My Sister’s Wedding
(To Mary Grace)

It happened in a small church, nondescript and joyless, forgotten under the sun; 
the church in a small town you only knew if you lived there, the road, unpaved and 
rocky. Birds still whistle in this place, this sleepy town so beloved by the heat
of the sun, this pockmark of dust and stone, still until disturbed by the random 

car or child. The wind still howls in this place, and the shadow of bamboos shields 
a white car parked by the roadside.  This was a morning unremarkable like the next, 
and inside the church, there were no flowers from Amsterdam. Instead, a shoddy red 
carpet trampled by brown feet a thousand times. There were, heavily made-up faces,

somber countenances, obliged relatives who wished they were somewhere else. It was, 
by any measure, an unromantic affair. I sat in the third row, behind the entourage 
of white-clad men, their wives on the other side clung on to their bags. All over
kids ran and screamed, no iron grip to contain them, no hushing to succeed. There 

was feedback from the microphone when the priest started his sermon - "It is not 
good for man to be alone." - from the book that started it all. The bride's makeup 
diminished her eyes, but from the little that's left, she looked at the man on her 
side (he did not let go of her elbow from the start). And yes, the rings arrived 

unceremoniously, no belting from a famous singer, no love song to accompany the 
crescendo of desire. Instead, dozens of prayers mouthed through pierced lips, 
dozens of eyes that chased the bare ceiling of the church. Here it is, these 
vows stripped bare, in this place where the birds still whistle and the wind still

howls - "I will love you. What, if you are certain, can be simpler than this?"

It is my last night in Subic, and I'm in the middle of a humongous bed, legs under the covers, and this is about the closest to resembling Carrie Bradshaw (fine, a slightly frumpy version) that I can get, silhouette-wise. There is something missing, however, a malevolent stick you suck on one end and burns on the other (no, not a cock). OK, just remembered I need to take meds. See blogging is healthy in literal terms, not just mentally in manner of intangible punching bag.

About coverage earlier. A realization: physical manifestations of stuff better than theoretical stuff. Capitalism, for instance, was a proud, slightly maniacal red earlier, it was the sound of drums beating, and grunts and repetitive vows of Yes, I can and its variations, in between religious, semi-worship of brands. Space, to wit, is the fact that you can roll around in your bed three times over, the biting cold and possibility of (imperialist) ghosts haunting your hotel both optional.

Bonded with photographer, though the old coot drives like, well, an old coot. He covered Malacanang for several years for a broadsheet, four presidents, and when he found out that I was (only) 23, he said, nonchalantly and with absolutely no intention to be solicitous or polite, that I will go places. I don't think he meant SCTEX, because ten-wheelers were overtaking us the whole time.

• The past couple of weeks, around four people I know broke up with long-time boyfriends (more than 3 years), a trend that would typically elicit from me assignations of portentious heaviness courtesy of some unaligned planets, out-of-sync stars, or, this time, the tail end of a dying decade. 2009 had been harsh, had been because I like it to be over, the deaths and endings it has wrought, and maybe a little wrong tense can make it go a little faster.
  
• That being said, I was in a dark corner of Meat Shop in Katips a couple of weeks ago, trying to comfort a friend by reminding him of the nearing holidays, an occasion that would come regardless of our gloomy apprehensions and misgivings. Do I resent the holiday season more because I'm alone? Perhaps, but I remember cursing the hearts and Cupids of Valentines this year and I had a nice enough boyfriend then, so no finger-pointing on the loneliness.
  
• Alaysa has a rather harsh fight with the parents.
  Glenn: just give in a little.
  Glenn: compromise mads.
  Alaysa: okay, nasa fighting mode pa ako eh
  Glenn: mads. ano ba.
  Glenn: tanders na e
  Alaysa: eh hindi naman tama lahat ng sinasabi ng tanders
  Alaysa: kung aayusin, kelangan klaruhin ang maraming bagay
  Glenn: e yun na nga.
  Glenn: kung wala silang foresight for compromise, ikaw na lang ang magsimula.
  Glenn: mads, that's love, i think.
  Glenn: from the little that i know of it.
  Glenn: YUCK GLENN.
  Alaysa: HAHAHA. :))
  Glenn: sorry kadiri.
  
• Talking to the be-pierced ex from four years ago, one of the casualties of November, who is more concerned about not feeling anything about the breakup than the breakup itself. Keen to suggest this certain river in Egypt, but from what I know of him, awesome at rationalization and moving forward. Normally, he'd get a tattoo or new piercing but worried there's no room left for latter (except internal organs, but can be fatal).
  
  
  
  
  

Jesus in Yellow, Patricia Evangelista

You are not alone, they say, but who stands with you? Anne Curtis? Ate Shawie? Marielle Rodriguez? Just recently, Noynoy promised to give up his share of Hacienda Luisita, and yet denies knowing of eviction notices to farmers even while the case sits in the Supreme Court. Laza continues to march in rallies, five years after a bullet ripped a good man away. Nothing has changed, the same songs, the same names, the same injustices.