“Do you have Tony’s number?”
the fuck (push) moron do i look like i have marco’s number he didn’t give it me not that I even wanted it i don’t even have a funky cell like yours and if i did do i look like i’d tell you after all marco is my brother’s friend technically my friend first so why do yo(push)u want to call him bastard thief as if it wasn’t enough isn’t enough you have to have to
“No?”
damn right no as in fuck you never no no since you walked into the barkada from wherever the hell in the states you came from socal amboy dude you’ve taken everything away from me i was the funny guy before i was the one they wanted to be with i had her (p(push)ush) but no no you had to be taller better richer everything-er nice car nice accent nice clothes nice wallet nice shoes nice stubble nice nice nice nice and so they follow the man follow the man with his pockets full of the jam but you know you know it was me me me I was here first apart from everything what do you have that i
“Hey, Tanie! Up here!”
she looks up at us but doesn’t see me because my pale shadow is drowned by m (push)ichael’s halogen brilliance oh god poetry at a time like this shut up shut up beat poets let me oh but she smiles and my heart breaks again and again and again and she’s frozen for a moment framed by her birthday crowd like royalty among the unwashed masses and it makes her even more perfect more beautiful oh oh tanie but now i’m all alone again nowhere to go no one to turn to fucking epo(push)nine standing on the balcony with
“Michael!”
“Happy birthday! I have your gift Look who’s with me!”
once i held you in my hairless arms and we laughed together when i tried to lift you up and remember you said i should maybe go to the gym if i wanted but that you loved me just the way i was because of my mind because of my dreams because i made you laugh made (push) you feel more special than you already were and we talked until four in the morning on the front steps of your house and we said no o(push)ne would come bet(push)ween us two dreamers our house in the middle of the street I remember way back when when everything was beautiful
“What? No, no, I’ll come down!”
i’m up here too you know i’m not invisible remember me the guy who (push) once held you and told we shared something better than jean and scott’s psychic rapport on the blue area of the moon remember “jean!” “scott!” remember how we used to cry about the day either one of us might fall weak and blindly
“Hey, Joey? Shall we?”
then you ba(push)stard bamf into our lives with your amboy loo(push)ks and your dad’s harley and stupid jokes and supersmall cell and your own business to pay for gimmicks and outings and dinner and coffee and conversation flexi(push)ng your thick arms and stu(push)dly chest and showing off your cool tattoo from wherever an(push)d listening to music from bands you think i’ve never heard of but surprise I do know matisyahu and feist and liz phair I just don’t like them and it’s just stupid stu(push)pid senseless soun(push)ds she used to like my music otis redding aretha franklin jackson browne the older music the dee(push)per kind that says something ab(push)out like not your fucking
“Are you okay?”
you’d (push)probably text(push)that like r u k why the hell are you even asking me as if you cared you thief deceiver because it’s not her fa(push)ult it’s all your fault drowning her in stuff suffocating her un(push)til the only breath she could take was you (push)bastard she doesn’t love you doesn’t love ne(push)ver has never will never never ever never it’s me it’s it’s me it’s me me me she loves loved will love no(push)w and forever a(push)nd stay the hell away from me you musc(pus(push)h)lebound oaf you clod you moron you unthinking unfeeling pile of walking meat you don’t know me but you’ve always envied me jealous jealousy it’s one of the seven deadly sins yes it is so you take away everyth(push(push))ing everything and fine fine i let y(pu(push)sh)ou because you were cool at first or so I thought but what do I know maybe I’m stupid like you no no impossible my vocabulary alone can bury you you fucker then you turn ar(push)ound and take her you took her you took her you took her away from me from me and now (push)you have the gall (push) to ask me if i’m okay fuck you fuck you where the hell do you co(push)me from i said stay away don’t you touch me (push)it’s so easy to leave me all alone with the memory of my days in the sun shit stop(push) stop (push)stop it andrew lloyd webber not now now this as(push)shole thinks he’s better than me well you
“Joey? What’s wrong?”
can’t (push) me around like(push) i’m nothi(push)ng as if you were lor(push)d and king rolled into one you s(push)hit can’t believe i’m stan(push(push(push)))ding on the balc(push)ony with you bastard what are doing let m(push)e go just let me go don’t touch me stop stop what w(pus(pu(push)sh)h)hatwh(push)at stop let me go there go my glasses my glasses don’t step on them michael (push)don’tdon’t(push) (push) let me go just let me go ever(push)yone is looking(push) let(push) (push) me go you no (push)nononono no(push) no just stay away(push) get awa(push)y from me don’t to(push)uch me do(push)n’(push)t don’t d(push)o(push)n’t don’t(push) i thi(push) (pus(push)h) (pu(push)sh)nk i’ll just(pu(push)sh) think i’ll but i can’t(push) ca(p(pus(push)h(pu(push)sh))ush)n’t i want to I want to (push(push)) and i will and i will and i will okayokay(push)ok(push)ay ok(p(p(pu(push)sh)us(pu(push)sh)h)us(push)h)ay here we(push)go(p(push)ush)onetwo
three
MaMachine
11.25.46/PNPTD/BJE/workfiles/web/active/MaMachine.casefile
THE TEAM HAS managed to assemble the fragmented code from MaMachine’s captured Nuerabuk. Despite her best efforts to eliminate the data on her virtual drives, the suspected web anarchist was unable to completely eradicate the memory. We used the PNPTD’s latest Mabini Suite and extracted her last text, which she composed but was unable to upload to her websites, given the efficacy of our operation’s activity.
What follows are the fragments, in best-case postulated sequence, as well as my initial commentary on them as pertains to her destabilization and terrorist agenda. These are to be revised in a formal report, as per Division regulations.
Forget the past
Do you remember the first time she kissed you? Of course you do. It’s not something easily forgotten. How her lips touched yours, the expected softness, the unexpected harshness, the darting of her tongue. How your mind spun out of orbit into the infinity of her taste: risotto, white wine, cigarettes. And her tongue, her tongue, her tongue.
Don’t deny you liked it.
It’s all right, we all fall in love.
11.25.46/PNPTD/BJE/workfiles/web/active/MaMachine.casefile
INITIAL READING SUGGESTS that this entry was written specifically for the consumption of a certain individual, but closer analysis reveals that the subversive message targets the general cell of impressionable Filipino youth that access MaMachine’s banned website.
The tone and message of this entry continues the obvious propagation of MaMachine’s agenda: in particular, the subversion of the Department of Health’s “No Contact” Policy (DOH Act 17436.44), the Department of Trade and Industry’s Guidelines for Restricted Alcohol Importation (DTI Act 19442.68), and the Department of Civilian Defense’s Social Network Protocols (DCD Act 6209.37).
The secret apocalypse
When things end for you, they end very badly, wouldn’t you say? Not in a spectacular display of nova brilliance but rather in helpless sinking implosion, quiet as it is potent, silent as it is final. You never choose to show your pain because you think something so private should be kept hidden from everyone else’s eyes: your ex-lovers, your friends, your family, yourself.
Many times in history, people predicted the end of the world. It was greeted with a certain sense of desultory anticipation. Some people partied, some people sold all they had and covered themselves in ashes, some people stayed in bed waiting for the end. But the end never arrived.
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The lesson, I suppose, is that every apocalypse is personal. Choose your own adventure and helplessly pursue the inevitable ending.
Is it that way for you?
Do you think you can change it?
11.25.46/PNPTD/BJE/workfiles/web/active/MaMachine.casefile
THE SECOND ENTRY is more blatant in its construction of dissident schema.
In Paragraph One, MaMachine uses a thinly veiled metaphor for the state of affairs under ETS, criticizing the recent outcomes of the National Government’s continued negotiations with the Islamic State of Mindanao.
In Paragraphs Two and Three, MaMachine postulates a diffused “End of the World” scenario, wherein the National Government retains its solid mandate at the perceived cost of continued unhappiness of the general populace, which is, of course, absurd. The allusions to history are far-fetched. Any government-educated citizen knows that our nation suffered through the centuries of successive rule by foreign powers (Spain, the United States of America, Japan, and the Malay Union) interspersed with periods of false liberty and popular rule. We live in the best period of Philippine history, with a government selected from the best and most qualified citizenry.
Only the deluded will think to answer the questions that end this entry, which are clearly calls to action. Why do some continue to insist that change is a good thing?
That’s how love goes
Let me guess how it goes. After all, all love stories have been told, so it isn’t something new, is it? Girl meets boy. Girl falls for boy. Some sex or tenderness or whatever. Someone gets dumped.
It’s a story, I grant you. It has every hallmark: beginning, middle, end. The question is, is it a good story? Was the audience prepared for the ending? Was the principle of rising action observed? Was there enough verisimilitude? Is there closure?
You know the answers. They’re the same for almost everyone like you.
So by now you should know this is nothing personal.
11.25.46/PNPTD/BJE/workfiles/web/active/MaMachine.casefile
PERHAPS THE MOST disturbing aspect of this entry is the misguided attempt to analogize our nation’s immediate history and current state of affairs with personal tragedy — or worse, in this case, a crude webnovela.
For one thing, every citizen knows that the master outline for the next 20 years has been disseminated to the public (Republic Act 88325.15) via the multiple networks of the government (Nutopia All-Access) and the semi-private sector (SM/San Miguel, IonicsPhil/BancZed, and Tan Consolidated Inc., to name a few). There is no one, from elementary school level and above, who is unaware of the government’s plan for nation building. Likewise, there is no question as to the efficacy of the various programs instated, all effects of which are a matter of public record for those with proper clearances.
The use of archaic storytelling terminology is an obvious ploy at obfuscation, an ironic attempt to cover up the truth — which is that we live in a society of “happy endings”, for all those who abide by the government’s programs.
As for the use of the term “personal”, this is a direct attempt at the previous century’s failed “cult of the individual”. There is no need to remind anyone that during the dark days of the past social experiments it was proven beyond question that a society advances forward only if the people act as a whole.
Our nation is not “personal”. It is collective, with both government and citizenry working towards clear and articulated goals.
Don Quixote knew his stuff
To reach for the stars is a good thing. To hope against hope is better. To achieve the utterly fantastic — well, that’s what the human spirit is all about, isn’t it?
Sure it is. I know you agree. Nod if you agree.
11.25.46/PNPTD/BJE/workfiles/web/active/MaMachine.casefile
THIS SHORT ENTRY is perhaps the only instance in this text wherein there is no direct insurgent tone.
The issue here is one of tone, as MaMachine continues to willfully break the accepted style of formal communications by addressing the reader as an individual. Similar to the observations on the previous entry, there is danger of misinforming the general reader.
All important decisions have been made on the nation’s behalf by the government, in adherence to the various programs and their goals. Also, the government retains the ability to make ad hoc decisions when circumstances require them. That is what the government under ETS is for, after all.
Resource checks also determined the irrelevance of the literary allusion (Don Quixote, an Old Millennium fictionalized account of a madman).
My first love
We were both seven years old.
We played at each other’s houses, alternating days: Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays were at my place. We cut paper and raced cars. We built parapets and made them tumble.
Puppy love, what can I say?
11.25.46/PNPTD/BJE/workfiles/web/active/MaMachine.casefile
WHILE MAMACHINE WAS able to elude capture, we have profiled the suspect based on textual analysis of her webposts and ifeeds similar to the extraneous entry above.
1. MaMachine is female. As proven by records of the Department of Social Welfare’s “Oplan: Panaginip” (DSW Act 2212.75), Filipino women are more likely to concoct fantastic scenarios during REM state sleep. This is accepted as conventional wisdom and clearly explains the failures of the nation’s previous (and censured) leaders of the female gender (Aquino, Arroyo, Sy, and Ledesma). MaMachine’s propensity towards use of “romance” as metaphors is likewise indicative of her gender, along with her choice of avatar nomenclature (MaMa).
2. MaMachine is educated. While every Filipino is able to utilize the most basic of social network communications, only the selectively educated are able to compose discrete blocks of text for purposes other than the most banal. While the fact that MaMachine undoubtedly benefited from our educational system is unacceptable, it is still a testament to the efficacy of our methods of instruction.
3. MaMachine belongs to the upper tier AB socio-economic class. The complexity of MaMachine’s hard setup, captured during my department’s operations, indicates a capacity to funnel funding outside of any regular citizen’s acceptable expenditure levels.
4. MaMachine is obsessed with history. This is obvious in her choice of words and syntax, as well as her allusions to the past. All of this “looking backwards” is dangerous to a society that can only (and should only) look forward.
The story of the perfect garden
There once was an emperor who could not abide imperfection. He summoned the wisest men in his domains and commanded them to build him a garden and to fill it with only the most perfect examples of things. This they did, determining a patch of earth of the perfect size and surrounding it with walls perfectly crafted. Then they set out and about and beyond the empire, seeking and taking things that were perfect. This they did for seven years while the emperor fretted as he walked the empty garden.
Soon they began to return and presented wonders for the emperor to marvel at, approve and set within the perfect garden. Things he approved: a clockwork wisteria that bloomed at the third hours of day and night, a great tiger with emerald eyes and catercorner stripes, a statue of a gilded horse that allowed no rain to touch it, and a ceramic jar that foretold earthquakes, eclipses, and tidal waves. Things he disallowed: a song that grew in the singing, a bird with a tail colored with six rainbow hues, a book that never told the same story twice, and a handful of pearls that were proof against poison.
In the years that followed, both the contents of the perfect garden and the warehouse of unwanted things grew until both were filled to the point of bursting. It became impossible to even enter the garden, much less walk in it. Famine and plague and all sorts of tragedies struck (the war
nings of the miraculous jar went unheard, smothered by the weight of many other perfect things above it) and the people grew to be unhappy with their emperor.
Because he was feared no one dared to act, even if his attention was focused only on perfection.
One day, he died.
The imperial chamberlain, his most devoted aide, had the emperor’s body washed with the most perfect liquids, anointed with the most perfect perfumes, and covered in the most perfect silks, all taken from the towering heights of the piles in the perfect garden. He commissioned an orchestra to play the most perfect dirge on the most perfect set of instruments known to man, each one plucked from its place from the wonderful garden.
Then he had the perfect corpse thrown into the warehouse of useless things, which was then set to flames, along with its perfect neighbor, the perfect garden.
11.25.46/PNPTD/BJE/workfiles/web/active/MaMachine.casefile
APART FROM THE fact that MaMachine’s strategy shifted (which just displays her desperate need to retain her readers’ attention), there is absolutely nothing surprising about the entry above — a blatant allegory. This was confirmed after my department’s consultation with Director Inocencio Marasigan IV of the Center for Un-Filipino Activities of the National Library (Luzon 2), who also observed that “the use of non-Filipino metaphors exposes the author’s lack of nationalism.”
Repeated readings of the entry above never fail to elicit a profound sense of outrage. What sort of citizen questions society so viciously? What did MaMachine experience to so twist her mentality? Why does she waste time with such nonsense? Why does she want change?
The Kite of Stars and Other Stories Page 13
