For Alexandria

Dreams are such sordid affairs to deal with, but We must deal with them, especially if a beloved figure arises from such a rather forgettable phantasm. That She, of all girls, should appear--and cordially--to me during one adventure of Ours last night, is truly a sign to behold. And to Our merit this time We were not a mere observer, but We hugged her tight just as she was knocking on the door to complain of somesuch predilection of Ours. This was never even inconceivable even in those days when Our desire for her was such that despair almost crystallized into Our own paralytic body. Maybe it's simply Our mind telling us that We were now in such a state of desire that We can unconsciously make physical contact with her, whether she despises it or not. Society would dictate that this is an abhorrent act to do, but given three shots o' gin, or some other spirit that needs a pirate's cup, We shall not hesitate to embrace Her.

Whatever clean inspiration We have gotten from this remarkable imaginary scene, it did drive Us into rethinking, and eventually retelling the stories of Our endeavor, which is now exactly three weeks into Our promised deadline. We dare change it because the renovated sequences will make the story simpler, though We certainly hope that Our subconscious will not devolve the work into a cheap Dumas imitation.

We shall work these lonely nights for the enlightenment of lonelier minds.

The Return

You were supposed to have passed out in a forest. Which is why you’re now expecting to see trees above you. But there are none.

Aaaggghhh! The pain!

You must be by the river—you can hear the water crashing.

You try to turn to your right even as you’re lying on the ground, but the incredible pain is taking away every ounce of strength you need to make the move. You look sideways, frustrated, and now pass out.

Wait!

Was that a black cloak?

With tears in your eyes you look sideways again: it is a black cloak!

The Roseman!

Your hands, despite your weapon, scramble for a weapon to hold. Where’s the sword?

Your left hand got hold of a sharp rock, but now, of all times, you hesitate: he must have been watching you for some time, maybe just waiting for you to wake up. But why? I should play dead.

Heck. It’s now or never.

The rock flies wobblingly into the air, and it seems it just might really hit him.

A sword.

Out of nowhere a woman has drawn the blade to deflect your missile. And she succeeds, your rock ending up in the river.

And what a drop-dead gorgeous woman this is: a rather pale complexion, with curly hair and almond eyes, a straight nose and rosy lips. Her dress quite hugs her figure from the neck down to the hips, from which thereon her ruffled skirt would give no further details.

She walks to your side, and puts a foot on your chest. For a moment you would have wanted to take a peek inside her skirt; a little breeze could help…

But then she presses on.

“I’m wearing pantaloons, thank you very much for the concern,” a girlish voice spoke. She now digs into the ground with her sword, just right beside your neck.

“He with you?” you resignedly ask.

“Ain’t that obvious?”

“Why didn’t I see you when we were fighting?”

“Because dealing with you was his job. Now get up.”

You try to sit up, but then again you cringe in pain. And then you remember why it hurt so bad.

You’ve got wings.

The woman had left to approach the Roseman. She whispered a few words, to which none the Roseman expressed anything.

She returns, not to help, but to whack their hostage’s head with her sword hilt.

***

Sandy woke up again, this time in a room. In a bed. With blankets. And bandages. That last blow to the head was still aching.

Where am I?

He tried to sit again. In doing so he placed his left hand upon the bed in such a manner that it would support his torso’s ascent, like a piston pushing the opposite direction.

But in doing so he unthinkably placed his hand where his wing was.

As his back rose, the wing, almost severed from a wound dealt by the Roseman, completely tore off.

Sandy could hardly breathe.

A cry rang out of the house.

And townsfolk rushed into old Raphael’s shack.

When they charged in, they saw Sandy inconsolable – and uncontrollable. He was rolling on the bed, pressing on his wings like some baker’s roller. Blood was everywhere.

Then someone oh so loudly suggested, “Call Dr. Ansashi!”

***

Ansashi was treating a toddler with a cough when a man came running to his clinic. “Sandy’s been found and is bleeding inside Raphael’s house!”

Raphael’s house? Wasn’t Raphael suspected to be a Unionist? Ansashi thought. He had an intense dislike for the poor man, but then he hated all poor people. But especially this rascal, whose debts to Ansashi the doctor never forgot. All poor men hate the Republic; let them be beheaded for their uselessness and their disloyalty!

Suddenly Ansashi had abandoned the toddler, who was also of a poor family. He told the mother, “Just get your child to drink tea with a pinch of salt every day for the next seven days. Now get out!” He pushed them out, closed his clinic for the day, and bringing his surgical apparatus he dragged his great weight into an old enemy’s abode.

Lord Okamoto’s going to reward me again, Ansashi thought. Run, Ansashi, drag your fat ass into the town… ‘tis worth another three gold coins! An angel for a patient!

A Most Intriguing System of Wisdom

Clouds Light and Heavy

"This just in boys," announced Katsurada, "the Roseman is two towns away from us."

Everyone's eyes went ablaze. Some became excited, some dreaded the news, and some were simply surprised. Legend or not, their attention was transfixed into this latest development of the Unionist menace.

"In a week or two we may find ourselves dead like all his other victims," warned the captain, "and that is more of a possibility than us barely surviving or the Roseman passing through this town without touching a single hair on our head. If he proceeds to Martimort via the river, consider it the luckiest day of your lives."

"Aren't we supposed to be arresting the guy?" asked Nanda the rich man who was sitting behind the rest of the group.

"Keep your heroics to yourself, Nanda," the captain sternly retorted. "I know that his is the most prized head in the Republic, and that it is very cowardly of me to say things such as being spared by the Roseman and all, but capturing him is beyond our powers. We need the help of the neighboring towns. Alone the best thing we can do is hope that the damn Unionists have not thought of us as the Roseman's next victims. But of course, we'll have to engage the Roseman if he enters Povoir."

"But isn't that what we volunteered for?" asked Polo, a veteran of the last war. "To defend this town by tacking down the Sichamers?"

Murmurs, murmurs.

Katsurada looked at Polo squarely in the eye and said, "Polo, you cover the entire troop once the Roseman enters this town."

"With pleasure," Polo cockily replied.

***

“Sandy, fetch your sister from the market. She’d be carrying a lot of things on the way home.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And don’t try jumping off the cliff. We’re not sure if you can descend safely from that height.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And stop giving away your feathers.”

Sandy looked at his left wing. A lot of featherless parts. His feathers would only fall off if a replacement is growing, and right now his left wing was almost naked. He had given his feathers to cute ladies, to the children. Sometimes the children—and even passersby—would be naughty enough to steal from him.

He sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

He stepped out of the house.

Almost overnight he had assumed a new identity, an identity he neither wanted nor liked. He just wanted to be Sandy, Special Defender the Republic against the Unionist threat. He liked the morning sun, good food, and his sword. He had wanted to be an angel when he was young, but that was years ago. Now he just wanted to serve the town, make his family proud of him, and live a normal life. Fate can be cruel.

He walked towards the market, but before he had gotten there, there was his sister, accompanied by a young porter who seems to have been talking all the while, seemingly trying to start a conversation with her.

***

He walked into the bar defeated. But this was not an assurance that the place was going to be quiet tonight. On the contrary, any news of a jilted love in the town of Povoir was an occasion for the men of the town to have a raunchy, and sometimes bloody, evening.

The lover did not settle into the counter alone. With him were uniformed men – though the lover was not himself of the uniform. One of these fearsome chaperons ordered, “A barrel of beer on me, Eddie!”

“You haven’t paid the last two orders of yours, Sarge,” came the swift reply.

“Beh! Do only the beautiful people get to weep with their love? Even monkeys have feelings too!” Laughter.

“Hear, hear!” the other patrolmen cheerfully shouted. “A barrel of beer!”

The young bartender angrily muttered to himself as he left to get their order.

“Cheer up, Canavero, there are still a lot of lowers in the field,” said Ned while patting his seatmate. “Tonight we celebrate, tomorrow is another date!”

“Just don’t come near my girl, Canavero,” said the fat patrolman by the window. “Otherwise I’ll cut your little monkey’s dick off.”

“Whoa, whoa!” sniped the others.

“Which is larger, the pig’s dick, or the monkey’s?” retorted Ned, itching for a fight with Rendermein.

The laughter was still there, but everyone knew that a duel had just been proposed. Fellow Sabeurreini tried to shout down Ned’s insult, but Rendermein the pig stood up and approached his heckler. “Maybe you’d like to see it outside, teenie-weenie,” he softly said.

Everyone wanted to be in the middle, but nobody actually did. Then out of nowhere Katsurada emerged, thrusting his sword through the space between his two men, saying, “You surrender your swords before you go outside. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”

Still eyeing each other, they replied, “Agreed.” Rendermein finally went back to his seat by the window; Ned turned to face the counter again.

Eddie finally reappeared with the group’s barrel of beer. He began serving the glasses.

Ouchiyama came from behind and patted Canavero’s back. “You can still chase that horse Mizuka if you want.” Then, facing Ned, he said, “Lord knows what their baby’s gonna be – a horse dangling on a tree!” He whacked Canavero’s back before returning to his own table.

The poor servant could only weep by himself. He had been accustomed to the vicious jokes of these men, who had employed him and had saved him more than once from charges of theft and trespassing. But since when had they ever been in control of what happens to his personal life? Just now?

Eight o’clock.

Ouchiyama went out to take another soldier, Hiroya, to the latter’s home.

Nine o’clock.

Ten o’clock.

Eleven o’clock.

The men were getting rowdy. Almost everyone had given a speech, a song, or a joke to make fun of Canavero and entertain everybody else. Just when everybody had thought everybody else had forgotten,

“When will you, Rendie, be showing your enormous dick?!”

A malevolent cheer erupted. Both men had been talking with other people, but upon hearing the reminder they excused themselves and stepped outside, where they were blocked by their captain. “Swords, please,” the ever-stern Katsurada said. They gave up their swords.

“Do it behind the bar, and don’t touch Eddie’s bottles. One cracked bottle and I will have the bottle ground and have you both swallow it. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” Alcohol was just another spirit.

The men in uniform went out to follow the duelists.

The two found their spot, a dark alley filled with crates and smashed bottles. Just as Ned was about to throw a punch to Rendermein, he noticed an outstretched arm in a dark part of the alley. He shivered, giving enough time for Rendermein to land a fist on his face. Ned collapsed immediately.

“You want to see my fucking dick, huh? I’ll let you swallow it after I break your jaw. Then I’ll take a leak inside your…”

Ned, though badly shaken by the preliminary blow, did not fight back. Horrified of what he alone was seeing he tried to point to the hidden corpse, but was quickly downed again by Rendermein.

Rendermein collared him, and with a furious roar threw Ned into the very spot of the hidden corpse.

The mess that followed shocked them all.

Everyone saw the body, with the fallen Ned on top of it.

"It's Ouchiyama!"

They had pulled Ned away from the body, and removed the pile of garbage that had initially covered their dead comrade. Rendermein in his horror had stumbled and fell on his butt.

Ouchiyama's body bore deep sword slashes. Almost at once, they feared the one man known for this.

Something was protruding out of the man's chest wound.

A rose petal.

"Oh God," as they all retreated. Several turned their eyes away from the gruesome sight.

These men, many of them battle-hardened, now pained themselves with the atrociousness of their enemy's work. The sight was simply unbearable. Ouchiyama still had his face, but it had been skinned from the left side and was now dangling, with the right side to keep it from falling. Apparently the murderer had time to play with the corpse. His slash wounds were no better; besides the rose inside the chest, Ouchiyama's entrails were exposed, not out of his belly, but out of his back.

The men, drunk and smarting for a fight between Ned and Rendermein, now found themselves revolting. "Let's go after him!" "He's in town!" "Avenge Ouchiyama!" They all marched into the streets,  including Ned, and Rendermein, starting an impromptu search for the Roseman in the entire town.

If you're wondering where Captain Katsurada was in all of this, he had merely been following them., from the bar to the back alley. No use calming a bunch of drunk swordsmen. He had given Ned and Rendermein their swords, and let them on this unplanned night search. After all, this is what they should have been all doing tonight, instead of "brooding" over a servant's love problem.

They combed every alley, knocked on doors, and pronged their swords into every suspected alcove and corner.

And then disaster struck again.

Rendermein had reached Hiroya's house. He knocked on the door. "Mrs. Hiroya?"

A homely woman opened it for him. "Yes? Where's Hiroya? Is he alright?"

Rendermein was surprised. "Hiroya's not here?"

"No. I thought you were with him--"

Rendermein ran to the others. "Hiroya never made it home."

For Aaron Marlowe

This bloody headache is driving Us mad... Maybe it's the inevitable compound of Our house arrest and the sudden task of disinfecting the dogs of their damn ticks. The head, which is an indispensable aide to the task of writing, throbs most intolerably, and instead of being able to honor engagements and also to write at least two chapters by which We could've advanced Our destiny, I am now restrained by physical weakness.

We should wish for the cough to cease, as it does not help in the jerking of Our head every time the necessity to expel the undesirables comes, but We have chosen to refrain from taking medicine for two reasons: We have yet to satisfy Our newly-discovered ability to reach unreachable notes, and more importantly, We do not deem Ourself as worthy of taking expense in this family's medical resources. Until We have found an occupation and the money starts flowing in, We should be parsimonious as to every need which occurs.

Damn brain, We're now at a loss for words. We shall try to sleep now; but it would be most helpful if our great collaborator Mlle. L.M. come around for at least a short chat. At least  We won't be dreaming of incessant running again, but have Our dreams filled with Plato's forms. Otherwise, ta ta!

A Promise Is a Promise Kept in Check

Today I start my seventeen-day whiling-away period from Facebook. I must admit I've been addicted to the online network since last year, no thanks to the emotional turmoils that upset my life during the same time. Now I've found some solace in the collaboration of a friend, and I've decided to spend a lot less time on FB and more time filling this other avenue for expression with my thoughts and eccentricities.

I'm hoping that in this seventeen-day retreat from being the loudmouth that I am in FB I can finally push myself to concentrate on the book that is due next month. I wonder how Bianca will react to the possibility of my failing to meet the deadline for the book. While I have no serious attachment to the girl besides my sharing to her the ambition of writing a book, I feel pressured to finish the book with a devil-may-care attitude. A deadline is a deadline, and it is my voluntary acceptance of the deadline that compels me to beat it, not the possibility of her gloating over my failure, or disappointment and disbelief of me for the same. Sigh.

For Julius Oigimer

Blame Ms. Lizette for this. (Just kidding, Mom... You know how grateful I am for learning this from you. :))

The current Wikileaks controversy and the multinational efforts to deter it from continuing to make the stolen cables accessible seems to be a rehearsal for containing rebellious human beings before the community of nations plan to enforce their plans for an ersatz world domination. I cannot help but wonder to what extent will these opponents of Wikileaks work to suppress this manifestation of their systems' loophole. And I'm already wondering whether retribution will eventually fall not only on Assange and the defenders of free access to information, but even those who have successfully copied the Insurance file and even those who had the slightest access to and support for Wikileaks. The Matrix, it seems, is at hand.

A Strange Act of Salvation

“I swore that I will never kill again.”

The clash of swords was inevitable.

“No…. no… no… Don’t do it…Please…”

The enemy was less than a feet away. And yet Denis had not raised his sword in front of him. He was deluded, sick, and unwilling to fight.

The Roseman pivoted before crouching to hit his target on the legs; but then suddenly he hesitated and thrust his sword onto Denis’s face.

“No!!!”

Within a split-second the sick lad swung his blade to block the thrust. The Roseman’s sword wavered, giving enough room for Denis to take a step backward and recover his personal space.

The Roseman himself leaped backwards, and then lunged again.”

“I can’t fight you…”

“No one told you to fight,” came a reply, seemingly from the assassin.

He brushed his blade against the already raised sword of Denis, retreating again, and then lunging again.

“They expected you to die, that’s why they sent you here. To be the hero they could worship. Don’t you get it?” The enemy was tormenting him with his words more than his blows.

Denis cried out.

And then suddenly he came lashing out at the Roseman, a strange sight, because the Roseman was slowly taking steps back.

But it was all a play. With one strafing move, the Roseman dealt a blow under Denis’s left arm, and the soldier wailed in agony as he fell. Remarkably the Roseman did not follow up on his blow. He lowered his sword, and watched the all-too-familiar sight of a slow death.

The flesh under Denis’s arm breathed, squirting blood in the process, and also revealing the young man’s diseased skin. The maggots were gushing out more slowly than the blood.

Denis remembered his friends again. Ned died on the same side as he now dies; Clem and Sandy had fought for this guy and died nevertheless. Are they, like so many thousand others, going to be remembered as just the victims of this devil incarnate?

He remembered the soft but morose face of Cham, how she wept at the news of her brother’s fall, Ned’s final duel with the Roseman, Clem’s insanity as he charged to defend the Roseman’s gang despite the lack of a Compass or Astrolabe or even a shield. Now, he, diseased that he was, was about to join his friends. Will Cham cry for him too?

He knew otherwise. I must defeat this bastard.

Blood and worms gushing from his side, he stood up, resolved, planting the sharp end of his sword into the sand to support him, and then swung the same blade in preparation for his strike.

“Long live the Republic! I love you, Cham! Aaaahhh!!!”

He charged like never before.

Strange thing was, the Roseman lost all sense of the drama and raised his hands before him as if to defend himself mockingly with only his arms.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Man, you don’t have to do that.” He was near chuckles.

Denis was stupefied. Keeping his sword raised above his head, he wondered, what the fuck? Here I charge and you defend yourself like some helpless jerk.

The Roseman was smiling, but not the terrifying smile he and his friends saw during their first encounter with him. He had begun laughing, and lowered his defenses by laughing so hard that he held his right torso as if to control the stitches that were paining him.

Oh God, oh God…. The assassin continued to laugh, and Denis began to feel insulted by the Roseman’s reaction to his charge.

Shit… He was about to strike this most fearsome enemy, but the guy was laughing so hard and gasping for breath because of the stitches that he had to stop. Roseman or not, I’m not going to kill him unarmed… as the Roseman had already dropped his weapon.

Maybe, this is my way out… to Cham, and to avoiding the fate of my friends… Denis thought. For some unknown reason the man was still rolling on the ground with his laughter that Denis had already decided to leave the place. He ran, trying to look back but hoping that the man will get killed by his stitches… an impossible thing, you idiot! Just get the fuck out of here!

For Marvin Dominic

A former student of mine once asked me what would be my emphasis in my preaching if ever I get to land myself on a pulpit as God's holy priest. Would it be heaven? salvation? damnation? I chuckled to myself and readily replied to him, "Love." Hahaha... After all these years of sacrifice for that damned subject, why should I veer away from it come the time I don the priestly vestments? After all, is not Christianity about love becoming flesh? Forget heaven and hell if you cannot even remember to love your neighbor for love's sake (which means for God's sake in the New Testament, since it categorically declares: "God is love" (1 Jn. 4:8).

Speaking of God being love, I've been imagining a heresy that I hope to incorporate in my book. I'm calling it Anti-predicationism, and according to it, God cannot be used as a predicate, only as subject. For example, for them, it is alright to predicate love to God, i.e., "God is love", but not the other way around, viz. "Love is God." It seems reminiscent to the transcendentalist view of the Muslims, who claim that God's mysteries are not a matter of human study. The pillar of Shahada seems to justify my opinion, as it unequivocally states that there is no God but Allah, and thus he cannot be equated to anything. Of course, I've definitely extended my little understanding of Islamic theology here, but I think it does present points to reflect on when we express God in human language. Linguists, O linguists, come to my rescue.

For Danice Jencelle

I find my penmanship these days amusing. As I write in a carelessly cursive manner, I cannot help but remember the various influences that shaped such scribble: my father's illegible handwriting, the numerous depictions of chicken-feet scratches of great writers in so many a movie, my attempts to imitate female handwriting during my high school days (in order to keep myself incognito as I write insults on the blackboard -- and yes, I did succeed!), and finally, the discipline imposed on me by my erstwhile work as a high school teacher. Yes, in those days I considered myself a genius who had the right to write illegibly: God knows how my poor readers managed to cope up with the flurry of ideas in hieroglyphic writing. But now that I've been sobered of the view, I keep my "marks of a genius" to myself, but I still find it so satisfying that even when I am stuck in what I write, just an appreciative glimpse at how I've just written the menacing thought and I'm back on track.

Coat-of-Arms

This will serve as my official coat-of-arms until I can have my own design made by some artist who's better than me. As I'm very poor with Photoshop, this is the best I can do for myself (my thanks to Wikipedia for the default coat-of-arms image for cardinals and the Bobone-Orsini family crest).

I adopted the Bobone-Orsini family coat-of-arms (this one was actually coat-of-arms of Pope Nicholas III, one of the three popes coming from that illustrious family) since I justified the use of the riddle-name "Cardinal Bobo" by adopting the persona of a real Cardinal Bobo, namely Giacinto Cardinal Bobone, who was also recorded as "Bobo" (see http://www2.fiu.edu/~mirandas/bios1144.htm#Bobone for more details of this already obscure Pope.) Though I have my personal interpretations for the elements of the Bobone-Orsini coat-of-arms, you can find the original meanings for yourselves in the Internet.

However, the motto "Deus Est Mea Libertas" is my own, and its meaning has been discussed in my article "God Is My Freedom," http://cardinaloftherevolution.blogspot.com/2010/11/god-is-my-freedom-c-october-2010.html.

I do deserve a coat-of-arms. Save your objections for now.

My 3 Most unforgettable Anime

Third Place, Gundam Wing.



Second Place, Neon Genesis Evangelion



First Place, Rurouni Kenshin.

The News

The news of the assassination of the prevant hit hard on the town of Povoir. The news had almost been a week late, but still it hit them hard, like a sandbag being thrown into each of their faces. Some were openly crying, some just expressed their sorrow as if it were shame, with heads bowed. No one dared look into the heavens that morning, though the people who felt the gravity of the news seemed to commend our illustrious victim to the ruler of that realm.

In mourning the town of Povoir listened to the herald who brought the news, with both silence and a seething hatred for the assassins. Never mind that their boy was neither their ruler nor even their citizen, the prevant was born and raised in this town, took up his seat in Parliament as their representative, and brought prestige to Povoir by becoming Prime Servant of the King and People of Noftiers. Even when his placating policies finally split the nation, which had been fighting a civil war for three years, into two –ironically severing himself from his constituents – Michael Doi was Povoir’s son.

Will he be buried here? they asked. No, the herald said. The King himself has declared that Doi belongs to the North now. He cannot be buried in the South, as this will be more expensive. Doi will be buried in a cemetery in Sichame.

Murmurs against the King.

You say that it was the Unionists? one asked. Aye, said the herald. Clamors for reprisal against the rebels erupted among the townspeople.

At this point the town mayor, who had been standing behind the herald, stepped up front, raised his hands as if to stop the cries for vengeance, saying, “I shall order our Sabeurreini to conduct raids to stamp out these evildoers from our town, and even in the neighboring towns, to avenge Prevant Doi and those who have fallen in the fight for our freedom.” This earned applause from the townspeople, although they have heard this from the mayor many times and the only thing that ever came out of these raids were a few broken swords, highway bandits and bums, and documents which they claim to be proofs of Unionist conspiracy in Povoir but could simply have been old paper waiting to used as fuel for their fires.

And as if on cue, right after the applause had died down, the clouds came and blackened the sky, and the people rushed to their homes.

And all this was happening just as the herald was about to announce that a collection was to be made, to be delivered “to Prevant Doi’s family.” The herald turned to the mayor to ask him to call the people back for this important announcement, but the mayor himself had gone. The herald was left alone in the town stage.

He tried looking for a soul in the streets, but nary a soul could he find. He walked out of the town, without a  new gold coin in his pocket.

The rains came.