when an anti-establishment hippie is established...

a particularly bored chat moment that ends in enlightenment

 

shahooondog: hey have you watched superman

Antoine Autain: the movie ?

Antoine Autain: no

Antoine Autain: no my kind of movie i guess

shahooondog: not my kind also but just for fun

shahooondog: i prefer strange movies

shahooondog: and weird comedies

Antoine Autain: old black and white without sound

Antoine Autain: that's kinda funny also

shahooondog: charlie chaplin and 3 stooges?

Antoine Autain: haaaa.... i don't know the titles in english...

shahooondog: anyway sperman was funny because all he did was lift very heavy things----the whole movie that's all he did

shahooondog: superman, imeant

Antoine Autain: he he

shahooondog: super but not very smart. he could have done lots of other things

shahooondog: does france have a superhero?

Antoine Autain: yes, me

Antoine Autain:

shahooondog: pfffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuu

Antoine Autain: you didn't know, huh ?

Antoine Autain: hehe

shahooondog: really? what are your powers ?

Antoine Autain: no, there is no really super heros in france

Antoine Autain: i can eat and drink every thing

Antoine Autain: this is a huge power

shahooondog: woooooooooooow! you can save the garbage problem!!!!

shahooondog: we need you here in the philippines

shahooondog: you should stay really

Antoine Autain: tsk tsk

shahooondog: if i was a superhero i'd choose to be a computer virus, so i could go inside the main computers of the world and cause a world crisis

Antoine Autain: he he he

shahooondog: and the whole world would shut down

shahooondog: including your jungle inbox

shahooondog: and my stupid article

Antoine Autain: and then it's peace and love for everybody

Antoine Autain: i like the idea

shahooondog: yeeeeeeeessssss

shahooondog: no more companies and buildings and property and bosses

shahooondog: just love love love all we need is love

Antoine Autain: he he he

Antoine Autain: yes, that sounds good

Posted by: Hoon at 03:24 | link | comments (1)

Yea yea yea I feel a new era upon me. It’s a season, kitchie said last night. She’s going through seasons. Changes—and Lauryn Hill said, nobody wakes up and is the same. Even gradual, tiny little granules at a time we are changing.  and life is meant to be enjoyed, who’s got time to be weighed down by Deception. Praising god is living your passion and living is praising god.

 

And He’s there. He’s always there.

 

And beautiful, merciful truth.

 

Coco the dog update: she tried to chase a mewling alley cat that got in our gate the other day. Then she wolfed down a plate of liver.

I don’t think I’ll be getting a new dog just yet.

 

My journalism class? They’re great. One of them is gonna make one helluva paparazzi. Already she’s traced my friendster account ( I don’t know how I got conned into starting one of those look-at-me-I’m-wonderful sites, honestly) and has probably gone through each and every embarrassingly boring detail about me. But really, what student wouldn’t try and disrobe a teacher given the appropriate tools? If this whole tech space geek age started in 98’ …. Well, I could think of at least five teacher lives I would have greedily, nastily lapped up.

 

I think I have to be veeeery careful what I write here from now on.

It was bad enough that my editor boss reads my blog right in front of me right where I can see exactly how his facial muscles contort with every allusion to work and now I’ve got one inquisitive youngster joining him in my increasing bouts of paranoia.

 

I didn’t start an online blog to be read by non-existent little computer men in goggles anyway so just what, you may think, am I blathering about.

 

Perhaps I just need to start making a little more sense---for the sake of everyone’s time that this dagdarned blog is wasting.

 

So here it is, the little nugget of wisdom that is to be the glorious focal point of today’s entry:

 

+++++++

READ THE LOST WORLD. By sir Arthur conan doyle. This sir has probably got the best way with words than anyone I’ve ever read. So far at least.

 

And don’t forget to evolve today.

Posted by: Hoon at 03:35 | link | comments (2)

absolutely no photo shop with this picture. it really happened. that's my dog peering over Vladimir's sleeping shoulders. And she's still alive.... :)

Posted by: Hoon at 09:17 | link | comments (1)

Posted by: Hoon at 00:36 | link | comments

An ode to them

 

 

You know how on trivial, minor little topics you could go on and on, ramble from one page to the next, injecting adjectives, dangling participles…basically chatter chatter chipmunk style cricket style buzz buzz buzz.

And on subjects that really matter?

Couldn’t.

But I will try.

 

My dog almost died this weekend. I don’t know, maybe she still will. Her blood count is .8--- normal count for them furry people is 5 to 8, this according to Dr. Dara, young veterinarian to whom I rushed Coco that night, in a box  I cut in half, that night I came home and she rested her dirty snout on me and very weakly wagged her tail. Wagged her tail because despite being sucked of ¾ her blood and couldn’t move just slumped there in one corner wagged her tail because she was still happy to see me. Her designated owner by default because my other sisters have moved on. Used to share dog responsibilities, all of us. Karen and I on either end of a dog, her soaping the head me soaping the tail the other holding dog down me pouring water and both scrubbing and rinsing and laughing in glee after toweling dog and dog would do that drying thing only dogs do. we believed we could command them to do that, shake and wriggle and splash water all over because once Ria did that with Rasputin just holding out the towel and commanding Rasputin to “Wisik!” and of course, Rasputin, drenched and miserable, would. Because that’s what dogs do. And we loved every drop of water that flew from fur to us.

 

But that was long ago. Three dogs we’ve had—Rasputin, king of the street, so proud with his bushy tail and cunning sly eyes that looked at you and knew you. Rasputin who would spend hours propped on a stool just staring at our guinea pigs, his paws up, resting just like it rested on our car window, digging into our shoulders as he fought for his rights by the window when he rode with us to anywhere. Rasputin who knew exactly when our parents were not home, and would casually push open our swinging doors and establish himself right smack in our tiny living room to snooze, then bored and annoyed when we would excitedly try to wake him, just for the fun of it, bury our heads in his beautiful fur and love him, our fox prince, intelligent, amazing Rasputin.

 

Then Chewbacca, lumbering, giant liver spotted thing that Ria most loved. Who dragged her down the street with his mighty weight in ecstatic pursuit of caked-up frogs on the street. Which he would peel off with his mouth and joyfully bound over to us, while we ran screaming in different directions. Because in big, loveable Chewbacca’s heart he truly believed this frog was gold hanging from his mouth and we would love him all the more if he somehow was just able to bring this dried treasure to us. We never loved him less. Even when he went crazy, as Dalmatians are wont to do, and bit the hell out of everyone, the postman electrician bill collector delivery man even my friend vanna whom he attacked on Halloween eve. But never us.

 

And then coco. Who broke every dog male’s heart in Francisco Cruz And walked us down the street and went back home alone when our ride would come (like Rasputin also did). And knew, even from half a kilometer away, that we were coming home. and gave birth and gave birth and gave birth. And grew dreadlocks. and refused to stay put. Protected us, she was a female dirty little thing but protected us and scared and broke the hearts of all the male dogs in our street. And now lying, unmoving and tail slightly wagging and so different from the coco , our ‘maria soccoro dajinggas’, coco zobel (de ayala), our furry white little cocoball, the last dog my sisters and I shared responsibility and dog tasks over. Because they have moved on and jobs and kids and none going home to parents house anymore and everyone busy busy busy  and I, although buzz buzz buzzing in and out going here and there island mountain sea, also busy but unofficially taking responsibility. For this mother child dog alone. Once a week, twice a month, weekends, taking the bus home, always stopping by home and bathing coco alone now, no twin on the other end holding coco down and no older sister saying “wisik, wisik, coco!” just me and a dirty very dirty coco with grease on her ears and prickly grass on her tail. So, lazy days with a pair of scissors and coco on my lap and me almost sadly snipping off her dreadlocks because inhabitants, dirt grease twigs moving in. and apprehensive days, coco with a deep gash on her back and muscle tissue out, so grand search in cabinets for old unexpired medicine and old T shirt to shred into bandages and dabbing dabbing wrapping wrapping everyday peering anxiously under cloth strips if wound close to healing.

 

And now, coco, unmoving, except wagging tail.

Parasites, ticks, fleas have sucked out more than three-fourths of her blood.

Was not able to go home for three weeks and they ate her alive.

(My sisters have moved on…. I was too busy.)

Found her in one corner, beside the drum, and she rested her snout on me and wagged her tail and blurred because of tears.

Doc Dara “ Many dogs have died from this condition. She also has worms in her heart. The treatment is something like chemotherapy. She’s too weak. Too critical.”

White , white gums, drained of blood. Fat ticks falling off filled with blood.

Draining, sucking away until she could no longer move. Sucking on their host, bloated parasites drinking draining the life out of her.

And dirty, smelly, no bath for three weeks.

And bill. Too high for two days hooked to dextrose and flea spray and blood tests and confinement and professional fee and medicines and medicines and medicines. Bill too high and blood lost and time and could have been avoided should have been avoided why didn’t I go home sooner  should have I don’t want too spend this much money, I’m saving up I wanna go to Europe !!! And guilt.

 

 

But she ate yesterday. Pork liver cooked in soy sauce and vinegar and garlic and onions.

And swallowed all her medicine, good.

And this morning stood up and fell down but stood up.

 

And wagged her tail.

 

I don’t want to get a fourth dog.

 

 

Please not yet.

 

Posted by: Hoon at 02:11 | link | comments (1)

Posted by: Hoon at 07:19 | link | comments

Spilling over running over so many words beautiful haunting so alive breathing beating beautiful words in this luminous grisly box

Can’t contain the heart the stuff of it, just letters ticked in systematic pairings yes but so

Beautiful it tears me up

And images wrenching visuals of h-u-m-a-n-core

Stolen real snapshots of time real it happened it felt it was

 captured in a flash, stolen by a silver box

But can’t contain it spills over the sounds the colors shooting reds and whites and blinding light

The eyes and why the why and most of all the I

The boxes can’t contain it can’t contain

The LIFE the life of all these minds and young souls

The poets the artists the pathos the lumen the eros

It runs over it spills it explodes

and settles driftingly, hauntingly settling sweet whispering

At the core                                     

(in AWE)

And heart

(washed of grit)

of this.

of all THIS.

 

 

--- this is for all the writers, filmmakers, poets, housewives, students, faeries, normal folk, gauls, elves, robots, clay people, cats, survivors, women, childthings whose blogs I’ve pored through today.

Its amazing, this. You are all amazing.  

 

Posted by: Hoon at 03:51 | link | comments (4)

Por toi, Jean

 

I really can’t write poetry about you yet---

Craft your soul in self absorbed truth,

In syllables that roll

 And trip bashfully on the tongue

No unyielding attempt yet

To hang words upon your frame

To capture our many intangible realities

And spread them out upon the sheets

 to choose which layers go best

among the many I might have just made up.

Because I don’t know you yet really

Except that so many times you are silent---

Void of any thought except NOTHING.

…..

(And that you never get lost

And that you laugh when I touch you

And that you can never tell a lie.)

 

……so maybe I will believe

And then I wouldn’t have to know you more

Nor to write any more

Because pretty soon I will learn

To leave it all at that.

 

 

Je  ne t’oublerai jamais

Et j’espere que nos

Chemins se criseront de noveau.---- oui.

 

 

 

Posted by: Hoon at 12:10 | link | comments (2)

 

 

One moment, please….

 

 

Can I pound out on my keyboards, just this once, an embarrassingly unapologetic outburst on LOVE????

 

You see, if I don’t let this out now, and I mean, NOW, I will definitely self-implode and shoot unto the heavens as a ball of blinding white light, hit the sun and bounce back as vapor. And then ----- with a flick of my smoky tail, dissipate into a sad, gaseous state of empty existence. This is entirely probable, so whether the object of this present goop of affection is prepared to take it or not, by gassy gulps of Greg, I WILL BURST OUT.

 

Girls—no matter how tough their outer layers have adapted to this whole female empowerment thingamagamma---( Oh, I don’t really like him…well, at least he MUSTN’T know that I do. Shoot, I’ll hang onto his ankles for all of eternity if he so much as grazes my shadow-----but HE MUST NEVER KNOW!!!!)----will always , always have the helpless, hapless polar tendency to FALL---goopily, mushily, butter-kneed-and tremblingly HARD----for the absolute WRONG-est fellow human (Or thing. We get those sometimes, I know) possible.

Why? Because that’s how women function----foolish, dramatic, suicidal Juliets that we are.

 

And in this obligatory pathetic fashion here I am, quaffing down gigantic mugs of coffee at a time( previous encounters with alcohol plus a delirious heart better left unrepeated), embroiled in mini-debates with my pituitary gland over what bad effect could ONE little cigarette have and feeling so Bridget Jones it’s almost ghastly. No, not almost. It IS ghastly.

Bridget Jones is dead.

 Why? Because she has EXPIRED. The adorable little bouts over heart and bulge that she contemplates daily in that endearing little British oxent of hers has died out over time. It is EXTINCT, useless and NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE.

WHY???

 Because there isn’t ANY room left for whining and whinnying bags of bitter bloke-biting in this barmy man-devastate-woman world, that is why.

 

 I am no longer acceptable. What I’ve written so far SHOULDN’T even have (should’vnt?) been conceived in this uber-cool age of post-liberation thinking.

Bras have been burned. Hair has been shaved.                       60-inch women are presidents.

Women today are supposed to be steely and silver and mercury and able to execute 360 degree flips while the background moves slow-motion in the opposite direction. Women are NOT supposed to be masses of flesh and blubber that droop every time an empty inbox droops back from Yahoo mail.

 

Love, and all its shouldn’ts and will it’s? and whatsits and whysis and WHEN da Frodo is he gonna writesis? IS HAZARDOUS TO EVERY woman’s health.

What’s needed here--- and listen up higher beings who craft the systems and life processes of the universe inside invisible little glass domes---is Men coming out with easy to read labels. Attached to their torsos should be a complete listing of their innards and nutritional tidbits, all sectioned in neat and alpahabetized boxes.

Only then will genuine caution and thorough assessment in hubby-picking be truly practiced.

Imagine the small talk: “Oh, I wouldn’t recommend that Steven Hun. Too much helpings of Freud. A little scarce on self-belief. I’m on the Equatorial Practicability diet you know and that just wouldn’t do…”

“Oh, you are positively right. I’ve cut down on Jeffrey Bongs myself.  12% amino acids, would you believe?”

Slightly marred, sure.

But a guideline, clear and precise, nonetheless.

And until then, endless, infinite, boundless forays into self-loathing and pity…..

 

Now I know why people come up with their own genders.

 

Agh. Wake me up in two years when I no longer care.

 

Posted by: Hoon at 02:23 | link | comments (2)

 with downcast eyes, i take it in....

With a heavy heart and even heavier lungs, I confess.

I’ve started smoking again.

After quitting completely for over a year—

And giving disdainful looks to groups huddled in the streets,

Inhaling and exhaling Co2 like their very life sources

Depended on how much nicotine they could ingest---

And superciliously waving away smoke finding its way onto

My hallow, smoke-free path---

And inwardly tut-tut-tutting at my sisters and friends’ exasperating

Lack of self-control and citing my own effortless transformation

Into a non-smoker----

I am now eating, nay, smoking my words.

….

I am not proud about it, not in the slightest—

I could almost hear the Tolja Soljas of the many puffing puffins

I’ve reduced to weak slaves of the Tobacco Company.

But it just feels so dang good.

to be poisoned slowly, again, by your own will.

Against the backdrop of a large sky, colored, blazing.

And you, with your little stick, contemplating mortality

And weakness and submission.

…

Tomorrow, I will quit.

Posted by: Hoon at 03:25 | link | comments (3)