Hannibal Lecter’s Whore: Blog Of

even in the wee hours of the morning, you lie awake, sensing every possible movement around you. the silence is so deafening. something seems to be living INSIDE your brain that you just can’t control.

then you move sideways in hopes of regaining slumber. yet you just can’t. and though your eyes are dropping and you feel like shit, you seem to like the idea that you are AWAKE while everybody is asleep.

in silent reverie you discover another world — the world that not all souls have been there mainly because they were asleep. the night breeze touches your jawbone as you sit down, and you SEE beyond the darkness.

Then you see this person. you have seen him before, and you reckon that maybe he’s that lovely monster that has been keeping you awake. All the while you thought that he had left you, but how come you can SEE him there, standing right in front of you with that beaming smile. You couldn’t utter even a single word (you weren’t even aware if you’ve been breathing) because the happiness is so intense that you doubt if you are still awake, or you’ve just been dreaming.

Yet he is ACTUALLY there. You stared to each other. So long that you feel like staring, after all, is the most fulfilling thing to do. and you begin to believe that single stare would never happen again, ever.

You feel his presence; the whole world seems to be of no importance anymore because all you wanna do is just STARE at him. HE IS HERE, your mind says. after all that waiting, HE IS FINALLY HERE.

then something rattles, and your oblivion was suddenly intercepted with annoyance. you look behind your back to see what it is. and you did this with so much anger. Why would somebody interrupt such a magnificient situation?! You cursed, and suddenly realize that he was gone.

you searched the entire four-poster crying because you know this will never happen again. your sobs filled the room. Your dearest roomate turns on the light oblivious of what is really happening.

“He’s gone.” And those are the only words you can muster.

so it’s you again. haven’t seen you for aeons. but how come you still look the same? you still wear that sad smile that i always find unexplainably handsome. in my imaginations, i always lose myself staring at the perfect crescent of your lips, and your close-to-perfect set of teeth. you smile, yes, but why are your eyes not smiling? there must be a void you’ve always wanted to fill up.

you frown, and there is something in your frowns and deep furrows that makes me feel like i am actually seeing someone, something divine. and you know what? it makes me want to be a deity just because of that, though i know i’ll never be…

so it’s you again. it has been a very long time, yet i feel like everything was just yesterday. i remember the very sound of my sobs and hiccups, and every tear that rolls down my cheeks is for a reason i couldn’t put into words. i remember when you left, and it was though the sun had vanished possibly for good, and that she was now condemned to stand wet and naked in the icy air.

but it’s you again. i knew it. i knew this day would come. i even think i dreamed all these into life. but the sad thing is, yesterdays will always be yesterdays, and memoirs shall always remain memoirs.

remember The Butterfly Effect? now i feel like Kutcher, and i realized it must have been hard for him to unexpectedly see the love of his life down the busy metropolitan streets — walking without realizing how much Kutcher had actually sacrificed for her.

i’d certainly would prefer not meeting you in the first place. at least, i wouldn’t long for someone that is not supposed to be mine…

“i have a dream that my four kids will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” -Martin Luther King

it’s just so funny that while i’m typing this out, i just can’t stop some lines from our Martin Luther King choral reading, from playing inside my head… i dunno if they have just become part of the gray areas inside this thing called brain, yet, now, upon watching CRASH, i realized that what i was memorizing then actually makes sense.

not that i thought that the piece was crap, or that MArtin Luther King was a fool. it’s actually a shame on my part that if it wasn’t because of the ever-hearthrob Ryan Philippe, i should have moved to the next line, and queue for Harrison Ford’s newest flick (which i will be watching soon, i guess, since my folks are so so fond of Harrison Ford). well, thanks for ryan (when was the last time i saw a Ryan Philippe movie? Cruel Intentions 2?); i should have missed such a thought-provoking story.

CRASH shows how prejudices prevent us from SEEing. Racism, that is, and it hurts thinking (and seeing) that while we keep on saying that the thing is over, still, there’s this imaginary orbit separating the whites from the blacks. Not that i am actually directly affected by it. but i cant stop pondering, what if, i was born a black? it wouldn’t be my choice in the first place. well, well, society and its complexities… (hhhmmmm…reminds me of Grisham’s A Time to Kill)

which leads me to another point. it’s what i always call the unreasonable randomness of the cosmos. i see that in CRASH. from the movie, you see people who, by the truest sense, are nothing but faces in such a big city as Los Angeles. Nothing but faces, yes, but, like the strands, they are intertwined. one is connected to the other. what’s funny with reality is that you just can’t help something from happening. they just happen because the situation allowed such happening. no matter how terrible the consequences are, THEY JUST HAPPEN. without reasons. without explanations.

inside each FACE is a person with so many stories to tell. the Mexican locksmith who does his humble job whole-heartedly for his wife and a beautiful, caring daughter… the Brentwood housewife and her District Attorney husband, who, in their competetive career, have forgotten the simple pleasures of life, like saying “i love you”… the police detective who cares so much for his father… a rookie cop full of idealism… the African-American director and his wife whose marital relationship was shaken because of racism… the korean couple… the car-jackers… THEY, TOO, HAVE THEIR STORIES.

why, of all people, the young kid was shot by a rookie cop who would die just to play back time and wish he shouldn’t have pulled the trigger? the unreasonable randomness of the cosmos.

why does it have to be Mr. Director’s wife who must be in a car accident while she was struggling to resolve their relationship? the unreasonable randomness of the cosmos.

and why does the humble locksmith always get reprimanded despite his dedication to his job? the unreasonable randomness of the cosmos.

maybe because the world just works that way. nobody could stop randomness. nothing could. while i am typing now, it could be that somewhere near me, a fire is starting out, or a bomb will explode. then i’ll die without knowing. i’ll just die unreasonably as i was born. and like reality, the world will just keep on revolving, crashing each other’s lives…

post script:
i should have met Paul Haggis. i’m the daughter he never had… something itches me. i wanna go back home, and find that Million Dollar Baby DVD…and watch it by till 4am as i eat my brother’s home-made spaghetti…

if there is anything i’ve been dying to say to you, then it must be “sorry”. and i mean it the truest sense. i can’t just bring back time, you know. ’cause if only i could, then i should have not befriended you in the first place. i should have not played with you with those sand castles way back kindergarten days. i am sorry, really …just as a kid wants to say “sorry” for having eaten someone else’s candy.

only that we’re not kids anymore. damn, you make me feel i’m so evil… that i could not do anything good… that i suck in being good (and perhaps in trying to be one?)…

one piece of advice? why can’t you just tell it to me straight to the eyes?! tell it straight out?! why can’t you just admit it to yourself, to your so-called friends…to me?!

artiphanes said that there are two things that only a man can not hide: that he is drunk, and that he is in love.

you can not hide the latter from me. do yourself a favor, will you? admitting it won’t kill you.

The gods must be angry at me now. There’s this downpour outside; I can see raindrops plunking madly at the windowpanes. The sound terrifies me. The raindrops seem to be daemons penetrating that window to get me. They seem like monsters coming to take me…and eat me whole.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps the downpour is the gods’ way of mourning with me. As I stay abandoned inside this room, the sky weeps with me…for me. While everybody has been treating me with indifference and apathy, the sky feels my pain. She understands me…that is why she mourns with me.

I’ve been staying here, alone and isolated since god-knows-when. I’ve been staring at the same walls, the same ceiling. I’ve been listening to same songs for hours. And I’ve smelled the same perfume. My soul wanted to write madly… paint impulsively… scream… yell… throw the things anywhere… but the body is acting against the soul. So I stayed still. Unmoved. Stagnant.

I can hear faint voices downstairs. Giggles, I think. My housemates must be happy, but I couldn’t care less. I’m not part of their happiness in the first place. That is why I’m hibernating – to punish myself for being a loser… to shut myself from the happiness I do not deserve…for I suck in everything I do. I suck in school. I suck in being good to others. And I suck in having and keeping pets.

Two days ago I was awaken with the news that Brod died. I was dumbstruck. How can that happen? And there he lays stiff; I can see my bunny dead as a dodo. For a moment he doesn’t look like Brod to me. No, he can’t be my bunny. My rabbit is perky and energetic… and breathing.

“Humanity is the only one who knows the idea of dying. A child brought up alone and transported to a desert island would have no more idea of death than a cat or a plant.”… I wish I was that child.

I miss Brod. I miss his purring. I miss the sight of him eating. I miss chuckling because he looked so damn bad when wet.

His cage will remain empty. The world could offer a thousand other rabbits, yes, but who says I need them? I need Brod.

The downpour outside now stops. Perhaps the sky’s tired of grieving, and so I am. And as I stare at these walls, a thought depresses me: I won’t be cleaning Brod’s shit anymore.

And the hibernation continues… I’m gonna stare at the same walls, the same ceiling. I’m gonna listen to same songs for hours. And I’m gonna smell the same perfume…

“There are harmless reifications, class” , I heard him say. I actually agreed with him about that (like I always do in his class). I packed up my things in high spirits thinking that my day was not at all wasted. Toying with the thought about fetishism and reification, I began making up things in my mind—‘objectifying’ any abstract concept that I could think of. This is funny, I said to myself, utterly convinced that perhaps, my sci-fi fanatic-pervert-‘memetic’ professor actually makes sense. Yes, there are harmless reifications. I thing-ified God. I thing-ified Love. Harmless reifications… harmless reifications. It was funny deliberately repeating the phrase like a mantra.

I didn’t know moments after that I’d be learning how to reify Death.

Perhaps I watched too much horror flicks when I was a kid that the image of Grim Reaper with the scythe has then become my unwary imagery of the idea of “death” (deathness, you might comment). He has been donning that same black cloak for days and days, I guess. I wondered if he gets to change his cloak, that is, if he even has another pair.

And I thought Grim Reaper only exists in my imaginings (and in those horror films which can’t even differentiate what’s hilarious and scary). But just today, I met the real thing. I think he was so drunk he forgot to put on his cloak. Yes, he still bears his scythe, but unlike in movies, Grim Reaper, this time, is in fact, extremely scary.

I had enough of it that I don’t want to re-live the experience again. If there is really one thing that I really wanna do now, then that would be going to Dr. Howard Mierzwiak and have every bit of that memory removed from me (yeah, and I feel like Clementine!). Then perhaps transfer those memories to that worthless walking savage who’s responsible of that memory. And I so wish those memories will begin to have lives of their own. They’ll reproduce and multiply, reproduce and multiply…until he chokes with it. It’s a sweet revenge… him choking with the terrible memories he himself had created on me. Literally choking. God, what can be funnier than that.

If I am to thing-ify Death? Well, he is that lowest form of vermin who scared off the friends I damn treasure… he is that uncivilized bastard who almost got us killed… the savage who is no different from a beast.

Then Death is a tangible object now, yes nothing but an “object”. Go get a shrink, Death. You need some major fixing.

this isn’t really for me. i was wrong. mistaken. very mistaken.

i suck big time.

the thing is, there’s no turning back. i sooo want to turn back.

this isn’t what i wanted. the program isn’t for me (and the other way around, i guess.)

of all the things i really want to do (next after eating) is to write madly. just write. and the freedom to write anything i could think of, and anything that i could not.

i could do my own illustrations. create them just the way i wanted. the way i immortalized the characters in my creations. i’d draw, and i know somebody out there would think i’m drawing a boa constrictor instead of a hat. somebody who will believe in me and the person that i could become.

i wanted to create stories. create my fantasies. make others believe that the star is in fact a lady… that Saruman and Gandalf could be friends… that you can actually visit Rivendell if you are born brilliant… that Radagast is Russian… that you can do your own hand-writing analysis… you can be john doe… that you can make up plainly everything, and be everything.

except that, i couldn’t. i’m in the wrong side of the road. the hardest part is, looking back, i could no longer see (and recognize) even my own footsteps. i wanted to go back and be brave enough to do the thing i love most. but i’m afraid i don’t know where to start, and where i am going to.

will you take me to that place, please? i’m holding a blank paper and pen, not a map. i don’t know where i am heading… and to which directions. or should i start from here? from my paper and pen?