Great White Time

I was telling this person some months ago how somebody like
me could become a blackhole.

 

ME: Is it possible for a human being to become a blackhole?

FRIEND: Quite possible. Happens all the time.

ME: No, what I mean is, to be BORED, really BORED,
paint-drying-on-a-wall bored, Eddie-Murphy-screws-his-wife bored.

FRIEND: Watch porn. I watch porn when I’m bored.

ME: I also watch porn. But I’m bored with it.

FRIEND: Maybe you’re just in some fucking existential limbo.

 

That’s not the first time somebody told me I’m in limbo. I
only have a vague idea why. People think I’m in limbo because (a) I’ve been
single for the past two years; (b) I’ve been showing signs of erratic behavior,
like saying the best way to fatten up chickens is feeding them with KFC or
exactly the same thing my brother eats; (c) Because I still think The Vagina Monologues is one very sad,
unwatchable piece of porn.

 

It’s annoying when people have opinion like that. Because if
there’s anything we know in this silly world, it’s that people’s opinion is
always entirely wrong, but it hits you just the same. It’s like getting hit
with rabbit dung and telling yourself, there, it’s just rabbit dung. Rabbits
eat nothing but grass and they’re cute, little furry things that stand for everything
that’s nice and never bite back, so their crap must be so squeaky clean you can
lick it. But you see it’s still dung and you don’t want to even touch it.

 

I’ve grown jaded to all these crazy everyday things that
I’ve learned to selectively do the things that matter. And in my world, the
things that matter are words. Words and why it’s not always possible to find
the best of them. Here I am, trying to perfect and polish sentence after
sentence after sentence of something I’ll subsequently dislike. It’s like crap.
Like eating something good that the gods would eat, and you take a dump and it
just smells shit, like the rest of them. You tell people, this is it, the shit,
THE SHIT, you hear me? It’s going to blow away their minds. But you sit down
and look at what you’ve cobbled together so far, you see the gaping void in all
the right places, and it just makes you cry. Somehow, you’ve missed it again.
Because now there are holes where there were none before. Somehow, you’ve
managed to prove, by some stroke of luck, that you’re a darned idiot.

 

Because there are only two types of writers, as there are
two types of people: those who arrogantly believe that they know THE ANSWER TO
THE QUESTION, and those who are aware they have NO FUCKING CLUE about THE ANSWER
TO THE QUESTION, but are arrogant just the same. I tend to believe I’m more of
the latter type. Mostly the arrogance is buffed up by sheer jadedness. You have
nothing to say? Just bitch; it doesn’t matter. People listen, make choices,
decide—not because they’ve thought through it, but because they want to move on and
keep on running. People are just kids running around in circles, and they have
attention spans as brief as their lives. So they hurry and do as many stuff
they can possibly cram in a little lifetime, so they can die happy.

 

If life is completely bullshit-free, everyone would begin saying
they are walking blackholes, that they are Just-Getting-By people, that the
glass is not only half-empty, it’s also poisoned. We’ve created, whipped,
baked, served ourselves the daily golden platter of shining bullshit because
it’s exactly what we need—to NOT see that indifference and pointlessness are not
metaphors but bleeding truths of the universe. But then, how many people would
have the heart to be honest and have the strength to endure life without all
the entertainment?

 

What I’m trying to get at is this: I’m a blackhole. I’m what
Radioactive Sago Project would call a “bad motherfucker.” But I also happen to
be a writer, an indefatigueable bearer of bullshit. On the other hand, what
ordinary people need to avoid not becoming a blackhole like myself and remain
ordinary is a constant supply of crap, so that they can all continue dancing
and singing.

 

Can you see the irony? The world is full of bullshit. People
become blackholes because they’ve rid themselves of bullshit in their personal
lives. But in the process, they become writers, creators of all the bullshit
that coats this planet in the first place. Some of us make the sacrifice to
become blackholes in order to keep up the illusion of everyone else. Isn’t it a
beautiful, awe-inspiring vicious cycle?

 

I guess the reason why people like myself end up writing is exactly
the reason why bacteria divide and propagate. Because we want to see mirrors of
ourselves infecting the world. When you get down to it, it’s all about the
desperation to have people mention—not spit out—your name. Like making back-ups
of your own thoughts and implanting them in all those around you so that when
you lose your own, you can get it from others.

 

But only if it were that easy. I like getting the things I
want and desire for, but it’s not easy to dodge the subsequent low point. I
like people loving me, but it feels heavy and the love [and hate, for that
matter] is inexplicably frightening. Whenever I say I’m a walking blackhole, or
a ready-made, do-it-yourself quantum crap kit, it’s never easy to meet the
inevitable cascade of follow-up questions.

 

Such as:

 

1. Why don’t you take things seriously?

2. Why don’t you believe in God?

3. Why don’t you have a regular, office job, like everyone
else in the

Philippines

?

4. Why haven’t you come up with a decent novel?

5. What the hell is that blog about?

6. Why is this soup so salty?

7. Did you just fart?

 

Which I try to sincerely answer, respectively, with:

 

1. "Seriosity" is a suicide pill.

2. Belief in God entails a very demanding lifestyle, which I’ve
gladly ditched.

3. The Office is the One Singular Cause of the Downfall of Man,
and it’s a factory of slime-covered chickens who may resemble humans but
aren’t.

4. Because a novel is so much longer than my patience. But
I’m getting there.

5. It’s therapy.

6. I have no goddamn idea.

7. If you didn’t hear it, did it really happen?

 

In the end, all everyone wants is to ask themselves, in their
heart of hearts, and I’m paraphrasing the late great Amelita Malig here, the
question: What do you really want?

 

And to answer it with: To wake up enthused. To be happy.

 

Without flinching and ducking and pretending it doesn’t
matter. Because it fucking does. Watch Little
Miss Sunshine and you’ll see.

 

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