conflictcrafter / tlr

all is superposition

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nyek

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one of the hardest things ive been trying to learn in my life is to love and not express. loving is hurting 50% of the time but no matter how much i restrain myself and keep the expression of my pain to myself, i somehow spill a bit over. the thing about being with someone is that we feel our emotions matter the most so the other's feelings dont count. and when the other expresses just a little bit, that person becomes the cause of our misery. so this is what ive been trying to learn: to just offer whatever i can and just shut up because i dont know . . . people like it when i give and would start resenting me if i even remind them that im a person too. with feelings and shit. hehe but whatever.

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all the same. youre all the same

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bit.ly/sufferwithus

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yiieee

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hi kras

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pit sarimanok

after all your complaints, we now reach the possible conclusion of the performance's meaning (and our consequent cultural forgetting of the thing). using the general transactional model of communication which emphasizes the role of feedback as simultaneous and indelible asset in meaning-making, and leaning on to Barthes' concept of mythology, i now posit that the text lies beyond the performance but in the fiasco.

much of the people on the internet call the performance out for misrepresenting the ethnolinguistic group. and a couple of days after the it was originally performed, the institution behind it publicly apologized through writing.

if the internet intellectuals had not called the performance and the choreographer/s out (the writer), it would have appeared that they agreed on the myth that the performance (the text) was re-presenting. but the opposite happened. many maranao muslims and outside of that culture alike judged the myth as wrong. and so, the simultaneous feedback (as the text was shown live, and still is alive as a meme) has been to correct it. the institution behind the performance, as it cannot be re-performed, admitted the error, and thus, re-establishing the myth that they unwittingly trampled.

viewing the whole thing under the lens of the transactional model of communication and Barthes' concept of myth, it appears that the interlocutor 1 (the writer), being the choreographer and later the institution, spoke of an erroneous myth through that performance (the text). simultaneously, as the interlocutor 2 (the reader) receives the erroneous myth, they correct it. i rather argue that it was simultaneous due to the rapid exchange of info through the internet. it would appear at this level that the text is the performance. but viewing where the myth lies (pun could be intended), and finally re-established, it appears that the real text is the fiasco.

the myth that is agreed by both writer and reader on the first level is this: that maranao muslims do not uphold the Sto Niño.

the second level myth, which is re-asserted in the fiasco is this: that maranao muslims are the subaltern in the mainstream filipino identity and that they should be defended from erroneous cultural appropriations. (i assert this paradigmatically since if Christian imagery is wrongfully appropriated, the Christians, by mere reacting, become the pathetic antagonist of the narrative instead of the wrongful appropriator.)

moreover, the second level myth is expressed though the reaction by the culturally guilty bourgeoisie hegemons who are eager to be an 'amicus' to the subaltern by showing that they, too, are offended.

and finally, the third level myth is that the maranao muslims are rather a cultural force to reckon with despite being considered a minority. thus, tread carefully when dealing with them. again, i say this rather paradigmatically since if this same incident is imagined with other cultural minorities, that performance would not gain so much negative reaction. say, the 'victimized' culture is the obo manobo, or the sama dilaut, or the badjaos, it would not have come to this. during kadayawan, for instance, free interpretation of cultural images borderline to parody and yet this kind of reaction has not been observed.

i do not dismiss the performance as text since all is text. rather, i point out that the myth-making (or myth-re-establishing) occurred in the fiasco rather than in the performance. thus, supporting the notion that the reader is part and parcel of meaning-making rather than solely present and given by the writer. in this case, the reader, as they react, become the poet. and those who react on that poiesis are also poets, furthering the hyperreal. all but contribute to the reaffirmation of agreed and sublated myths one way or another. these myths in turn form the building blocks, though in flux, of the national identity that is us, whether we like it or not.

and like all other historical realities in this part of the country, we are all going to forget about this. that was enough amicus.

[conflictcrafter]

this is—

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bit.ly/MsJMCFI2023_JANE music | River Clouds by @kulintronica feat waway saway @ey3bagx-blog 

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why do you set yourself up for a heartbreak, frank lloyd

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let’s not set ourselves up for a heartbreak, frank lloyd

[conflictcrafter]

thirty-o(ugh)ne

Ive been pondering about direction. Ive confided to some friends recently that I kind of envy people who make “paningkamot” in life. How do we translate that? Those who “buckle down” in life, or those who “take the bull by the horns.” Like what I said, I envy those people because they seem to have something going in their lives. They seem to have a goal, and thus, a direction. I don’t envy them for their direction though, but for their determination or grit. I don’t have that. Or rather, I have not cultivated that drive. I grew up knowing that I’m brilliant. I was not a consistent honor student, nor the achiever type. But I’ve convinced myself enough that cheetahs don’t race against rats. I knew I was naturally more creative, innovative, and outstanding compared to my peers. My brighter peers were just studious. It was enough for them to earn a place. And so, they did stuff in order to earn a place. At least that was how I saw it. A few friends dared question the system and for me, it was these friends who are truly intelligent. I identify with the later. I did not really strive on something. Was talented enough to just get by. Reached a certain level of competence that nobody could tell me where I should have improved. My teacher-coaches never really coached me, and so I thought I was doing fine. They used to just call me when contest dates were near. Thus, I was never “trained” or anything like that. But I learned enough from my many exposures that I developed on my own and questioned existing contest structures. To be fair though, I knew deep down that I wasn’t really that good but from where I spent my formative years, I was the best pick for outside-school events. I looked at myself as someone who is not academically competent, but I knew I was a force in aspects of creativity. This I did not study or force. This comes naturally to me. And perhaps I’ve developed a cognitive behavior to easily adapt and think about concepts and all that. I formed a consciousness in creativity, and this might be argued as studying and perhaps I did. But nobody told me or coached me or trained me to arrive to this consciousness. I know I cannot attribute everything to myself. I am not. But I never experienced any formal training on the matter, is what I am saying. And so, there was actually no opportunity for me to make “paningkamot” on anything. We are also not poor. We are not that comfortable though. There’s a level of comfort, yes. But we still cooked by coal for at least ten years. We budgeted our meals, and I never confided to my parents my ambition of becoming a filmmaker because I knew they could not have sent me to Cebu, where the nearest film school from Davao was located at that time. Point is, we were getting by but we were not entirely poor. This afforded me no full scholarships. And so, I was never really down or up. I was (and is) at the middle. And being at the middle has its own downside as I have little to lose and little to gain. Nothing matters. I graduated cum laude in college, and this made me a little sad because I did not give my all in studying. This was my natural. I am excellent by default. I even wasted my time building romantic relationships, disturbing my academic progress. And yet, I graduated cum laude. When I applied for a teaching job, three out of three schools I applied to called me back. (Chose the nearest to home.) When I applied for a teaching post in DepED, I prepared my lesson plan and instructional materials the night before my demo teaching. Was still ranked second of all District 2 applicants for English at the time (the one who secured the first rank was at least ten years older than me and had a master’s degree). And may I add, when I took the LET, I slept. The proctor had to wake me up because I was snoring. My life is not a story of strife and struggle. I am simply brilliant. And so, I did not strive for excellence. It was my second nature. And if at times I failed, I failed not because I suck but because I hadn’t had enough time—because I always procrastinated. And I always do because I knew I could just wing it was. I also chose my battles. When you’d ask me to do maths, of course, I’d steer clear of that battle. It’s yours, man. In other words, I could easily accept facts I have no control. Speaking of acceptance, I’ve developed some kind of an acceptance acquisition device which enables me to feel anything from the spectrum of plain acceptance to complete apathy on matters in question. I am very sentimental that I tend to hoard things for such value but for the most mundane reasons, I could easily get rid of things. Right now, I could throw anything I posses except my books, my camera, and my laptop. One time, I tore the only drawing my mother liked of all my drawings in my lifetime. I have thrown relationships that I cultivated for years. I took the saying “people come and go” by heart to the point that when I lose someone, either by death or by entropy, I could only say “well,” and move on. Not to sound emotional but truly, I’ve been through worse than being worries about relationships reading their ends. Right now, I could only think of two persons who might have a real impact when they ever decide to cut ties. Point is, I do not care, man. I do not feel. When my mother died, I wasn’t sure what to feel. Or if I felt anything. Of course, I cried. But what, twice? thrice? —and long after she was buried. During the wake, it felt like I was just running errands. But to be fair, maybe this is really how everyone who loses a parent feels. I’m digressing but what I’m trying to say is that I am being entropic, softly isolating, slowly sliding further away until detachment becomes a non-issue. I honestly do not know if everyone feels anything similar or if this is maximized by the pandemic. But with these are the things that I see that somehow affected by ponderings on direction. I will turn 31 in two months. What the fuck is this age? My consciousness is still closer to being childish than to being adultish. I’ve no adult tendencies like preparing things for tomorrow or anything to that effect, except when it comes to, say, arts. Even that, still, I could forego if I would ever feel lazy at a whim. There are a lot of factors that contribute to this shit that I feel right now and am still inclined to think about them although writing them down in this post is starting to disinterest me. and thus I could just leave this post unfinished.

[conflictcrafter]

Ang Oten ni Warlito (o Ang Baba ni Lesley)

Padulong na unta ihungit ni Lesley ang oten ni Warlito apan hapit kini maka-ambak sa dihang nitusok sa iyang dila ang nanglabaw nga buhok nga nanggawas sa mata-mata sa oten sa lalake.

“Ay sorry—” nagdahom na si Warlito nga mahitabo ning eksenaha. “Wala nako giingon kay basin lud-on kas koa ba.”

Nagdali-dali og tindog si Lesley aron pasilab-an ang suga. Ug tua ning pasundayag ang maong gabarog nga oten nga dunay nanglabawng mga tul-id nga buhok sa gawasanan og ihi. Wa kasabot si Lesley kung mangluwa ba siya o mangatol.

“Let me explain.” Kalit nga hangyo ni Warlito.

“Mao diay di ka pasuot og condom!”

“Ah, I think so.”

“Makabalo man gihapon ko eventually!”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

Hinay-hinayng ninaog ang kamot ni Lesley gikan sa switch ug kalit siyang nakabati og kakapoy maong nakalingkod intawon siya sa lingkoranan atubangan sa samin sa hotel. Nangrolyo iyang bilbil sa dihang ningbako siya, nakita ni ni Warlito sa repleksyon sa samin.

“Babe, are you oka—”

“Ayawg duol.” Pugong sa babaye samtang nakasipyat og tan-aw sa dili-kasagarang oten, nga amat-amat na pong gakaluya. “Fucking weirdo.”

Kalit nga nitindog si Lesley ug namunit sa iyang panty, bra, pantalon, ug blouse. Tabangan unta siyang Warlito pero iwakli niya ang kamot sa ulahi kay basin duna say mga ka-wirdohan iyang mga kamot nga wa pa niya mahibaloi. “Ayaw nag hilabti akong gamit, ha!” bahad niyang Warlito una nisulod sa banyo.

Ninglabay ang taas nga kahilom tali kanila pwera sa mga pagpamundak ni Lesley sa banyo. Ang maong paka-paka daw murag mga dunggab sa kasingkasing ni Warlito—nga niabot pag Davao aron lang bisitahon (o iyoton) ang babaye. Dugay na silang ga-chat-chat ug naka-desisyon ang duha nga magkita sa Davao aron himuong kamatuoran ilang mga pantasya.

Nagsaad na daan si Warlito nga wirdo gyod siya unya duna siyay mga makalilisang nga “features” apan wa kini panumbalingi ni Lesley kay kuno ganahan siyag “adventure.”

“Abi ba nako ganahan kag adventure.”

Giablehan ni Lesley ang portahan sa banyo, gipalong ang suga sa ilang room ug gipabiling siga ang suga sa banyo.

Ug tua nigunting ang hulma sa mga dayag nga korbada ni Lesley labaw na sa iyang hawak, bat-ang, ug paa. Naghinay-hinay kinig igwad ug liso-liso sa iyang hawak ug lubot nga murag lusay nga gilabyog-labyog sa magaan nga balod.

Naghinay-hinay kinig duol ni Warlito, ug sa maong rasona, nibalik og burot iyang oten (nga murag wire nga gipanitan sa PVC insulation unya murag fountain nga namulak ang copper core).

Napahangad si Warlito sa langit sa dihang nihapyod na ang hamis ug humok nga kamot ni Lesley sa iyang batiis padulong sa iyang bugan. Nangandam na siya sa posibleng bugnaw ug basa-basa nga sensasyon nga mudapat sa naglukot-lukot nga panit ilawm sa iyang olok. Abi niyag gilud-an si Lesley niya. Warm-up ra diay tong iyang sapot-sapot. O dili kaha opening salvo, o pinasahing role-play.

Nabati na niya ang kuko ni Lesley nga ningsubay sa iyang itlog pasaka sa bunal. Sabay sad niini ang init-init nga ginahawa sa babaye nga ningputos sa kinatibuk-ang kinatawo ni Warlito.

Wa niya damhang nikuha diay ang babaye og puller ug gipaak sa nanglabaw niyang tul-id nga bolbol.

Nabati ni Warlito ang kalit nga tensyon sa ubos maong kalit sad kining niduko.

“Lihok ron. Ibot gyod ni.” Bahad ni Lesley samtang ginabira-bira ang puller.

“Yawa!”

“Unsay yawa? Ingna, ‘Balay ni Libay libat. Balay ni Libay libat. Balay ni Libay libat.’”

“Ha?!”

Gisakag maayo ni Lesley kutob sa kinutoban ang puller, “Sulti!”

“—Balay—ni—Libay libat. Balay ni—Libay libat. Balay ni Libay—”

“—Bilat.”

“Bilat?”

“Wrong!” Ug gihugtan ni Lesley ang ipit sa puller, gitukod og maayo iyang kamot sa batiis sa lalake, ug tibuok kusog nga gilabnot ang maong mga bolbol ni Warlito nga nanggamot sa iyang urethra. Naglagsik ang nagsagol nga dugo og tos sa ilang mga dagway.

Nagkisikising nagpanipa si Warlito palayo kang Lesley. Nibarog siya dayon sa ibabaw sa kama ug samot niyang nalabsikan si Lesley nga padayon ra sa pag-ipit sa bolbol nga murag nakaibot og inahan nga sagbot.

“Buang na man siguro ka!” Siyagit ni Warlito samtang nagsaka-kanaog sa kama.

Wa nila damhang dunayng kalit nga nisipa sa purtahan sa ilang hotel room. “Kana,sir! Mao na siya!” Mando sa babayeng bag-ong abot sa mga kuyog niyang mga pulis nga ningpalos sulod sa maong lawaka.

“Ay mog lihok og di mao kay ug dili, pamarilon ta mo!” Bahad sa pulis.

“Naa ra diay ka diri, yawaa ka! Tan-awa imong gibuhat sa akong mga kuko!” Gipakita sa babayeng bag-ong abot iyang mga kamot nga napunog kuko nga nagsapaw-sapaw og tubo sa tanang suok—way gibilin puyra na lang sa pulsohan paubos sa bukton. “Naa ba diay manicure ingon ani?!”

“Mam,” tubag ni Lesley, “When you take care of something, it grows.”

“Mam!” Sabat sa pulis, “Sa presinto ka na magpaliwanag.”

“Dili ko!” Kalit nga tubag ni Lesley ug gisigahan og mata ang pulis. Nigawas ang baga ug nagsilaob nga suga sa iyang mga mata ug hilabihang nasulaw ang pulis ug nalanay.

“Ah binuang man ning istoryaha ni,” komento sa usa ka journalist nga nagpahipi lang sa kilid nga nag-cover sa maong raid. Gihipos niya iyang recorder ug gihulbot gikan sa iyang bag ang chessboard. “Ikaw, part,” tawag niya kang Warlito. “Kamao ka mag-chess?”

“Apilon pa tikag kaon.”

“Ah yatia sa buang oy.” Tubag sa journalist.

Nanglikod silang duha sa kama ug nag-chess pero ang piyesa nga ginagunitan sa journalist kay ang oten ni Warlito nga nagkadugo. “Pang-pawn man ning imong oten, bai.”

“Kumpyansaha sa buang oy!” Sabat ni Warlito. Ug kay nabaraw man siya sa journalist, gikalit niyag lihok ang oten sa journalist apan gibalik ra pod niya kay nasipyat siyang move.

—“Oy! Touch-move!”

“Ay mao. Sorry.” Gi-touch ni Warlito balik ang oten sa journalist ug gi-move. Ug gi-touch na pod ug gi-move. Ug gi-touch na pod ug gi-move . . .

Magawsan na ang journalist sa mga touch-move ni Warlito maong nitindog kinig kalit ug gipasalo sa babayeng nabalot og kuko ang kamot. Gilolo niya iyang oten ug nipugsit iyang tos sa kamot nga puros kuko. Nipailawm ang baga nga tos sa mga suok-suok sa mga kuko nga mura nag cinnamon bread nga drenched sa nuts ug cream.

Nikalit lang og flash ang polariod cam ni Warlito nga namicture na diay sa kamot nga kuko nga napunog tos. Dayon nikuha nig gunting ug gihalokan sa ngaibil ang babayeng napunog kuko ang kamot. Sa dihang nigawas na ang dila sa babaye tungod sa kalami, gisigurog gunting ni Warlito iyang dila.

Gidala ni Warlito ang pinutol nga dila pagawas sa corridor sa hotel. Nagpanon sa iyang likod ang journalist, ang babayeng kuko ang kamot nga naputlan na sag dila, ug si Lesley. Nikalit silag dagan ug niambak sa tumoy.

Nangahulog sila gikan sa 7th floor sa hotel ug nangabuak ang mga ulo sa pool area sa ubos.

Gitapok-an sila sa mga tawo ug ang tanan sabay-sabay nga nipahid og punit og dugo nga nagtibugol ug gisuyop ilang mga tudlo nga murag strawberry lollipop.

“Babe?”

“Fuck, babe.”

“Okay ra ka?” Concern ni Lesley.

“Babe,” tubag ni Warlito nga bagohay ra nakabalik. "Out of this world.”

[conflictcrafter]

frank lloyd the emergency man

[conflictcrafter]

papa