tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-313065182012-02-16T14:33:32.520+08:00promise it to the wind, write it on water, and hope someone will rememberAyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.comBlogger1441100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-83622942720246315772011-04-26T20:42:00.002+08:002011-04-26T20:42:00.261+08:00

In 2004, I packed off my bags and moved to blogspot. My old one, at ayen.blogdrive.com, is still there. I'm too much of a packrat to take it down. Things have changed again. I haven't been posting as often at blogger, owing to massive changes in writing schedules and venues that paid me for generating text. I'd like to start again. Somewhere else. Boulevard avenue will stay here. But

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-89759022441807700142011-03-14T18:35:00.001+08:002011-03-14T23:42:43.767+08:00

What I've been doing, it seems, with blog theme after blog theme, and tweak after tweak, is skinning. The ads were the first to go. I'd like to re-read my blog, to remember my attempts at sustained moments of thought, remembrance, lucidity, or lack thereof. But page elements get in the way - the author profile right beside the first post, one column is to eager to list the post categories (as

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-81393176970114467922011-02-08T13:51:00.002+08:002011-03-14T16:39:04.680+08:00

I write for other people. That's how I get paid, and the more I do it, the more it leans on me - like clothes you wear that tandem well, but you begin to tire of - that my sentences, they're long enough to try your patience. Just like that: a mouthful. Each and every time. Someone needs to clip his thoughts. Or take a lot more time clipping his sentences.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-69857119347079704742011-01-06T21:05:00.000+08:002011-01-06T21:05:29.052+08:00

Information Architecture, so the web wide world says, is the art of finding out what you want your site to do, and then keep doing that one thing and that one thing only. Sheet of paper. One column. Prop your feet up. Sip that coffee. The world can fend for itself.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-32524925230925113772011-01-01T15:48:00.000+08:002011-01-01T15:48:55.963+08:00

One Anne Rice biographer said of Rice as being in constant pychological evolution. It was written years before Rice converted to Catholicism, and that biographer would not have raised an eyebrow when, in recent years, Rice excommunicated herself from the Vatican corporation. She's not a Catholic anymore, in the same way a self-disciplined driver discontinues her membership from a motorists

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-61034910904057269832010-10-05T21:09:00.000+08:002010-10-05T21:09:22.457+08:00

I'm not Catholic, but it makes sense why the "Board of Directors" of that church would want to prevent the Philippine poor from having unrestricted access to pregnancy prevention programs. If, and these are "ifs," if the middle class, well-to-do, and educated Catholics tend to switch religions, or (practice their faith in private and) avoid giving abuloy to Catholic churches (or require their

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-73236502257046577532010-08-24T06:06:00.000+08:002010-08-24T06:07:17.604+08:00

There's something nice and warm about donuts hiding deep down in a crumpled paper bag of love. Shove them down a plastic sando bag that survives the whims of an indifferent rain, and they won't be the same. Paper means risk - you could put the bag down on a damp table and the contents might drop through the tear. (If you soak us do we not go limp?) Hence the love. My wife bought us donuts last

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-8736773797481738152010-07-22T06:00:00.000+08:002010-07-22T06:01:01.560+08:00

"I never thought I'd be so happy as a cat." - Mao, contract killer trapped in the body of a cat, to Hei, another contract killer, from Season 1 of "Darker Than Black."

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-72667059750092319102010-03-11T03:39:00.000+08:002010-03-11T03:43:25.761+08:00

You can't deny there are dry spells, droughts in a writer's life. I'm countering that. Here's something I'm working on. TangerineI had to clench my eyes shut, like a fist, out of annoyance, close it long enough to see small white dots, disbelieving the film rolling from my right, and spreading around. I had to have been in a film. Or a dream. Unless streets could empty out rush hour crowds and

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-31242904923640143992009-03-10T19:19:00.003+08:002009-03-11T08:53:59.075+08:00

I have a week to soak in comments and firm up my short story, which I had expected the class to crease their foreheads about and accuse me: what the fuck is this? Somehow I pulled through. My head-game scare story scared them. I'd love to get slapped with a shining grade in this PhD subject. Here's how it starts out. Bright and sunny. Such a nice day. But there's a doppelganger in the house. When

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-67243032317168725942008-12-13T23:25:00.001+08:002008-12-13T23:32:53.371+08:00

Ma'am Jing threw me a clue in class. I caught it in midair, like an afterthought. I shot my mind's hand up, absentmindedly, and cupped it. It's like when you're pushing your grocery cart down the isle, mentally squinting (what is it again that I need?) and you notice you've been holding something you picked up from the other isle: ahh! this is it! A clue. I hate my own writing, the clue said,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-63445980072995208462008-11-19T13:01:00.002+08:002008-11-19T13:11:57.330+08:00

I'm not even sure I want a cake. But my wife insists, and I think she's right (I'd probably want something to see that sets the theme), so I'm hovering over images of nothing but chocolate in my head, and the memory of my not wanting something so sweet. Maybe something with some filling inside, something that, when I rub my eyes in the wee hours of dawn, when the refrigerator fog clears, pokes me

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-61244403837065985232008-08-21T22:17:00.003+08:002008-08-21T22:28:39.509+08:00

The thing about completely freelancing at home? Even after you've marked your work hours, your mind is never really away from it. I'm ronin. Again. But I don't even see it as work anymore. It's been six days since I quit my affiliate marketing manager post in Makati. Never felt better. Wish I quit earlier. I'm just resting a bit before I go back to cleaning manuscripts to submit to clients whose

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-66797349679375631092008-07-11T11:08:00.004+08:002008-07-11T11:19:55.522+08:00

My art historian former boss, the eternal-bachelor graphic artist, my funny-chubby managing editor, and even the short and nimble utility guy--the people in my previous writing life--showed off, to me and Anne, their posh new office, and that they could elbow me some room in it ("We could compress and give you space right here," said Denes the graphic guy, pointing over Yam the fun-chub managing

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-84455506155963039682008-06-13T21:18:00.003+08:002008-06-13T21:26:21.156+08:00

The cat is noisy. Pam talks to the cat. Pam: "Gusto mo ng pansin?"Cat: "Meow."Pam: "Ano tingin mo sa 'kin, kuhanan ng pagkain?"Cat: "Meow."Pam: "Maganda 'ko di ba?"Silence. 

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-14342124564320000632008-06-12T08:34:00.000+08:002008-06-12T08:35:00.820+08:00

Can you discuss your points on paper, research its background, its pros and cons, and then credibly advise answers? If you can, we have a writing gig for you.We're a team of writers taking on SEO writing jobs. SEO is search engine optimization; it's a process that lets Google and Yahoo find websites easier, through the use of keywords. SEO writing, which is what we do, involves generating short,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-60609625337586352092008-05-03T18:38:00.004+08:002008-06-18T21:59:08.844+08:00

It was a relief, finally, to watch a hero-origin movie whose actors, and the script they danced to, allowed you to forget the film's preposterous plot: a weapons-making billionaire builds a suit of armor and redeems himself through it. But with a solid cast and clever dialogue, and an action scene that relied (thank God) on Robert Downey Jr. fighting partially armored, and fumbling, we have a

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-38957627491335093842008-04-22T22:47:00.000+08:002008-04-22T22:48:36.774+08:00

I used to have a room made for daydreaming. Mornings were a golden brown glow, six a.m. light dampened by thin bamboo drapes over windows. Windows left half-open, and through them cold air filled in, like a slow fog, nowhere to go, and so it stood still. I would pull my blanket up, covering me whole, through those cool golden mornings, cocooning myself deep in white, white laundered so many times

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-67207761493364941232008-04-20T19:32:00.002+08:002008-04-21T12:24:39.644+08:00

I'm exhaling loudly through my nose again. Slow, even long breaths, filling my lungs with air and helping not in the least. I'm that pissed. I'm trying, like I promised my therapist, to be aware of how I appear to other people. My dropped down shoulders rising to every inhale, my feet planted firmly and wide apart, my hands wanting to claw at something, my eyes in slits. I blink and imagine wide

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-27441559859935134242008-03-13T14:11:00.000+08:002008-03-13T14:13:11.292+08:00

He sits in front of me, from across the table, like a wax statue: his back straight, unmoving; his gnarled hands cupped over a walking stick pointed at the wooden floor. His eyes straight into mine. He doesn't need rigor mortis to lock his limbs in that pose. His pride will do him in, and as the first-born, I should inherit everything (but he has to die first). But as the only de la Casta to

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-71612383557708820502008-02-12T09:00:00.000+08:002008-02-12T09:01:01.073+08:00

Some days I hate my own words. They come off as lies. Even when they're true. This is why I've blogged nothing in months. I've quit a job I used to love. Took another in Ortigas. Left that and took another in Makati. I have all the memories right here. All the scenes, conflicts, drama, climaxes. Resolutions. How to weave them together. Not that I've been in the mood, in months, to do so. And

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-23252968911893049472007-12-28T11:41:00.000+08:002007-12-28T11:44:21.007+08:00

"So, then. Where are the bodies?"Burt didn't answer. He just stared at me, and blinked once, like I was too obscenely forward."The sooner I see it, the sooner people get paid," I sighed and looked away, making sure the sound of the word "paid" trailed off into the next room, through the open door behind me.Burt grunted, turned on his right heel and crossed the blood-mapped carpet, avoiding the

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-69302612251764297822007-12-17T09:02:00.000+08:002007-12-17T09:13:38.840+08:00

Very Short Stories for Harried Readers, an anthology of very short fiction (edited by Vince Groyon) where I have one story tucked in, is now available at UP Press (inside Balay Kalinaw, UP Diliman) for only P290.00. By the end of the week, it will hit the shelves of National Bookstore and Powerbooks. To my friends, former classmates, online lurkers, and fellow bloggers, if you have any good

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-64127420533057922842007-11-27T09:38:00.000+08:002007-11-27T09:39:20.443+08:00

true story, overheard ko sa jeep, from a gradeschooler: "saya ng pasko namin last year. kumain kame ng aso. dami naming tira. bigay ko dapat kay brownie kaso di ko mahanap..."

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-72928034389541856692007-11-23T17:01:00.000+08:002007-11-23T17:10:29.749+08:00

Camille is behind me. I am pulling her through the maze that is my Mother's house. I breathe in fabric softener as I wave aside hung shirts, blankets, and emerge in the sala. Mother's eyes meet mine and I stop, I pull Camille from behind, to my front, and she blinks under a spotlight. My classmate, Mother. But Mother is not new to this, her eyes swing back to the flowered curtain she is mending.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-35860209421756805352007-10-10T18:03:00.000+08:002007-10-10T18:04:57.143+08:00

Blabber this, blabber that. What is a jobless one to do these days? He watches soap.I am loving the new season of Grey's anatomy. The cast has trimmed down. Addison moved to L.A., in her own spin off series. Burke left Seattle Grace, and the actor behind him was fired from the show. He could still get back. This Cristina angst arc is not that final in tone. Negotiations could open up and get

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-86198213993698882552007-09-14T23:26:00.000+08:002007-09-14T23:28:23.312+08:00

During summer vacation back in second grade, my cousins and I had this routine of running all over Grandma's house, shrieking as we pushed the kitchen screen door open, shoving the maid aside, scaring the cats away, jumping over our wash lady's pyramid of laundry, and rushing back indoors, to begin the cycle once more.By lunch time, our monstrous appetites could only be appeased by Grandma's

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-75277968836903912952007-08-22T03:22:00.000+08:002007-08-22T03:23:47.265+08:00

The Bomb Squad, a section of the more responsive Special Weapons and Tactics division of the Metropolitan Police, filed a report that was read out loud 23 August 2007, during a Senate hearing attended by hundreds, on how come only two senators were left alive after all twenty four of them attended the engagement party of the President's daughter."The two Senators [a former starlet and a former

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-23579359565148582252007-08-14T23:23:00.000+08:002007-08-15T00:07:02.689+08:00

I still haven't thanked Siege enough for that hard-boiled fiction style Friendster testimonial that he wrote me: "I need you," the blonde stranger said, casually cascading herself over the mahogany chair in front of Ayen Rivera, P.I.,'s oakwood desk. "To find my husband."Detective Rivera traced the stranger's length, from the toes of her red stilettos, up her alabaster pair of legs (of the long

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-73834833747891910712007-08-10T02:07:00.000+08:002007-08-10T02:16:01.145+08:00

Nice to know that people out there, friends, they know who they are--all right, their names are Camille and Jea--are still writing. (So much for blind items.) Point is I'm relieved to hear from them, and to get to read their stuff; just so I could tell myself that my writing job is no excuse to freeze up my own tilted-world essaying and sudden fiction writing.Camille sent me her re-envisioned

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-89766891053091768812007-08-09T23:47:00.000+08:002007-08-10T00:59:14.695+08:00

I always have this impression that Ricci is constantly harassed by her teaching schedule. She told me once that you need some free time to imagine consequences, so you can write. Her use of the second person (you) is really some underlying "her" trying to tell herself, and me, about the need to rise to the surface and breathe. Her use of 'consequences' intrigues me. If you live on a weekly basis,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-16151363943731135842007-08-01T20:32:00.000+08:002007-08-01T20:39:00.387+08:00

And so, Hinus Long, strained out of his wits, took up Jenny the bitch's dare, and walked towards the open third floor window. The rain-grey half-empty parking lot would be waiting below. Hinus shoved Marky to one side: get out of the way ass-boss, Hinus hissed as he took long, quick strides towards the light. The studio room where he churned out web articles dimmed in the coming evening's yellow

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-78217642213330086882007-07-29T18:25:00.000+08:002007-07-29T18:35:27.380+08:00

The thing about being sick the whole week and with the fever and colds pouring down on the weekend is that you get to watch a lot of movies. We've got DSL at home. With my wife doing the laundry this weekend, and with her homey comfort food for me (tom-yang soup, did I spell that right? and my fave, lemon-butter sauced shrimps), I got to relax. Never mind the quality of the movies I saw. I

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-52728898937734483562007-07-24T21:32:00.000+08:002007-07-25T08:40:28.011+08:00

There is a cat meowing from outside my bedroom window, its snout pressed on the opaque glass, one front paw on the ledge, the other thumping the glass, like its was knocking on a neighbor's screendoor. Lemme in, lemme in. I can make out a blurred pink nose on white but dirty fur--maybe canines--when that small mouth opens to tease my cats to come out. Come out, come out and have my first born, it

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-29661019147147406242007-07-11T10:20:00.000+08:002007-07-11T10:22:19.687+08:00

I am probably a junkie of some kind. Addicted to something. Some kind of high. Achievement. A witty conversation. A finished, polished essay or short fiction. The chance to sneer at someone while demonstrating my acumen. Shit like that. Had a dream and in that dream my job was dulling my wits, diluting my charm. But the job in that dream paid the bills, so technically I was killing myself to foot

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-35021586261312504842007-07-11T01:10:00.000+08:002008-06-18T21:59:08.845+08:00

Three reasons for seeing this film. To hear Optimus Prime's concerned-general's voice. To see how many people are killed in the urban war of the robots. To find out how the Autobots triumph in the end (it's always like that anyway). Haaay. What did you expect anyway?I liked it. Or at least the comedy and the action didn't leave room enough to yawn and wonder where all this is going. Cars, trucks,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-61142908479278316042007-07-02T21:29:00.000+08:002007-07-02T21:31:24.513+08:00

I got hold of a spell book with some curses in them. Thirty bucks from a gnarled old lady with a humpback. Her makeshift rack on the street bend near my apartment had small boxes full of them old books. Like she was moving, and that afternoon of my day off was her rummage sale day. Curses, huh? I almost ran back home, my long hair getting dishelved by the wind. Smells like it was going to rain.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-24202156143220434912007-06-23T04:37:00.000+08:002007-06-25T13:18:17.409+08:00

The Presidential Security Guard closest to the woman with a mole ignored the immediate screams and angry flashes of cameras around him. Not one of the three PSG's cordoning the tiny woman was able to break her fall. She had taken six steps after descending the low stairs coming out of the hotel's entrance when a thud was heard. It was not a bullet's sound, but that of her small torso hitting

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-90633242695015595212007-06-22T06:31:00.000+08:002007-06-22T15:44:49.945+08:00

So, I say, talking to you, who obviously went here to read something. How do you, I begin, looking away, sighing, and glancing back at you before I look down; how do you recharge your fount? You know--regain the life, the enthusiasm, the wonder, the itch, the secret giggle, whatever. You lean back on your chair and sigh. You're about to confess uselessness in a mumble but I stop you with a raised

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-63297661301262745572007-06-19T23:31:00.000+08:002007-06-19T23:39:49.074+08:00

Saw Ricci go online a while ago. I immediately waved a hand. Told her I wasn't enrolled in the program [creative writing program], for a year now, come to think of it. So much raket writing that I haven't been able to breathe. Ricci is not enrolled, too; she told me. "Life and all that," she said. I miss our alcohol chatting sessions. We used to meet online and, beer with me and wine with her,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-71815347421487125042007-06-18T18:53:00.000+08:002007-06-22T15:46:53.638+08:00

I think I did. I think I told my wife that, at the rate I'm coughing out articles for my night job, I won't be able to write decent shit by the end of the year. Yeah. I think I did. I was whining then. I am whining now. The small window for working on and turning in those bursts of paragraphs, about four to five per article, and fifteen a night, has led me to devise ways of staying awake, and of

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-67892242388869682112007-06-07T05:30:00.000+08:002007-06-07T05:33:50.401+08:00

Abalone diver Muriel Sanguinnia felt his chest squeezed in the dark. His left shouldered punctured and pinned between serrated teeth, his calm never left him. The shark spasmed and released--in a split-second--Muriel's 32-year old body, so as to better haul him in, to snugly fit his torso inside the Great White's mouth.Muriel's chest heaved, quickly drew in more air from his respirator, and saw

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-31101317656889173052007-06-04T09:37:00.000+08:002008-06-18T21:59:08.846+08:00

Chris (Nicolas Cage) can see and hear and feel events two minutes into the future, but only if it involves him. He makes a living as a magician in Las Vegas, pretending to trick his audience that he can read minds; something that preps up the common sleight of hand tricks he does on stage. To augment his living, his gambles in calculated proportions--gambles against slot machines and on card

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-36708717548084810452007-05-27T19:54:00.000+08:002007-05-28T07:54:44.781+08:00

So, this post isn't for everyone.Carljoe, my classmate and fellow felon in the racket writing life, is stamping his blog with thoughts and such about an addiction from which those who tried it never really quit: Magic: the Gathering (MTG). You need disposable income to play it--you need to buy the cards. You need time to burn on it--you will lose sleep trying to assemble the best card deck to

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-64418885259864529102007-05-22T05:00:00.000+08:002008-06-18T21:59:08.847+08:00

It was an origin movie that set the bar for comics-to-film standards. I was talking about the first Spiderman film. Peter Parker was having problems and the first, and also the second film, was all about that: the basic and effective plot of how a character can change. Adolescent coping were both themes in the first two installments, and a theme many can touch-base with. Even without powers,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-82367740839770022202007-05-18T13:58:00.000+08:002007-05-18T14:01:02.064+08:00

Have your read those Robert Ludlum novels on Jason Bourne? Bourne kept saying, "Sleep is a weapon." Now that I'm working night shifts, Bourne gets to tell me--and I won't argue--a crisp, "I told you so."Been getting after midnight headaches at work, since I don't get to sleep much after the clock passes the 12 noon marker. Something about noisy neighbors' kids breaking the kid-a-shriek sound

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-67437182754506941482007-05-14T22:57:00.000+08:002007-05-14T22:59:25.809+08:00

Odd. At 11 pm on an election day, I am typing away, during my break, for a blog entry. In a few minutes, I will return to churning out my quota of articles, and I'm going to be doing this until sunrise.I remember being hemmed in between the workstations of two old people in the office where I used to work. Listening to old people is nice. They're old. Some of them are nice. What is not nice is

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-24067777563927377762007-05-12T03:04:00.000+08:002007-05-13T12:31:59.286+08:00

Eating: what I've been doing other than copping out articles in my nightshift writing job. Eating. I move my pursed lips right, left, my tongue inside thick with the aftertaste of coffee. Oreo cookies, coffee candies, strawberry-filled small bready things, my packed pre-midnight meal, chocolate thingies with a peanut-butter core, my post-midnight packed meal. As I reach for them absent-mindedly,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-82684936619917169102007-05-06T08:09:00.000+08:002007-05-06T08:12:58.155+08:00

A lingering headache is not so much a symptom that your brain may have a tumor, but that the only thing that tumor has, for company, is your brain.This is me, quoting myself from way back 2004, where my Yahoo 360 blog carried that quote on my shoutbox status. Enduring the writing life remains no different from keeping a disease company.So it goes.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-9954786295588289202007-04-23T18:00:00.000+08:002007-04-24T05:02:08.366+08:00

My neighbor's horny adolescent girl, the same one I see tiptoeing home at the whip of dawn on the roof behind their house, so her parents won't know she and her boyfriend joyrode each other the previous night, is singing. Oh God. I can hear her, from our kitchen, the part of this house closest to theirs.And God can she sing.Wait. That was supposed to be a question. God, can she sing? I rummage

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-35011052388424369732007-04-20T09:52:00.000+08:002007-05-09T19:41:17.252+08:00

"We never doubted you, D.""Of course you did," D said, and sweeping the crowd with his gaze, "You all did."The hand sanitizers, soaps, disinfectants, detergents, and fabric softeners looked down, admitting their doubts."But that was before," said the elderly and motherly fabric softener. "Until you came, no other detergent was able to remove so many kinds of stains in so little time while barely

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-64157666958819891882007-04-19T12:04:00.000+08:002007-04-19T14:27:03.760+08:00

Henry Zoo, Nebraska. Investigators, paramedics, and biologists are baffled by a successful lone shark attack at Henry Zoo, where the victim was first-time zoo visitor posing for a picture. No one else was hurt, not by the shark, and not by cuts via glass shards. A portion of the aquarium facilities though had to be shutdown for repairs."There was opportunity, the suspect is the murder weapon, but

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-8241367428650883242007-04-18T09:53:00.000+08:002007-04-18T10:08:58.102+08:00

Color. You use colored post-its and polka-dot your worktable with them. Because your table is brown and your PC is black, the small reminder notes--smaller than my palm--call out to you eyes. You flick your eyes to them and boom: you are reminded of things to do, pencilled on a yellow list. You look around your worktable and the end-result is listlessness. You are swarmed with yellow. You let out

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-48772745942760724482007-04-14T01:00:00.000+08:002007-04-14T01:15:18.194+08:00

IN THE RESTAURANT, Mona saw her distant self in a mirror three tables away, past the couple eating slowly while staring at each other, past the table with kids constantly getting off and on their chairs, to their mommy's annoyance, and past the shuffle of waiters briskly walking to and fro with orders taken and food trays to deliver.In one of those wall-length mirrors that make the room is larger

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-67079218298032191032007-04-08T09:05:00.000+08:002007-04-08T09:19:26.309+08:00

An angel slipped into His tomb and calibrated the divine egg timer: resurrect in three days. The angel looked at the body partially wrapped in tattered, bloodied cloth. "Not so all powerful now, are we?" Gabriel hovered above the corpse, landed gently on the elevated slab of stone, kicked the body once. It didn't move. It couldn't move. He quickly sent a telepathic message, to be uploaded to the

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-46877136445688701482007-04-04T11:11:00.000+08:002007-04-04T11:13:02.922+08:00

With my wife in Iowa undergoing training, I'm left to my own devices to keep myself from being bored to death. I win at staring contests with my cats. They look away after a while and I shoot both arms up with one big Hah! I won. Meanwhile, the cats give that smirk: they move their whiskers up in that slow, annoyed way: what an idiot for a master we have. I split my lunch and dinner with you

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-27844516913785934402007-03-26T14:45:00.001+08:002007-03-26T14:45:34.480+08:00

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-48710325482856459722007-03-26T11:53:00.000+08:002007-03-26T11:54:53.518+08:00

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-67401774546002779132007-03-13T20:36:00.000+08:002007-03-14T11:25:21.032+08:00

I just got a copy of People Asia's December 2006 - January 2007 issue, as well as the February and March issues for this year. No, the cover image you see on the left is not one of the covers of the issues mentioned; it's just an old image I got from the Internet. I have to post an image, right?Right. Anyway, I remember doing a food slash restaurant review for the Dec-Jan issue, but I can never

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-22272185295930874052007-03-01T19:07:00.000+08:002007-03-13T21:18:51.540+08:00

Man, I'm tired. Trojans by the dozen had swarmed into my wife's laptop. With the antivirus program expired, I had to download a new one, while sweeping the harddrives for spyware, while turning off recurring programs in the task manager, along with programs that duplicate the ones already running, and let's not forget that I had to clean the registry.As this QWERTY keyboard as my witness, I hate

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-41138587341836217772007-02-24T21:16:00.000+08:002007-02-24T22:00:28.322+08:00

Your family is itching to get to the beach. But you're not. You would like some quiet. Some time to sort things out. A relief from the world. And to sleep all day.They are all raring to run on sand and dive into salty sea water. But you're not. So you embark on a plan to get rid of them all.Phase One: Feign InterestOn the couch, both your old maid Aunts giggle like high school girls: they plan to

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-75014335200505199562007-02-22T06:33:00.000+08:002007-02-22T06:34:38.425+08:00

RuprickPeople Iced:TwentyCar Bombs Planted:TwoFavorite WeaponSack full of doorknobsArms Broken:ThirteenEyes Gouged:FiveTongues Cut Off:SevenBiggest Enemy:Prickly PearGet Your HITMAN NameAWSOME-GAME

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-38105978059938858952007-02-05T08:51:00.000+08:002007-02-06T19:50:44.217+08:00

Need to think. So cold in the room I have goosebumps on my legs. When my fingers move to type, it feels like they move in a thick fog of cold air. What is Baguio City temperature doing in my bedroom at 8:30 in the morning? Need to think. I have everything I need to revise a client's draft. One big folder filled to the brim with attached documents. Coffee fogging up half my PC monitor with its

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-20204028795144994542007-02-04T22:02:00.000+08:002007-02-04T22:03:01.890+08:00

I have open on my PC desktop two windows. This one, where I'm typing, and another one, where a woman is furiously making her violin weep, and then whisper, and weep again. Herber von Karajan is the author of the graceful arms rising and arcing to woo the entire Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra to his soul. He is old, his scalp is pomaded with white hair that turns silver, under the light, when he

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-65707764981252131752007-01-30T11:11:00.001+08:002007-01-30T11:11:47.035+08:00

"The professed motive of my solitude is to speak to loads of people." -- Edward HoaglandI'm here because I'm trying to commit to the idea that writing is incremental. Like a pile of bricks that need some muscle and some patience and some spirit to cement together. Someone has to take the time to put one brick on top of the other. Rushing it ruins it. Your mind runs too fast with words you forget

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-18292871709647931722007-01-26T22:59:00.000+08:002007-01-27T15:28:23.665+08:00

I am trying to get out of bed but I shudder and then freeze, ramrod straight from head to toe; back pains still me, flat on the cushion. Like a cardboard that won't get up, I just can't get up. Dad will holler for me from downstairs anytime now. Even with this week-long eclipse, I can tell, without seeing in the dark, that it's 5:30 am. Cold air and the scent of Mom's pancakes and no glow of

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-50514707378496476152007-01-16T07:03:00.000+08:002007-01-16T07:07:07.923+08:00

I've had that moment, when you spin around like a kid and then later stop because you're dizzy. Giggling stupid happy. The ground rising in uneven, tilting lines. Your whole eyesweep a funny blur and your balance shot. Can't even stand up without raising a hand to feel for something to lean on. I slump back on the floor and wait for the world to normalize. It does. And then the giggling stupid

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-2292237926212653652006-12-27T18:15:00.000+08:002006-12-27T18:21:29.964+08:00

Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock.Jingle bell rings while jingle bell sings.Rowing and prancing and jumping to sing.That's the jingle bell that i want to ring...hey. it's my blog.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-23314546800295483062006-12-10T06:20:00.000+08:002006-12-27T18:02:43.548+08:00

The gray-lit sky outside the windows tells me the sun forgot to shine. I have to wear socks and thick jogging pants just to stop shivering. All this cold air will keep coming after me until I close the windows shut, and even then, the stillness around me will not let up. I love storms. I love them better on weekdays.I live near a church. Maybe too near. The priest inside that bricked holy

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-39486776601908278152006-12-01T20:22:00.000+08:002006-12-27T18:15:03.446+08:00

You know what you need to unwind your brain? A Ferris wheel. No kidding. You sit inside one of those squarish buckets and ask the manong to crank it up to full speed. Disappointingly slow at first, and then weeeeee! The centrifugal force whirls your worries up and around and away from you! You walk away from that experience with a renewed sense of wow. Imagine, no man involved. If your knees are

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-90393945536476276592006-11-27T19:41:00.000+08:002006-11-28T11:14:33.562+08:00

Some blogs of college students I've been to bemoan this problem: their professors have excluded Wikipedia as a source to be used in their term papers. One student went as far as to say that it's not fair to exclude encyclopedia x from sources to be used just because it is community-maintained. "What a hassle!" that student wrote. What a hassle indeed. Imagine, you go online in an Internet cafe or

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-77068479489568339662006-11-22T18:49:00.000+08:002006-11-27T12:53:41.570+08:00

The nightsky fell on October 16. It wobbled a bit as Rony saw his girlfriend of two years having dinner at McDonald's Philcoa at around 7 pm. Police reports were to indicate later that night that the girl in a miniskirt who lives in Project 4 had texted Rony. She was to meet her boss to discuss her promotion at 7 pm, so she cancelled her dinner plans with her boyfriend. The stocky 5'8"" Rony

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-38156509493211052952006-11-19T14:34:00.000+08:002006-11-24T14:48:38.759+08:00

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-23960375270213349072006-11-04T08:28:00.000+08:002006-11-04T17:04:36.715+08:00

Hi, my name is Ayen. I, ah, change my PC's desktop wallpaper every, ahm, fifteen minutes. It's not an obsessive compulsive disorder, nothing like that, I'm sure. Just that the wallpaper dulls a bit after a while and I just have to reach into my picture folder and try out some new ones. More of to jibe the image with my current mood. Nothing wrong there, right? Ah, good. Now I have thin blades of

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-91501734510479458172006-10-30T16:55:00.000+08:002006-10-30T17:09:13.631+08:00

I've been too busy rummaging all over the Internet for writing gigs that I forgot to kick back and enjoy the grade I got for my PhD subject in the semester that just closed. The subject is Creative Writing 341: Advanced Workshop in Nonfiction Narrative. I've written about the manuscript I turned in in a previous post. The highest grade is a flat 1.0. The lowest, the failing mark, is a 5. Getting

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-26833279166159471122006-10-15T00:47:00.000+08:002006-11-05T09:43:21.415+08:00

"Overspecialize and you breed in weakness."- Major Motoko Kusanagi, in the anime film Ghost in the Shell I'm differentiating between achievements and duties: I'm updating my résumé. I'm sorting through my previous published and ghostwritten work: I'm updating my portfolio. I'm at home taking in odd writing jobs and taking care of my wife: my bundy-clocking days are over.All my bags are packed.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-12720289169386348562006-10-06T01:23:00.000+08:002006-11-01T12:36:50.598+08:00

Stay away from the light. People who came out of near-death experiences often cite bright lights, especially a big one above or behind them. This tunnel-like light has been reported to be enticing, as it magnifies the calm that accompanies one's out-of-body time during near-death. Presence of mind at that moment spells either moving on to the hereafter or coming back to the here and now. Decide

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-22458483569732094672006-10-01T19:46:00.000+08:002006-11-01T12:31:21.371+08:00

Admit it. You hate your maid. Not only do you want her out of your house, you want her out of your house without a pulse. If only you could get away with murder. With the following simple steps, you can. Let's go kill that maid.1. aim and swingSwing the pipe down on her throat as she sleeps. Wait for her to choke and snap her eyes wide open and bolt up on the bed. Swing the pipe down again, not

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-62460729176160527962006-09-23T16:16:00.000+08:002006-10-30T16:56:54.447+08:00

The second draft of my memoir, a high-stakes, meaning-of-life piece (at least for the author), as Jing Hidalgo called it, survived the second round of the workshop this morning. PhD classes can really make you bleed, but they are worth it. My often long and alliterative sentences, Jing added, remind one of the prose of Henry James. But I have to do something to mix up the sentence structure to

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-89520363641587424242006-09-07T15:55:00.000+08:002006-10-28T21:43:36.919+08:00

Having a blog is like having a diary with its pages open and tacked on a corkboard for everyone to see. Including you. You walk past it now and again and are reminded of how long ago you last tacked a note there. Well, I'm here now. Hello to the world. Work has been keeping me dumbed down and dormant. It is keeping me that way still. But I ran down the hallway just to peek at you, and leave this:

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1338033390591345482006-08-29T04:50:00.000+08:002006-11-01T15:51:02.563+08:00

After sending Anne off to work at 3:30 am (she works nightshifts as a call center supervisor), I was left alone on a street where none of the stores were open, except for a burger stand and a fish petshop. I needed some coffee. I ran out of supplies at home. The burger stand had some six different type of iced tea, several kinds of Pepsi, and bottled water of various sizes. But no coffee. The

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-84310456947608701492006-08-22T21:56:00.000+08:002006-10-31T14:12:00.708+08:00

I tug at a string of white metal beads and the sluggish gray afternoon light comes into my corner office, like a visitor waiting outside the front door, who was told, casually, that the boss will see him now. The vertical blinds had swept to one side and let me view the grills visitors sometimes step on, on their way around the museum, and down into the basement where my corner is tucked away

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155827231046956322006-08-17T23:05:00.000+08:002006-10-28T21:45:13.748+08:00

It rains just when you think you wouldn't need your umbrella on your way home from work. The sun slips behind the puffy cottons of clouds for too long and you think your dripping dry laundry has a chance of making it to the closet, neatly folded, this evening. On both instances you're wrong. So now you're looking at toes wiggling at you asking you when was the last time your feet got to wear a

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155740927333513792006-08-16T22:58:00.000+08:002006-10-31T14:17:38.076+08:00

Yup. We're digging this place up and building almost from scratch. Most of the contents of Boulevard Avenue will be moved here, like old furniture. I've been running back and forth between blogs--old and new--and I've been seeing a lot of my old posts. Like old furniture, some of them could use some tweaking, if I ever plan to display them again. So, while I relearn how to speak html, I will keep

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155570434303259212006-08-14T23:43:00.000+08:002006-10-31T14:16:21.357+08:00

Word-weaver. On quiet mornings, Ayen's sleepy eyes open and he rushes to the keyboard running after words he faintly heard, if only his 60-word per minute fingers can catch them, before they fade into silence. He likes to think that his MA Creative Writing classes at UP Diliman are either smoothening his prose or jacking up his typing skills.The domesticated man. To Ayen and his wife, Anne, their

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155485498242811392006-08-14T00:09:00.000+08:002006-10-31T14:16:32.563+08:00

The last person you want to confide in is the guy in the mirror. When you confess, he's not interested; he knows it already, whatever it is. When you confess anyway, he gets bored and shoots you accusing looks: you're being melodramatic. When you close your eyes, he's gone, but he's really there, seeing you for the sham that you are. When you turn the other cheek, you see exactly that cheek, and

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155673946804386532006-08-07T13:24:00.000+08:002006-10-28T21:47:34.640+08:00

We locked ourselves in this morning. The frontdoor lock died on us. The knob from the inside turned this way and that, but the door wouldn't budge. Dumar toyed with the lock this morning, the silver-finish one that I bought yesterday, because we had foreseen that that lock was giving in, which it did this morning, the moment Dumar touched it. Dumar is our boarder-turned-little-brother, only that

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155589022496828292006-08-07T00:37:00.000+08:002006-11-01T15:48:02.166+08:00

Day six of life after we kicked out the maid. What is it, what is it that my wife and I keep doing recently? Oh chores. Wait. My back is telling me something. Oh, that it hurts. Househelp, I tell you, needs to be replaced, like used-up batteries, every so often. Every three months would be good. Polite and effortful they come to you. Then the weeks go by and their annoying habits and ways of

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155589378455120172006-08-05T14:41:00.000+08:002006-10-28T21:48:57.903+08:00

I've asked my wife to buy another rice cooker, because I've turned to cinders the last two cookings of rice I've tried to perfect. You really shouldn't deal with the assembly of food when you are tired. Food are sensitive. They feel you. Plants wither around depressed people and love birds die when housed in a cage inside a home where a couple does nothing but stab each other with invectives. The

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155589585281802072006-07-31T23:49:00.000+08:002006-11-23T14:54:23.170+08:00

Though his mask hid his face, Erwin's jaw dropped. Above the San Francisco bridge, the Hob Goblin dangled his screaming girlfriend with his right hand, while aiming the other at the traffic below. "Noooo!" Erwin screamed, his voice muffled by the winds. The Goblin let out a sarcastic laugh. He truly was enjoying this. Erwin's muscles tightened. Standing on one of the bridge's thick support wires,

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155674128336953802006-07-28T20:14:00.000+08:002007-08-14T23:34:39.709+08:00

Siege woke up with a fork stabbed on his right leg, just above his knee, while the drunken scent and snores of naked Latino men and women hung all around him, on a love bed so large and so soft he felt he would drown. He lifted the dead-weight of an arm of a woman hugging his waist. Where are my pants? he thought. Siege flicked his head and shook it. He ran his hand through his hair. Pizza. He

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155676985862399962006-07-26T10:31:00.000+08:002006-10-28T21:50:08.632+08:00

Teacher Noel's heart skipped a beat when he saw the rows of girls all in skirts. The permutations shocked him. Christmas morning came early.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155741038412402482006-07-26T10:24:00.000+08:002006-10-28T21:50:20.000+08:00

Storm's gone. I miss it already. I was forced, yesterday, to use this one umbrella, a really big one, with the signature colors and seal of my alma mater, the kind of memento you keep in boxes that age in your attic. My wife had brought with her one of our umbrellas, and I had ruined my green one last rainy season--never got it fixed--and it was pouring yesterday, what with those hard winds

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155743842440345572006-07-24T00:12:00.000+08:002006-11-01T15:56:00.002+08:00

Ramirez could barely see through the blood in his eyes. He smelled his own stink, tasted his own blood, everything he ate and drank had gushed out, and when a switch fell down voltage routed his whole being, sending a thousand tiny painful simultaneous stabs to his core, his feet kicking puddles of his own piss and shit; he would scream if he could, but even lifting his eyelids open needed the

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155744157171369822006-07-21T21:03:00.000+08:002006-10-28T21:51:12.292+08:00

CamilleA veiled woman walking down the street caught my eye. So still were her shoulders when she walked. The air around me thickened. A breeze unveiled her face, undressing her long hair and I couldn't breathe or move at the sight of her. "Shoot to kill!" my captain roared from behind me. "She's the infidel we're looking for!" AbiShe poured a spoonful of the skull-marked bottle and swallowed it.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155846578212036292006-07-19T23:20:00.000+08:002006-10-31T14:12:32.464+08:00

After an ear infection that sidelined with me at home, I'm back in the lounge that is my new workplace. I call it that, a lounge. So relaxing. My corner inside its inner room is stuffed with a large box filled with my stuff, one so big I have to sort them out tomorrow. Because I'm a sloth and disorganized, the lounge people did me and themselves a favor: they bundled and shoved together all of my

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155915127415309852006-07-16T23:31:00.000+08:002006-08-18T23:32:07.416+08:00

2006. school's in.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155915005150429762006-07-16T23:28:00.000+08:002006-08-18T23:30:05.150+08:00

2006. flight of stares. promise of rain.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155914765739856012006-07-16T23:22:00.000+08:002006-08-18T23:26:05.740+08:00

2006. exile. 2004. in my mind.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31306518.post-1155915302296814452006-07-16T22:32:00.000+08:002006-08-18T23:59:06.873+08:00

2006. replacing the lock with sandwiches, or just how tired i am this morning. allergic to maids. how to apologize to rice. boots. regardless.

Ayenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295308173652385536noreply@blogger.com0