Memoirs of Dementia #5

Pandora's Box

Leonardo da Vinci had opened the Pandora's Box. And everything inside is the same secret behind Mona Lisa's smile. I know that secret; it is the secret of the universe. And it contains legions upon legions of both angels and demons. The squadrons of angels and demons are sitting quietly in that box, full of a million futures and a million possibilities. Leonardo knew all the contents of the box, but he used it for the good. He turned himself into the Renaissance Man: the scientist, the artist, the designer. He knew his power to create unlimited things as long as his mortal body could sustain. He didn't marry because he was doomed to design a million ideas and a million inventions. Albert Einstein, on the other hand, knew the same secret. But he used it the other way around. He built the atom bomb for the Nazi.

I've opened the same Pandora's Box two days ago. In my last post, dated three days ago, I mentioned the same box, but I didn't know what the hell was inside. It was a box of many curious things. It was the box that killed Schrödinger's cat.

The first time my mind opened up to it, ribbons of rainbows flew and soared across vast empty space, the flying rainbows building roads and highways in an endless display of wild and roaming daydreams. 8-bit music played in the background. I was the protagonist in the arcade Fry was playing in the first scene of the first episode of the first season of Futurama. I beat King Kong and I scored. Bling bling bling! said the machine. Coins showered down the floor.

That was the beginning.

The Pink Pill

It sat in the dead center of my left hand, the pink pill. The size of a toenail, it was fat and squat, like a flattened egg. That was the pill in my hand, my hand attached to my body, my body in the kitchen, and the door was open, and I was about to get a cup of water.

Seven steps away from me was a drawer cabinet. Inside the top drawer is the foil pack where the other pink pills were humming, pretending to be eggs bearing androgynous angels of good deeds. At the back of the foil pack are purple texts that say:

SODIUM VALPROATE
VALPORIC ACID
VALRPOS (R)
500 mg
CONTROLLED
RELEASE TABLET

I dug the internet and found out that the pink pill kills babies in pregnant women. Irreversible mental retardation among kids, the kids all boxed up in their zombified bodies and brains, without a spark of hope to be alive. They're stuck in eternal nothingness. Limbo. That's why I hadn't been drinking the drug. I knew it was poison.

According to Wikipedia:

Sodium Valproate is the sodium salt of valproic acid and is an anticonvulsant used in the treatment of epilepsy, anorexia nervosa, panic attack, anxiety disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, migraine and bipolar disorder, as well as other psychiatric conditions requiring the administration of a mood stabilizer. Sodium valproate can be used to control acute episodes of mania and acute stress reaction. Side effects can include tiredness, tremors, nausea, vomiting, and sedation. The intravenous formulations are used when oral administration is not possible.

Yesterday though I had another hypomanic attack. Everything was rainbows and purple clouds and teddy bears and green rolling hills with huts and little trees and a steady stream of pure water. It's the same feeling of a deluded bum on the beach, talking in slow motion and flashing the peace sign, his eyes glinting behind dark glasses. I don't do ganja, but it was a similar feeling, except that mine was hyperactive. I was bursting with so much mental energy. And it was even aggravated when I sniffed the freshly opened black notebook that I just bought. It smelled like heaven. SNIFF. AHHH. Pure and absolute bliss.

All I wanted last night was to get some fucking sleep. Maybe my sister and my boss and my ex-boyfriend were right. Maybe I should just take the pill all this time. To turn things back to the way it used to be, before I started working as a travel writer.

Before this job began, my mind was inside the Pandora's Box. It's all dark and comfy inside it was as if I was sleeping inside a coffin. That was me before, and that's me again now. I'm back to being apathetic and grumpy and bitchy and cynical. Of course, my wit is back and so is my focus.

But that's not all there is to it.

Back to the pink pill in my hand. My hand attached to my body, my body standing in the kitchen next to the kitchen counter. I forgot to say I was holding a black cup in my right hand. I poured water in the cup, put the pill in my mouth, and shot my head back with the water. The pill was so horrible it bore the taste of cyanide.

And then I sat in front of the computer to watch the latest episode of The Big Bang. On the computer screen, the girls are dancing in a taxi going to Las Vegas. The boys are in the apartment celebrating the absence of the girls by playing Dungeons and Dragons. For a fleeting moment, I missed watching Futurama. The Big Bang was nothing artistic compared to Futurama. The Big Bang is for the masses; Futurama, for unapologetic intellectual bastards like myself.

Ten minutes into the episode, my head was beginning to grow heavy. It felt like a small tumor was planted in my skull, and the tumor was expanding. And then in a snap, my brain was being paddled to death, in a hazing. The pain was the worst nightmare of my life. It was even worse than burning myself alive in 2007. My body shook and the torment showed its signs. My body was rejecting the drug, and I vomited like a toilet egressing pure black and evil shit into a canal. I spit phlegm and frothed saliva and a smudge of pink, although the pill never came out. It slid down the bowels of my stomach, and my stomach swallowed it without a choice.

My ex-boyfriend ran to my apartment to comfort me. He put me in bed, where I wailed and shrieked and writhed in pain. My cries permeated through the molecular structures of the walls of my room, echoing off the village like a sonic boom. I was pain personified.

In the midst of it all, I remembered: I have friends who smoke pot. I flew out of bed, grabbed my phone from kitchen, and punched "Call" on B's number. But my head was in so much pain I started wailing and shrieking again, in the kitchen. It was no different than being given the electric shocks of a death sentence. Like a heartbeat chart, the shocks came in spasms, in between which I cursed and slandered the Dr. Frankenstein who created the goddamned drug. M, the ex-boyfriend, took the phone and waited for B to answer. M explained my condition and said he needed some pot now. But B was driving, on the way to neverland. So, never mind. M called one of his friends. In 10 minutes, C crashed in with the gift of freedom. He had a clear sachet of dried herbs in his hand. I was saved.

C rolled a foil into a pipe. While he was building it, I wailed and shrieked again into the chest of my ex-boyfriend. My ex still loves me, he loves me incorruptibly, without question. He is addicted to all my warts and bruises, and I am his only hope to go on breathing. But I kicked him out my life because he bores me now. He's a piece of rubik's cube that I solved in five years. He wasn't called Mindtwist for nothing. But he makes me feel empty. After solving him, all my love drained away. Not a single drop was left behind. We were over. And that was that.

I was shivering and chattering while C himself rattled, building the foil into a tube. Finally, he finished building one, but the foil and paper were on the wrong side, so he ran out and took another film of aluminum foil from the cigarette packet from the store next to my apartment. This time, the build was right and I smoked my first joint. He apologized for the delay; he was himself getting paranoid.

The first puff of the herb cleared my head right away. The thick black fog lifted from my skull. The coffin lid was opened, and I shot up, blinked, resurrected. The rest of the evening, the herb battled with the pink pill. Chemicals zapped and surged like chaos inside my body; it was a battleground of angels and demons. Which side won? I wouldn't want to find out.

The Pothead Princess

The rest of the evening until 4 am, which is a little over three hours ago, I went into a trance. I listened to a playlist of ambient music while crouching in a fetal position in bed. My ex-boyfriend hugged me from behind. I didn't want him there, but I had no one at the moment so I had no choice. I couldn't be left alone.

The whole night I don't know whether or not I slept. I feel energized and revitalized when I hopped out of bed to document this evil pill and the corruption of the pharmaceutical drug industry. I had lucid dreams, I was surfing through the waves of the cosmos and I was wide awake, the music playing, and the visions flying. It's the next level after the ribbons of rainbows and teddy bears. The herb was rocking me into a lullaby. Ganja was incorruptibly good, and I was the pothead princess.

I don't want to write my visions. It's too good to share with people. The visions are the same things in the Pandora's Box, the same secret behind Mona Lisa's smile, the same secret behind Leonardo's limitless inventions. The visions will be the highlight of the book I'm writing. I'll just tell you one thing: it is the vision of everlasting freedom. Heaven on Earth. The book will turn everyone into a Renaissance Man. The Philippines is in the dark ages, and the age of enlightenment is coming. And it all begins in that thick black book.

I am doomed to write.

20.05.13

Memoirs of Dementia #4

Uncontrollable thoughts on hyperdrive speed I cannot suppress them, repress with alcohol, or even grant myself a blink of sleep--several decades ago "bipolar disorder" was not existent. Okay, it did exist, but in the name of "manic-depressive disorder". I still can't wrap and fold my head around it like a neatly covered present for Christmas. After solving each and every problem in my life, this bipolar thing remains a Pandora's Box to me. I don't know what's inside.

Mining information from the internet isn't even enough.

I don't believe I have that disease because it just comes in bouts, like flu. Often times I am normal, but the past two months gave me four episodes--four manic attacks, two of which were followed by depression. The other two I guzzled a bottle of Tanduay rum to gunshot myself to sleep. I'm immune to Red Horse already. I need liquor more potent. Fundador, which also happened to be my father's choice of weapon, is probably the best palliative. The only problem is, it bores a wormhole in my wallet. And the wormhole is attached to my bank account.

But then again, I would like to believe I am a normal human being with no psychosis whatsoever. Close friends and relatives would not even believe I'm brainsick, unless of course, I shove all my third-degree burn scars in their faces and tell them the real story. I wouldn't burn myself alive in normal circumstances, would I? Would you?

Back to liquor, how can I not survive without liquor? It calms me down when high, and improves my mood when low. I've met all my closest friends during binges. Everything that I associate with frienship, love, and building relationships, is automatically scotchtaped and labeled with liquor. Even my travels and outdoor explorations are fueled with liquor. Most of my published manuscripts were fueled with liquor. Almost all things major in my life--unforgettable memories, forgotten memories, as well as major accidents--spring from liquor.

So when my therapist told me to quit liquor, my whole life crashed before my eyes. It didn't just crash; the bullet inside me crumbled to gunpowder. Drinking is an extended journey to suicide. But drinking is my way of living.

What the hell am I going to do?

On the side note, the red gallery at the National Museum depicts this Filipino-Spanish war in Ilocos, where the cause of the war was the production of liquor.XD I forgot the details; I left my research notebooks in the office.

Anyway, all I can recall is, the war called the Basi Revolt sprung from the production of basi, a wine locally fermented from the sugarcane in Vigan, back in the 18th century. A national treasure, the story is told in about 14 panels of amateur paintings with misguided perspective. It's like reading a comicbook from the olde days yore.XD

The Ilocanos in Vigan back then subsisted on liquor. Liquor production was their way of living, working, communing with each other and with the earth. They harnessed the pleasurable potential of sugarcane, selling some and drinking some. A whole community in Vigan thrived and flourished, like the idle pleasure-seeking simple folk that they were, on liquor.

The problem was, the Spaniards found the basi production preposterous, and with their power, authority, and goddamn guns and knives, taxed and regulated liquor so they could control the entire industry. The Spaniards even produced an alternative liquor from Spain.XD The Filipinos, however, were so adamant with their love for basi that they offered their heads to it. Of course, this was through the revolt. Their heads were placed in cages and hung around a plaza for everyone else to see, be frightened of, and surrender themselves to the spells of the Spanish race of power-hungry savages.

A bit of history otherwise untold in our yawner textbooks. Maybe Filipinos are natural drunkards. We inhale and exhale drunkenness. And hedonism.

So: back to the coping.XD It's the perfect mood stabilizer, this magic potion, but I'm getting hooked. I've been hooked and unhooked several times since I was 13 years old (indeed, I was hooked pretty young) but completely taking it out my system is close to unimaginable.

It runs in the genes.

Just last year, my uncle (dad's brother) died of cirrhosis. In 2004, my father passed away from the same illness. My grandfather was similarly alcoholic but died of diabetes. Had he not died of diabetes, he would've similarly died of alcoholism.

I don't want to die young. I'd only accept death once my book is published. At the moment the book is muffled and caged in my head. I wrote some, the first chapter, but it's just a sketch. The outline though is already fleshed out. I'd need one year to research, about three months to write, and another three months to polish. That is, if I have all the time in the world and if I'm not preoccupied with anything else. Which may be close to impossible.XD Fine, I'd give myself three years to write. After that I wouldn't give a flying fuck, about everything, anymore. I'd throw myself to years of traveling in a desert. Or maybe I will give a fuck. I don't know.

A week ago I tried quitting liquor. After all, I was successful in quitting cigarette smoking. I quit smoking on November 4, 2012, after watching the documentary The Tobacco Conspiracy. Anyone wanting to quit that despicable, disgusting, and destructive habit should see that film. It took me about eight years to quit smoking; and running regularly through the application requirements of UP Mountaineers finally shut out the goddamn addiction.

Admit it, smoking is the most HORRIBLY DISGUSTING addiction--aye, poison--in the whole damn world.

But quitting liquor is another story. I struggled a week without a drop of liquor, and drove myself nuts. It's a primal need the same way I'd look at food and books and travel. I simply have to goddamn drink.

For now I'm just managing my drinking problems. I limit myself to one bottle of Red Horse a day--okay that's a lie XD--two bottles of Red Horse a day. There are some days that I don't drink but when the drinking comes back, the liquor courses through me in tidal waves. Intoxication. It's always a celebration. And there's always a reason to celebrate.

18.05.13

La Solidaridad

Had the honor to chat with Francisco Sionil Jose yesterday, the National Artist for Literature. I don't read his works, mind. After reading some of his essays and short stories back at the university, I thought he's a lousy writer.XD But he doesn't care. He doesn't write for me. He writes of the masses. For the legions of dunderheads in the country. Is why he is the most widely read novelist in the Philippines.

Yesterday together with two volunteer writers, two volunteer photographers, and our Creative Lead, we barged into Jose's bookstore, the Solidaridad Bookshop along Padre Faura Street in Manila, and climbed up the narrow stairs to his residence on the third floor. At 88 years old, Jose was heavyset and jolly, and reminded me of a Chinese Santa Claus. We sat around his dining table, where Ninoy Aquino and other National Artists used to sit and debate about literature, art, philosophy, politics, and what have you.

We were supposed to just talk about the bookstore, but the interview rambled on to writing, traveling, economics, and politics. Apparently, Jose was a good friend of my former boss, the Senator whom I used to ghostwrite speeches for. For almost two hours, Jose gripped the attention of our volunteers while I shrunk and wriggled in my seat because I had to fucking pee. I didn't want to look like a smartass by walking out. I thought that if I'd burst and sprinkle urine all over the place, then let it be.

The things Jose talked about were nothing new to me; I'm just glad he set our volunteers on fire.XD Even Jakeson, our photographer volunteer, fished a pen and paper out his backpack to record what Jose was saying. His little speech was too good and liberating to just leave in the air and die.

At the end of our interview though I did mention I was writing a book.

"What's the book about?" Jose said.

"Well," I said, hesitating, "I don't want to tell anyone because I might not be able to write the rest of it."

"No!" he said. "What do you mean don't tell anyone? You have to tell people about it. You have to discuss it!"

While the verve of the interview was common to thinkers like myself, that bit of conversation unplugged my mind from my book and got me thinking: I should visit him again, with bribes of food and drinks and stories, to discuss about the book I'm writing about.XD

Jose said, "I don't think I will see the revolution in my lifetime."

I didn't want to cut him off and wake him up from his nostalgia, but I know that he will see the revolution in his lifetime. Just hang in there, old man, and clutch onto life with all the force your fragile, wrinkled body can permit.

12.05.13