The Mail Box

[Wyld]

Little Miss NutCase...

 

Etong piso bumili ka ng buhay ng di ka nakikibuhay sa buhay ng me buhay.

 

Isa ka talagang batikang nutcase. LOL.

 

Pathetic.

 

-W

[LostCommand]

We are off to the ancient historic city next week, older than even Manila; those pimps our bosses have decided it is time for us to again service these black gold bloated customers, who are in trouble once more. And call upon us as usual.

 

I however do not agree to deliver them the cutting edge subtle technology we ourselves would have instinctively desired, as hard-core engineers, to solve their serious operating issues most efficiently. For they are a government company and have other bottomlines, and need other solutions less subtle.

 

We'll give them the 1970's solution. Fully manual control. Daily monitoring using pen and paper logsheets. Direct management intervention everywhere. Rigid check and balance system. Daily sign off on work instructions. More staff necessarily employed; strength found in ever enlarging delegations. Rigid command and control. Clumsy. Bureaucratic. Sounds familiar? That's because that is how governments run.

 

That is how governments are comfortable.

 

The odd gifted ones among them are spread thin. And they may be wide readers, but their depths are likely/necessarily spread shallow. They do not know what the written words those tech manuals and management books were trying to tell them, but merely regurgitate facts they have read, in better form perhaps, but mere regurgitation and no added value. So we will quietly dumb down our solution to the 70's level. And they will praise us for directness! We will use indirect parables to describe it, and they may praise us for wisdom!

 

Ah, the masses...

 

With this solution, there will be inefficencies. They will react more slowly. They will be incapable of rapid movement, to take advantage of commercial developments. But this low tech solution will also prevent them from making many serious mistakes. And that is the first bottomline, really; to stop them from making further serious mistakes.

 

Ah, the masses...

 

You are right, this is not an engineering solution, this is a management one. But, we are managers too, are we not? Engineers can do management, at least easier than managers can do engineering. Much easier.

 

You are right, years later they may complain to us that they were not given the latest tech, but really, had we given them the automated system, they would have kept themselves lazy to the point that they would not have even done basic reality checks, relying blindly instead on deux ex machina to keep their operations going. They would not have absorbed the subtle technology well, or even at all, and they would be even worse off than the blundering rabble they are today.

 

They wouldn't even know they were in trouble until that moment all their expensive machinery unaccountably crashes to melted ruins, harvesting many souls with it.

 

So we start them from the hardship, and only later move them to the subtle. It is all about evolving. What is best for them now, may not be what they want now. But that solution is what they need, so we inflict it on them. In the same way that we teach our children the simple truth, before the subtler truths. They will appreciate us too, someday.

 

Perhaps, the challenge to us with this client is not to inflict sea-changes, but merely to re-start and hasten their evolution. Without missing the necessary steps. Talk to my countrymen, trying to get unstuck in their evolution.

 

And finally, you are right again. We are ultimately helping our own competition sharpen their swords. And they may... nay, they will, use these swords against us someday. So you ask, why would our bosses send us out to improve the lot of our very own opponents?

 

For that, mi amigo, I have no clear answer. Perhaps, you and I, and our bosses, are also evolving?

 

"Ah, you masses...."

 

 

LC

[chiquezee]

Dear Peter,

 

I write you with the intent of quelling the disturbance that you are feeling, and have not intended to hide, rather have expressed over and over again. I do not understand why you need to be bewildered by what you are beginning to discover. I do not know why you even take the time to bother, only to fume in disappointment and perhaps, disdain. But I am sparing a few precious moments to address you for I do not want to hear anymore how astonished and affected you apparently are …

 

You do not know me. You do not know where from I may be coming. You know not a single bit about me except that which I allow you, and the rest to see. How much of it is actually true, or how much is embellished, if at all, to protect identities? You do not even have the slightest idea. Where does the figures begin to take form and when are the prose unsullied and naked? You cannot say. You have no capacity to determine, much less discern. For I remain who I am only to me. You do not know me.

 

If I wish to remain incognito and feel comfortable under the guise of shadows and enjoy a masquerade, what is it to you? Why are you bothered by the fact that I am apparently not turning out to be what you thought I was? Or am I really not? Even that, you can only surmise based on the images you yourself created. If at all, you are forgetting the only thing you know about me. I am a writer. I create worlds and let people move in them. I create myself, too.

 

I am a writer and I cannot be confined to somebody’s perceptions, definitely not yours. Do not limit me to expectations for I am a rebellious soul whose natural instinct is to turn left when everybody is turning right. Call it my utter loyalty to creativity, or perhaps, my disdain for the usual. I have often chosen to like lilac when somebody tells me they like red, for I choose not to be conformed to the majority. Liking red, as much as the others is not something I choose to accept. And to change my favors is simply being true to myself.

 

Do not even speak to me of your dead poets and writers whose words, in the end, are but quotes that will fly away with the wind and shall not be remembered anymore, lest I begin to tell you of the prophets of old whose words carry life and death and are attested to by the very fact of reality that surrounds us today. Then you will find yourself with nothing. Let us not get to that unfortunate circumstance. Preserve yourself.

 

Do not narrate to me litanies of names of people who are only as good as we want to perceive or romanticize them to be. Nor about their library of literature no matter how immortal, for what good do they do to you if you remain ignorant to the only Writing that banishes to dust every masterpiece ever written? Do their words bring life and salvation? Do your novelists and philosophers turn hearts into flesh, or harden the same? Tell me how much you gain in life by brandishing about the styles and substance of one writer from another? Or that by trying to impress people with how much you have read, be it as much as those that are in the Smithsonian library, you have uncovered the only truth you need to know to sustain your breath to eternity. I dare challenge you for I am a writer myself, and I can only write so much, and in the end, return to dust. I do not share your passion, though I appreciate them. There are essays that are far more immortal than what you wave to the ignorant. They are, in fact, divine.

 

Words, what are they, but there are words that will never pass away. There are promises that have long withstood seasons and kingdoms. Those, I hold on to. But you do not know that, for you do not know me.

 

You are forgetting, I am a writer, and that is the only thing you need to know.

 

No, Peter, you do not know about my passions and the reason why I strive to wake up everyday with a song in my heart. You do not know what I do every morning at the first tweak of consciousness. You do not know the last thing I do at night until sleep catches up with me. You do not know what I do in between, as I go through the day.

 

You have no idea what my heart’s desires are, nor what can be preoccupying my thoughts as I traverse through the fast lane of life, or what catches up with me when I slow down.

 

You do not know for what I kneel and bow my spirit, and travail in anguish until heaven opens its gates and finally extend a hand to dip some water onto my lips to quench the excruciating thirst.

 

You do not know the principles I live by, nor the values I stand for. You have not been able to look through me to know of my dreams and secrets. Nor have you heard of my confessions to know my sins.

 

You do not know what I do and what I do best. You know not my strengths and the weaknesses that render me inutile at times. Nor of what impresses me and leave me overwhelmed.

 

You do not know how much I can love, and how much I will give up for the people I love.

Or what brings tears to my eyes and what can make me smile.

What moves me and what passes me by unnoticed.

You do not know how I feel, what I feel.

 

You do not know my voice and will not recognize me though I stand under your nose.

How long is my hair? Of what color?

And my eyes, how intense are they?

My skin, is it fair? Is it flawed?

Do I move with much grace, or am I rigid and calculated?

 

You do not know about what I know, or even how I think.

About the paths I walk nor the places I visit.

About the languages I speak and the people I talk to.

Or the food I take and the air I breathe.

 

No, you do not know me nor of what I write or who I write about. No one but myself knows who I am. In the long run, I may even be a stranger to myself. Who will know, and when will we know, really? Only the potter who molds the clay can hold a claim to that. Not you, and not soon for you. Maybe even never, for you. But what does it matter? I remain who I am regardless of what you think or do not think. What you know or do not know does not change the fact of who I am.

 

Nothing comes to your mind about the details of the daily battles I wage against principalities for you to abhor the thought that I pick up sword like I pick up my spoon. You do not even know if I am more comfortable with chopsticks, than silverwares. (Or what battles I choose, what weapon I use, or how I prefer to die, for that matter.) You know not about the pleasure I take of seeing tulips and violets and fluttering butterflies for you to conclude that I cannot appreciate the gardens that the minstrel plucks the strings of his guitars for. You cannot know me or claim to know me simply by waiting upon the manifestation of my inspiration. How much of me is in them, you cannot tell.

 

You have no idea of the marathons I speak of, whether true or figurative, for I remain an image to you. A movie in the making. A novel in drafts. A song inked in crude staff. I have no flesh, not even a bone, for you to even conclude that there was none before, nor none below, of arrogance, or humility; of guilt or repentance; of anger or forgiveness; of caterpillars or dragons; of hymns or chants; of water or fire. You do not know me for you to judge me. Do not make that mistake lest you fall in a quagmire of quicksand where every effort to free yourself sinks you deeper.

 

You have not heard of the war I fight, how many victories I celebrate and how many defeats I grieve. You have not heard of the hurdles I jump, to win the race before everybody does. You do not know how fast I can run. You have no inkling of the drive that pushes me, nor what weighs my spirit down. You are clueless. Do not attempt to pretend that you can pass judgment on me. It is clear, you cannot.

 

Therefore, Peter, it is futile for you to be implying your distaste for the image you gathered, that which I did not even attempt to project. I write for my own selfish reason, and not for any soul in this forsaken corner. Just as much as I do not bother much about how others wish to make themselves known. I do not waste my time for I know better than to pick up words here and there and form a mirage that will disappear as rain falls down on the desert.

 

You may find yourself forever in pursuit and you do not even know what you are chasing. Tragic, that will be.

 

My intention, dear Peter, is not appease you or make you feel you have been vindicated. Only, like I said from the very beginning, that I wish to quell the disturbance you feel.

 

I shall not try to comfort you and tell you that I shall once again speak of melodic echoes and the spectrum of the rainbow. I will, when I want to. When the world I choose to create shall require of grasshoppers and dragonflies and dewdrops and tinkling jewels.

 

I shall also write of matters of interest to me, which may vary widely.

 

I shall write when I want to relive certain worlds, such as of pacing and over striding, and the discipline of rhythm and motion, of tartans and spikes, of winning and stumbling, perhaps.

 

I shall write, when I feel the urge to, of the ruins of Athens and the paved walks of Manhattan, and the rivers of Venice, and the Alps that I can only take a fleeting glimpse of. Or of whose hands I shook and what palaces I have been to, beside whom did I seat and have dinner with.

 

I shall write with intensity, when I wish to, and speak of how many dead bodies I have seen and the stench that never has left my senses, and has left an imprint in my adulterated mind.

 

I will write theories and philosophies when I feel the inspiration to, whether or not I believe in them or simply want to negate them.

 

All these, and more, I will write about when I choose to, not for you, nor anybody, but for myself. Goodness, what do I care about what other people think when I remain under the shadow of a chickee name? I care only to be known by the people who already knows me, and who strive to know me better. In that case, I shall strive to make myself known, too. Even then, what they perceive of me does not and cannot change an iota of truth of who I am and how I know myself. The potter holds exclusive claim to that.

 

Peter, it is utterly vain. It is useless. You do not have to feel anything towards me or what I write about. Spare yourself the burden and the sentiments that may perhaps be draining a bit of energy from you, robbing you of a minute of happiness, or a second of peace.

 

For you do not know me, and never will.

 

 

I remain,

C.

Edited January 28, 2007 by chiquezee

[chiquezee]

A -

 

Its not as bad as it looks. It could have been worse. Take me for instance, half-deprived, burnt on one side (flip me over!), they lead me to the water, but they do not let me drink. They bring me to bed, but they do not let me sleep. Such is not your case.

 

All will be well. It takes a faith as small as a mustard seed to move mountains.

 

Trust is such a rarity these days.

 

- C

[chiquezee]

Today, this hour, its been three months. Friends said I should take some time off, allow myself to wallow in a little bit of depression, and celebrate humanity. But that's not what you would have wanted. That is why I have not stopped going about my days as if it were the same.

 

Ten years ago, when one of us decided to stop fighting, I learned that there was such a thing as irresponsible death. Those whose hair where white with wisdom said that an untimely demise, of destiny not being fulfilled, was a careless irresponsibility. I wanted to say the same of you. I wanted to rush to where they said you were, shake you, and scream to your face that you could have been more careful because you knew there were so much more we needed to do. But I just went in my hotel room, flicked on the lights and looked around me as if to search for answers to questions I dared not ask. I could do nothing.

 

I could do nothing until now. How many times have I felt the urge to bawl and tear my clothes and put on sack cloth and pour ash upon my head in lamentation? How many times have I attempted to sit still and pull out from deep inside me a bucket of bitter anguish? I cannot. I begged the Lord to help me mourn over my loss, but I escape at the first sign of answer.

 

Even today, I cannot tell of what I really feel. You were the fourth, Iris. And the pain it brings is indescribable that I find no strength to even embrace it.

 

Why were you in a rush? There was no reason to, it was over for that day. As a matter of fact, the moment they told me about it, I was already wrapping up and sorting files in folders. You were supposed to be three hours away from your little darling...

 

They didn't want to tell me how tragic it was, but I put the pieces together. There was no escaping the sickle. Breath is fleeting, indeed. With us one time, gone the next. Who am I to challenge the author of your story?

 

One day, I shall collapse where ever I am and cry. I need to let it out one time. But not yet now. I will, for sure.

 

I remember the first time we sat together at the lobby of Waldorf Astoria in New York, seven years ago, at high noon. I will not forget the soft chuckle so common to you, as I count pennies to send a post card home. If I can send you a postcard now, to tell you what I feel, maybe I would... Then you'd laugh at the thought.

 

You shall be remembered, as you wish to be.

 

You are sorely missed by this one.

[MoonMaiden]

Me, a small pebble.

You, a great ocean of tears.

Help me, I'm drowning

 

You could never understand why. Hell, even I can't fathom it sometimes. It's just that when I'm with you, my personal shields lower to almost nil. I feel like you're reading my mind to know exactly what I want, when I want it and how I want it.

 

You told that sometimes you feel uncomfortable with such blind subservience, but what you can't wrap around your mind is that I am really, truly happy to do those for you.

 

You are the anchor that allows my spirit to fly high, for I know that I will alway have a place to go home to.

 

Thank you.

[iwalkalone]

haaay...to whom it may concern....

ang seseryoso ng mga tao dito noh?... ako...i think i had too much already....nakaka stress pala lalo ito lalo....penge ngang yosi sabi nga nung kakilala ko...nasa isip lang lahat...siguro nga...pati nararamdaman natin...galit...affection...ecstasy....oo tama nga yata...kaya mabuti pa....wag na tayo lahat mag isip....para...magaang lang...mag yosi na lang tayo...hehehe....

kalimutan na lahat yang nag papabigat sa pakiramdam...wag muna nating isipin...hanggat...di natin kayang harapin.. ( o kung dapat man ito talagang harapin...baka naman hinde?.... )

payo ko siguro...bawas bawasan mo na rin pag iisip...nakakapraning talaga yan... mahirap magsalita...lalo na kung manggagaling sa gaya ko...pero...try mo lang...

oh well...ano ba namang pake ko...at sino naman ako...haha....wala lang...

[Barenaked-NoMre]

Daddy,

 

These days EVERYTHING I do ... I hope I am carrying your name and legacy well.

 

You taught me thru your various involvements with the orgs and associations from your past.

 

I live with that in mind and offer myself in service as you offered your life, time and compassion.

 

Guide me.

 

It get's tiring and frustrating at times ... yet I know ... I am doing what I can with what I have.

 

I also want you to be proud of me from up there.

 

Living with you in mind, Daddy ...

 

A

[Zerreit]

Dearest,

 

How you remind me of is best described by Captain & Tenille's Do That To Me One More Time.

 

Do that to me one more time

Once is never enough with a man like you

Do that to me one more time

I can never get enough of a man like you

Whoa-oh-oh, kiss me like you just did

Oh, baby, do that to me once again

 

Pass that by me one more time

Once is never enough for my heart to hear

Whoa-oh-oh, tell it to me one more time

I can never hear enough while I got ya near

Whoa-oh-oh, say those words again that you just did

Oh, baby tell it to me once again

 

Do that to me one more time

Once is never enough with a man like you

Whoa-oh-oh, do that to me one more time

I can never get enough of a man like you

Whoa-oh-oh, kiss me like you just did

Oh, baby do that to me once again

 

Whoa-oh-oh, baby, do that to me once again

Whoa-oh-ho-oh-oh-oh, baby, do that to me one more time

(Do it again)

One more time

(Do it again)

One more time

(Do it again)

One more time

(Do it again)

One more time

 

(Fade)

(Do it again)

One more time

 

Yours,

L

[bluegreen717]

It's not entirely late for me, nor for anyone else, for that matter.

 

I've come to terms with certain issues:

 

Some people are beyond help. That, I learned the hard way.

 

Some people think they are above everyone else. Sadly, I have nothing to say to them to make them think otherwise. I just smile and leave them be. Provide them with an audience, perhaps. But I will never be their follower.

 

Some mere mortals are at their best selfless. Selfless, but hardly spineless. Think JC.

[Lipstick]

A few minutes away from yesterday

A few minutes into today

And all tomorrow plus a day

 

My heart,

 

Just quickly before I sleep and before the words become embedded in my own, I want you to know that I remember. I remember everything. That heavenly salad, the unlit cigarette, the fraction that brought you ineffable joy. I also remember the things that were not on the menu, the willful discarding of urbanity and the delicious hours before the stars went to sleep. And how could I ever forget the cursing of hours spent apart only to make love to you over and over until you were whole again.

 

Hush. I have not forgotten. Your desire has become my desire-- to enter your heart completely, still, is only exceeded by the desire to make you happy. This is why I love you in all days, all days good and bad.

 

Rest well with these thoughts tonight my heart, sleep well with my arms around you. You are so beautiful.

 

Tu m'embrasse.

 

-L-

[bluegreen717]

Yet another acquisition.

 

But the logic does not escape me. Convoluted? Yes. Illogical? Of course not. Complicated? Just like myself, I suppose.

[bluegreen717]

I am absolutely glad you liked it.

 

I heard forest trees crashing down while I was printing the damn thing.

 

And petty cash fluttering out of the box with each pass of the nozzle.

 

But hey, all that pro-bono work's paying off.

[chiquezee]

Claudine. Ah, yes, to have the privilege to address you by your first name, for you called me by mine, first.

 

Nothing in my life is coincidental and having memories of you pass through my mind several days ago was already an indication that I shall be hearing from you. My intuition has never failed me in that regard. Thus, it was, should I say, an expected surprise. I wouldn’t regard it as welcoming, though.

 

When was the last time I saw you? October of 1998. That long ago… Then you bowed out of my life, although you were very much a constant, your influence still embedded in my dissertation, unfortunately. Then now, you barge in through a phone call, in the middle of a chaotic week starter. You have always been a demanding prick.

 

Normally, I wouldn’t take a call from an unidentified number, but since my name and my contact information have been displayed all over the web, I have had the unpleasant duty of taking every single one, including those that are from too far away the number can’t even be reflected. Lucky you. And you knew that because I am bound by my breeding and manners, I wouldn’t slam the phone down on you although I was tempted to, what with the “Let-me-ask-you-first-if-you-have-any-idea-who-I-am” s@%t you put me through.

 

Your husky voice, from too much nicotine, is undeniable yours, but forgive me, it has been nine years and you were the last person I thought would be calling me on a Monday. Oh yes, nine years and here you are trying to be a surrogate mother. You know my weakness and you are using it against me. You were the cunning strategist that I hoped to be, and maybe already am.

 

You had to narrate to me your achievements. You just couldn’t resist, could you? I would have slashed your moment of gloating except that I remembered I have been rebuked recently for my hypocritical stance against those who bask in the glory of their laurels. Then you segued to remind me of your family name. f#&k you. I know who you are, you don’t have to make sure that I was aware of the power you and your husband have, so much more than what people know. You are practically behind every sickening major league damage control we have to implement! And I would not even start on what your husband has been doing to keep someone glued to a seat.

 

(I remember how I hated your intimidating black, humongous four-wheel drive every time you’d arrive. Now I can only laugh as I have my own, black too, minus the sirens. I rarely use them, lest I be shot by angry tax-paying, law-abiding citizens.)

 

I know you have always been looking at me from where you were, although in silence, scrutinizing if I had it in me to stretch a little bit more. I sense your presence here and there. Your name floats every now and then, too.

 

Your statements gave you away. You know exactly what I have been up to lately, including those that are classified, secret, top secret, and confidential. That, plus, your hushed “you shouldn’t let people know we talked.” Don’t worry, Claudine, I wouldn’t have survived midnight meetings if I didn’t have the secrets already in my coffin even before I am laid to rest.

 

“Do you still mesmerize them? Do they know you are mesmerizing them?” Flattering words from you. Were you referring to the people I have to order around or where you talking about the men? Either way, the answer would be “I don’t give a damn.” But thank you for not changing your opinion of me. The conversation, in fact, made me wonder if you have started to elevate me as an equal. The first name, yes… Since when has that happened?

 

I did know, though, that the praises you were giving me weren’t loose change. I didn’t forget you were a communication strategist, first and foremost, and for you every word counts. Every word has a meaning. And the tone. Yes, Claudine, I must say I learned so much from you. If we were talking over blueberry cheesecake, your favorite, I’d even see through your half-open eyes as you lick your fork clean, seductively. You, sexy matron, you. I bet you have even the young men drooling over you until now.

 

Well, unfortunately, your power has no such effect on me. I know the extent of your reach, and I know the extent of mine. Equals, Claudine. You are a fading glory. Your influence has been limited to my insane gibberish. I must say though that your enigmatic effect still has me giving you an ear.

 

What caught me off-guard is the truth in what you said. There are just so many reasons for our paths to keep on crossing, although indirectly, and now, directly. There is no escaping you, is there? The horrible truth that I am faced with is that you know me too well. From the deep-sea dives, to the aeronautics… How can you not know when it was you who told me half of what I believe I am now? It is a dilemma, indeed. Suddenly you are, what, a family friend? When did that happen?

 

I promise to have lunch with you, or dinner, whatever is more convenient for you, this February. So we can talk lengthily about what you are asking, nay demanding, from me. It would take a face-to-face dialogue between two strategizing women, so I’d see how you'd express your intent, and you’d see why I am not amenable to it.

 

There are just some things, Claudine, that mere name cannot get. Not even your family name. Because my name depends on it, and my family’s… and our honor.

 

If you are really (suddenly) a family friend, as you claim, you'd know.

 

‘til then,

C.

[denimhead]

i guess you were right.. its not about the quantity but rather the quality of the company