Yum yum yum festering wound


Festering, festering wound. Right there in our liver drowned in all the excess of pain killers we took. Right there in our lungs drowned in all the excess of cigarettes we took, malevolent and magical, like the sorcerer’s manner of denying the disparate, turning handkerchief to dove, dove to handkerchief. Right there in our heart drowned in all the excess of love we took, malevolent and magical, like the sorcerer’s manner of denying the disparate, bringing the enlightened ones closer to the ‘masses,’ bringing the chauvinistic lover closer to the damsel-in-distress, bringing my reticence closer to your reticence.


The fragility of body and skin. A split-second carelessness turning into a swabbing of suture. Suddenly, the future is sutured. You count your remaining blood and you feel ashamed that they are greater than the number of loves you have lost and then you think that perhaps you are fortunate. You count the stitches that wound your wound further and I think that I can lose a finger but not your hands on my hands.


The hospital is not for the faint-hearted. The faint-hearted can survive Insidious 1 and 2 and Conjuring and the Saw series but not the hospital. The hospital is real and close. The blood and the fragility are real and close. There is no ending, no cuts. All cuts cut right through the wounds of the wound; in the end: festering.


Being in the ‘trauma room,’ undergoing a minor, no-life-and-death operation gives an excuse to fantasize at full strength. I was lying there, with two ‘surgeons’ attending to my almost-festering wound, and there were needles and gauze and a billion bottles of blood. There was little pain. There was the ceiling too, white, well-lit, not like the world of Hemingway. In the ceiling were my fantastic imaginings while my right, pointing finger is being nursed with its wound in reality. In the ceiling were beer and the Palanca and a book launch where everyone will drink and throw up after, very slovenly and very indecorously. In the ceiling were a PhD soaked in blood and a nice veranda overlooking the trees of the province; in the ceiling were all of my bourgeois dreams and my bourgeois honesties. It feels good to get stitches and to see blood. The ceiling looks good.


I needed a surgery, and not photoshop.

I needed blood, and not fancy beauties in my luxurious lunches and winsome wines.

I needed wounds, and not a picture in front of Bohol or Kuala Lumpur.

I needed the truth of fragility, not the falsity of truth.

I needed to be slapped with my body’s flimsiness, not to be slapped with the potential of heroism.

I needed to be humbled, not to be dishonestly elated.

I needed blood and blood and wounds, and not the immaculateness of the world.

I needed a festering wound, gnawing the fiber of my self-stability.

The festering wound tastes and looks delicious.

Yum yum yum yum yum, festering wound.

Yum yum yum yum yum, festering wound.




On the last day of classes, the anomaly in “vivid memories” and Baudelaire saying, “Get drunk”

On the last day of classes, there were beautiful things. In my 9am class, Sir said, Don’t write poetry that lacks sincerity. In my 2pm class, Sir refused to give us an extension for a paper initially set to be due on Wednesday. In my 5pm class, a more composed presentation, and then some picture-taking. This is how October gets a thick spread of vegetable and tuna, which is to say: a healthy bread against the perenniallity of starvation. Here, I will try to be sincere in writing.


At 9am, we were curious about the usefulness of theory. How inseparate is the academy from its society, even though the academy won’t even own this society sometimes. For instance:

Academy (wearing fancy clothes, driving fancy cars, clutching eighty-eight books (now Ipads and tablets for many, pretending to be avaricious, or for others, really minding their tasks as ‘technicians,’ to borrow R’s word): “I have my own world. I AM a world in itself. What society, what poverty, what social injustice you’re talking about?”

Today, in between preparing the outline for that paper-due-Wednesday, concerning Lakambini Sitoy and her fiction, I remember Walter Benjamin and Fredric Jameson and even Terry Eagleton, and all those people the jeepney drivers won’t even have a care (following a consensus in yesterday’s 9am class) and then I also remember a tacit consensus (the usually half-participative class was its normal self yesterday) in the 2pm class: scholars/academics just repeat each other, contributing not much new stuff to our body of ‘knowledge.’

I will refuse to cluster Benjamin and Jameson and Eagleton together, under a group of ‘scholars’ who fervently accentuates the significance of getting at/getting back to the root of things (I remember here the “radix” word again, a lot of times mentioned in the 9am and the 2pm classes), seriously getting back to the past and salvaging it for arranging, for making sense of the present, and the future.

To Benjamin: “that is why we don’t believe in derivations and sources, we never remember what has befallen us” (The Metaphysics of Youth, in Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings Volume 1, page 12).

To Jameson: “…the retrospective dimension indispensable to any vital reorientation of our collective future – has meanwhile itself become a vast collection of images…” (In Postmodernism, or, the cultural logic of Late Capitalism, page 66).

To Eagleton: the “absence of memories of collective and effective, political action” (In After Theory, page 7)

This, I read, is neither the operation of a collective unconscious nor whatever of that sort: Benjamin wrote that in the early 20th century; Jameson in the 80s most probably, and Eagleton just two, three years ago. This I think with more certitude is the operation of a collective experience, and a similar manner of making sense of that experience.

So maybe not all theory is highfalutin after all, highfalutin and eventually doubtable because of their seeming lack of ‘immediate usefulness,’ another phrase from yesterday’s 9am class. We can forget Derrida, sure, especially when frantically asking ourselves how do we find money to be able to enroll for the next semester; or we can dispose of Lacan and his Imaginary-Symbolic-Real triad (despite the bright interests it can spur) especially when what is realest to us are the rising prices of sweet potatoes and our long-coveted book or that dress in the mall we don’t have enough money to buy. But some theory hovers above the ground not just because they are ‘esoteric,’ but because they manifest the potential of zooming out, getting above the immediate, seemingly disordered and unrelated phenomena, and render them more comprehensible, more sensible, however ironic that is. After all, it is ironies that define our being here in the world (my favorite: think of billionaire Henry Sy and his thousands of eight-hours-a-day employees).


I remember Bazin yesterday, when the 5pm class finally lapsed to its end and there were merry moments of picture-taking. Photographs capture memories, freeze events in time, so that memories will have a more tangible form, and not just something that exists in the mind. This is why I think there is something anomalous, something perverted with the term “vivid memories.” For I think memories are by default dead, memories are not vivid; the only things vivid are the things that are concrete and in-here, in-our-time, right now. I guess to say ‘vivid memories’ is to confer to memories an illusionary kind of power, of charm, an antidote against its default deadness. It is okay; it is understandable. We need to have an anchor; memories are a good candidate.


On the last day of classes, my classmates were already looking forward to a drink next week, when exams will be over and at least two of the three remaining papers will have been submitted. Exactly, this is how I would like to end, with Baudelaire, and his famous lines from his famous poem which I first heard from my Literature professor in the undergrad, during the sendoff for graduating students two years ago:

“Time to get drunk!
Don’t be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!”