conflict.

Oscar was more concerned with strengthening his capability to support himself and a life companion – if the heavens were kind, perhaps a large family as well. But he could think of no one for the role, except Angelina. She was everything he thought about. She filled every corner of his brain. She had completely conquered him, and she did not even have a clue. She had no idea how every glance tightened the knot in his bell, how every smile drove him to near insanity. He had to tell Angelina what he felt – or at least show her. If he showed her how much she had bewitched him, would she finally see his heart?

---

A week after the small gathering of their relatives, Angelina was sitting on the wooden bench by the side of their house. She was staring blankly at the portrait on her lap. It was quite small – just ten inches tall. But it was beautiful. No one had ever captured her face on canvas before. Staring into the eyes of the girl who looked like her was surreal. Oddly, it was like looking into the eyes of a stranger. It was a gift, you see, from her suitor in a nearby town. He was a painter – and a pretty good one too. Everyone was telling her it was a good match, that they fit perfectly with each other. The young, handsome painter and his lovely wife. Ah, her elders told her they could already see them roaming the tinda on market day, buying what they need for their little home.

She thought it was a good match too. But there was something lacking. She did not have strong emotions for the man. There was no burning passion. There was just blandness, a kind of passive liking. Angelina had other suitors, of course, but the people in her family were romantics – down to the smallest child. They truly believed that this handsome, young painter was destined for her. Angelina herself was not in a hurry. She was in the right age to marry, yes, but she wanted to taste more of life before resigning to the responsibilities of a wife.

She was still lost in her thoughts when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. When she looked up, she smiled warmly at Oscar’s serious face. “Why do you look so gloomy?” she asked. “It’s like you’ve lost a profit. Is everything all right with your fruits?”

“Yes, yes, I don’t have trouble with my fruits; they’re selling well,” Oscar replied, not taking his eyes off Angelina’s face. This made the young woman uncomfortable. She broke their eye contact and went back to studying her portrait. Her mind, though, remained with Oscar’s eyes. She had not seen her dear Oscar since that little gathering in his house. Actually, their houses were only a few meters apart, but she had been busy helping her mother with their new vegetable garden. She did not have much time to socialize.

“That’s a nice portrait you got there.” This broke off Angelina’s wandering thoughts. She looked up at Oscar again and gave him a small smile. “Yes, he paints well. Come here, Oca, sit down.” Oscar was hesitant at first, but then, he shuffled on his feet and sat beside Angelina. “He is courting me. The one who gave me this painting. The katigulangan say it’s a good match, and he has professed his love a few times now – a little too persistent, if you ask me. He seems like a-- --”

“No,” Oscar interrupted.

“Ha? What do you mean, Oca?”

“No, don’t talk about him in front of me.” Oscar was looking straight ahead as he said this. His eyebrows were furrowed, and it looked like he was restraining himself from speaking more.

“Oh, all right . . . Do you want to tell me about your day? How many ladies have you charmed today? How much did you-- --”

“Do you love him?”

“Ha?”

“The man who gave you that portrait -- do you love him?”

Angelina started a nervous laugh but tentatively stopped when she saw how serious Oscar was. “Uh . . . Well, I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I’m still considering things . . .”

“What about me?”

“What? What about you?”

“What do you feel about me?” This time, Oscar was staring intently at Angelina’s eyes again. He was a man. He was going to be brave enough to face her answer.

“Wha-- -- What are you saying, Oca? You don’t make sense.”

“Yes, I do. I only want to know what you feel about me – if I’m not the only one feeling these overwhelming emotions I have for you.”

“Are you saying . . . no, no, Oca, you can’t. You . . . you are like my younger brother. You can’t be feeling that. Perhaps you’re just confused.”

“You can’t dictate how I feel, Nang Lina. Even I can’t help it.”

“Oca . . .”

Oscar broke his stare, and Angelina felt her heart stop – just for a while. Oscar dropped his head, focusing his gaze on his clasped hands.

“I . . . I love you, Nang Lina – Angelina . . .”

Now, it was Angelina’s turn to stare at him, confusion swimming in her eyes. She inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled a shuddered sigh. She was not aware she was holding her breath.

“I don’t know, Oca. I’m so confused right now. I need to think about this.”

Oscar went silent, the fire that was alive in his eyes only moments before was now in embers. “Nang Lina . . . Lina, it seems like I have disrupted your quiet long enough. And I, uh, I need to get back to my fruits. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

Oscar stood and walked away as Angelina gazed after him with an aching heart. His confession had not sunk in completely yet. It was still floating aimlessly inside her head like dead fish on a murky pond. Oca – her sweet, charming Oca. How come she did not see it all this time?

---

Oscar’s head was spinning. He walked to his fruit stall in a daze. He could not breathe. How could something so intangible inflict so much pain to his body? The pain went to his head, making him irrationally angry. Why couldn’t it be him? He knew he was better than that lousy painter. What would he place on the dinner table? Acrylic paint? 

No, he would not go down like this. He would not give up on Angelina. Not yet. There was only one thing left to do – one last desperate attempt. It had to be public. Actually no, not really . . . . Oscar’s mind was racing as he was trying to figure out his plan. Yes . . . it did not need to be public. As long as Angelina’s parents were present, it would be enough.

---

It was a quiet night. The trees danced lazily to the wind’s soft whispers. Everything looked ordinary with the two houses that stood beside each other for years. But a storm was brewing in the core of the boy who was pacing back and forth in his room – the boy who desperately wanted to be a man. When he finally opened his door and went to carry out his plan, the storm finally seized his trembling being and left him walking in a daze. The only clear picture inside his mind was the house next door and the captivating maiden inside it.

That same night, a dark cloud had also been following the restless young woman who was preparing the table for her family’s evening meal. Her mind, however, was somewhere else. It was stuck on a boy’s intense eyes and their sincere declaration. She could not dismiss it so easily – not when he bravely bared his heart in front of her. Oscar’s face, as he asked about her feelings for him, was the most beautiful thing she had seen. Angelina was not sure if what she felt was love or adoration, but she was certain of this – Oscar was not nothing to her. She could not trample all over his love and hurt him in any way. She knew he was devastated. It was clear on his face as he turned to walk away.

Angelina’s trance was interrupted by the knock on the door. She heard a few exclamations of greeting and was shocked to hear the one name that had been haunting her all evening.

Oscar.

Suddenly, his face appeared in the dining room’s doorway. She could not read all the conflicting emotions on his face, but the fire in his eyes were as bright as torches. Oscar strode toward her, determination burning in his eyes, and stood in front of her, almost too close to touch. He touched her face – ever so gently – looked into her eyes with all the affection he could muster, and smiled.

Then, he kissed her. Full on the lips. In front of her curious family who was surprised with Oscar’s unusual visit. After a few moments, it was over. Angelina was left speechless while her father’s voice boomed with outrage. In a conservative era when a simple kiss on the hand would seriously taint a woman’s purity, a kiss on the mouth would be an alarming, scandalous subject to its judgmental society. This was the kind of shame Angelina’s father could not live with. He was left with only one choice.

---

Oscar and Angelina were married a few months after that night. Oscar was elated. He was beyond himself. He looked at his young wife’s sleeping face and smiled for perhaps the hundredth time that day as he recalled how his desperate plan had worked.

Many years after, when their children had grown, Oscar would betray Angelina. He would wreck their marriage by having an affair with another woman. He would lose the angel he had lost his mind for. But Oscar did not know it then. On that night, probably one of the happiest nights of his life, he was just happy to embrace the woman he promised to cherish all his life.

As for Angelina, she outlived Oscar. She lived to be almost ninety years old. Did she regret the life she resigned herself into? Not really. She was loved and was cared for by her children. She was happy indulging her many apos by giving them one- and five-peso coins every now and then. They would even go to her for stories about her many suitors from her youth.

Perhaps she was a little lonely, but she did not die alone. If there was one thing she was thankful for, it was the big and caring family she and Oscar had made. Oscar did not stay true until the end, but Angelina wanted to believe that deep down, he still loved her. That when he looked at her, he could still see the tantalizing young woman he fell in love with all those years ago. She was not sure of this, of course, but it was a comforting thought.

###

Note: This is a fictionalized retelling of my lolo and lola's story. My lola fondly told me the story one lazy afternoon many years ago. We were outside my aunt's house -- I forgot what on earth we were doing there. But she ended up telling me stories of her suitors when she was young. She was extremely beautiful, you see -- a trait that was unfortunately not passed down to me. :3 Both of them are dead now. I never knew my lolo, but my mama is very fond of him and always boasts that he was an amazing, wise person.

My lola's name is pronounced as Ang-he-li-na not An-je-li-na. :3

Disclaimer: I made up the year when the story was set -- my lola didn't tell me when it was. Although, I was certain it was before World War II because they were already married and had my eldest uncle by the time Japan occupied the Philippines.

I'm also not certain if they were second cousins, third cousins, or just related by law. But according to my lola, their families were extremely close.

Sad

I have this dull ache in my chest every time someone says he or she is sad. I don't know if I should feel annoyed, angry, or confused.

I scream on the inside because I find it so fucking hard to talk about my struggle. I find it too difficult that I mask my sadness with bright smiles and laughter.

But these people -- it's so easy for them to change their online status to "sad," to tell people about their loneliness, depression, internal struggle like it's a staple topic for small talk.

Is their sadness the same as mine? The kind that gnaws at your gut, leaving you empty? It'd be great if it stopped at that -- if I ended up living a zombie-like existence. But, no. I feel too much. I'm empty inside, but I still feel too much. Imagine how exhausting that is.

Imagine living in my sadness every goddamn day.

The Mythology Class (Book Review): I Snagged a Pinoy Classic! (Or How the Gods or Kismet or Enkantos Led Me to a Gold Mine of Enchantments)

The Mythology Class was first released in 1999. I was just nine years old then, and the only form of komiks I knew was the kind that sidewalk vendors lend to customers for like P3.00 per read. The popular komiks in our side of town in those days were romance komiks -- and my mama devoured them, poring on one every day. I was seldom allowed to read them though. Instead, Mama would get me children's komiks. But I've been fascinated with Philippine horror since I was a kid, so (even though it scared the hell out of me) I occasionally stole quick reads of the horror komiks available in the vendor's stand. 

This fascination with the Philippine horror genre grew enormously when I discovered its integration to the world of modern Pinoy komiks about five years ago. And now, I devour every novel, anthology, graphic novel that has aswang, tikbalang, and diwata in it. Then, I stumbled upon The Mythology Class. As I read through the blurbs and introductions to the book, I learned that in a niche specializing in Philippine mythos and lower mythology, Mr. Arnold Arre's The Mythology Class is an institution. Mr. Arre created this enchanting world of wonder and terror years before Mr. Budjette Tan and Mr. Kajo Baldisimo created the ultra badass world of Trese. That's why I feel fortunate to get a copy of the book's third edition and privileged to be one of the readers to be able to recommend this incredible story to future generations of comic book readers.

I'm not confident in giving expert reviews on anything, so I'll just paste Mr. Manix Abrera's blurb for the book here. I hope he doesn't mind. :)

Noong nabasa ko ang The Mythology Class ni Arnold Arre, nakita ko talaga ang kapangyarihan ng komiks, at ang kapangyarihan ng napakagandang kwento na naikwento sa napakagandang paraan.

Isa ito sa mga librong pinakamamahal ko, nakapagbigay inspirasyon; isang libro na maiisip mong napakaswerte mo at nabasa mo ito.

Hindi lang siya kasi ang kwentong pagkatapos mo mabasa, okay ka na; ito yung tipong mapapaisip ka, na ang sarap maging Pilipino, ang sarap maging tao, ang sarap makadama, ang sarap malaman na marami pa tayong makakalap at maipapamahagi sa sangkalawakan.

The Mythology Class by Arnold Arre Had to cut my monthly food and household budget to get this. Definitely worth it. :p Hey, don't judge. I'm just a crazed fanatic with a questionable logic and a soft, soft spot for Philippine lower mythology. #PhilippineLowerMythology #TheMythologyClass #ArnoldArre #GraphicNovel #myth #Philippines

A photo posted by Jennie Elloran (@ellorish) on Mar 13, 2015 at 9:43am PDT

Smiles and Glances

Once, there was a boy who liked a girl, and she liked him back. There were signs, of course. Stolen glances. Awkward smiles. But he did not say anything, and she did not assume.

So, the girl settled with someone who gave her flowers. The boy? Well, he settled with someone who gave him big, sunny smiles and melting, puppy looks.

Tch. Flowers? The boy thought. He would have given her songs — pieces she could call her own, poetry that would serenade her soul. Too bad she did not see through his meaningful glances. Maybe she was not that special after all. Maybe he should stop looking for someone who could succumb to his depths.

Ha! Who smiles that big? She looks like a fraud. The girl thought. Too bad he did not see through her small smiles. Maybe he was shallow after all. Maybe he was only interested in the surface. So, she decided, fuck it — she did not need someone who could not see her soul.

An Open Letter to Everyone I Ever Liked

I swear, this unhealthy infatuation routine will be the end of my sanity. You see, other people – they actually do something when they like someone. They throw meaningful glances, send text messages, smile, and – I don’t know – say hi or some shit.

Me? I do nothing. The more I like you, the more I ignore you. I can totally treat the person I’m obsessing with like they're the air. Hell, even the wind gets more visible attention from me. But I fixate. Oh, hell, do I fixate. You don’t even know it, but we’ve already had several meet-cutes inside my head. I build up serendipitous scenarios all the time that I have trouble recognizing them from actual events.

Now, this may look like I’m assuming you like me, but you should know that I’m not the jumping-into-conclusions type. It would have been better if I were assuming you like me too. If I were delusional in that manner, I would never have to feel guilty about my fantasies. Frankly, I’ve realized that nobody will ever like me even if I made the effort to flirt. I’m just not attractive like that. Throw my paranoia and awkwardness into the punch, and you have the perfect specimen for a crazy spinster.

The only time someone will know that I like them will be the time they crack my skull open, hook my brain to a supercomputer, and start an intensive research. You know, like that thing they did with that kid’s brain in John Saul’s “Shadows” or in one of Walter Bishop's outrageous experiments in “Fringe.”

But that’s beside the point. I don’t think I will ever have a healthy relationship with anybody. I know I have a problem. But so far, the only thing I have done to address it is to rant on my blog. Check it out; you will see posts of insecurity and self-deprecation. They’re lovely. I rant about my loneliness, my androphobia, and my terribly convoluted thoughts. Have I done something else? Maybe some proactive shit like talking to a shrink? Hell, no. A therapist is expensive. I can blab the same things to my friends, and they’ll probably give me the same psychobabble anyway.

My friends are smart, so I know they give excellent advice. But it’s not like I follow them. I’m terrible at follow-throughs. I guess what I’m trying to say is you will never know that I like you – ever. Sucks for me. If only I were like other people. But, no. Instead of devising ways for you to notice me, I devise more scenarios of us together. Inside my head. Now that I’ve written it down, it feels a little creepy. Ha.

You don’t even know me, but I read your blog on a regular basis. I stalk your social media accounts. I check your photos. I build our fantasy life together based on the information I’ve gathered online. See what I mean? I need a fucking shrink.

But it won’t matter anyway, right? Because you will never know I like you. Unless my girlfriends betray me and spill all my secrets or unless – for some miraculous reason – the heavens grant me with gumption, I will take your names and your faces to my grave. So I hope you think of me sometimes. And see you never.

Battling Ennui

I am the type who gets bored easily. That’s why I take advantage of what little curiosity and open-mindedness I possess. I surround myself with things, ideas, and people that will save me from unbearable ennui.

I love music, but I don’t have the natural musical abilities of the talented few who possess the gift. So, I make do. I try to play the guitar – although I’m quite terrible at it. I try to write songs. Just lyrics though because I’m bad at identifying notes, even worse at making a melody. Of the four songs I’ve written so far, three already have melodies. Thanks to friends who took pity on me and my poor lyrics. I'd like to holler a special shout out to Myra Escoro; she created the melodies for my lyrics. She's one of the most creative people I know, and these songs won't exist without her. I guess this is kind of an accomplishment for me. But it’s not enough. There’s a hunger inside me that can’t be appeased by my mediocre attempts.

So, I devour music – every genre, every artist, every song that has substance. If it triggers emotions within me, I consume it without guilt. I don’t understand why some music fanatics can be so condescending and elitist. Some do not understand the soul woven into the fabrics of rock, so they roll their eyes and call it noise. Some rock fans feel the need to be angsty and exclusive, so they bash pop – calling it trash.

Although, yes, even I will have to admit that most songs in the top 40 charts are crap. But there are hundreds more out there that deserve a few minutes more of people’s attention. Calling one genre crap because it doesn’t suit your taste is a douchy move. More importantly, it is an insult to people who dig multiple genres. I am one of those people. I devour classic rock, metal, and punk rock as much as Jpop, Kpop, and the good old American pop. As long as the music radiates soul, I will embrace it. Loyalty to your preferred genre is one thing; disrespect to other artists’ music is another story.

I love art, but I’m not an artist. The closest I have to artworks of my own are humanoids roughly drawn on MS Paint. It is absolutely frustrating to try to make art and end up lacking – big time. I always feel like a fraud. The fuck are you doing, Jen? Stop embarrassing yourself. Stop trying too hard. I know my attempts at art will never amount to anything. But sometimes, when I’m feeling creative and delusional, I draw floating heads with questionable hairstyles. I write baybayin calligraphy. And I do my best to make them look half decent. And I smile, knowing I didn’t beat myself up for making shitty art – knowing that I made them for my entertainment, my satisfaction. I smile because my stupid sketches answer my deep craving. I smile because they understand.

So, because I’m a frustrated artist with depressing attempts, I look for other means to indulge my creative sensibilities. Art/artist appreciation. Art events. Tumblr – it will never let you down. I’m also fortunate to have befriended a few illustrators, but that’s it. That’s the extent of my connections. I would have been acquainted with more artsy fartsy individuals if I weren’t an insecure, intimidated, neurotic mess.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk, says the cliché. I can’t change how I am with people and I’m sure my perennial boredom won’t be a catalyst for change. I’d rather die than talk to people I’m uncomfortable with. And most artists make me feel so little and insignificant. I collaborated with an artist friend a few months back though. Jissa wanted to make a booklet compiling Philippines’s mythos and creatures of lower mythology. Since I’m a big sucker for Philippine lower mythology, I immediately said yes. I supplied the tanaga for every creature and god she’d drawn. It was a small compilation though – just three creatures of lower mythology, three gods, and a babaylan. Thankfully, her project was received with praise. We plan to add more to our measly collection and turn it into a book. Someday. Lol. I will write a separate blog for this project. I will also include Jissa’s artwork and my tanaga to show our brilliance. HAHAHAHAHA.

Aside from music and art, I also turn to books, anime, movies, writing, filmmaking, food, and whatever new interest catches my eye. I’m good at spotting interesting activities; the problem with me is follow through and commitment. Then, I have concerns every time I consider going to events or activities. Will there be people? How many of them can tolerate me? How many of them can I tolerate? Will I have a safety net – someone who will not leave me behind for another group or another set of friends? What are the chances of me ending up at the back of the room, edging out toward the exit? Sometimes, I overthink too much that I cancel my plans altogether. Rational, ei?

Just thought I should give you a peek into my intricate thought process. Now, you won’t be surprised if I won’t show up in your event when I said I would. It’s not like I’m invited to events all the time anyway, but you know. Damn, this is awkward. I don’t know how to end this shit. Perhaps I should just call out to the eternally bored like myself. Reach out to me; let’s compare notes. But do it cautiously because I dash off when startled. Haha. See ya.