spread - new underground guerrilla experimental art + literature

—entry 28 (sunday 12 september 2004) In which what meets when meeting where who meets why.

The hours drag like days and the days like years grown fat and foul and flabby.

—entry 27 (wednesday 23 july 2003) In which the bitch is back!

If you really belong here, you will come back...

—entry 26 (friday 10 january 2003) In which we meet in a circle complete.

Joysick. That is how I am these days. I eat happy, sleep happy, breathe happy, shit happy, I can now die happy. The daughter of man is born. Here comes the big bang. Slap your brakes and blow your horn. Upon this rock, everything else can hang.

—entry 25 (tuesday 9 april 2002) In which strange how we change.

The rumor is that I'm dead. Or: good as dead. Whichever is better. That may be so. But now I'm back. Back from where and from what I do not know. But this much I do know: I've grown bigger, stronger. My muscles tight as stone. A couple more years, you might think me as a mountain. Keep thinking, that is all you can do.

—entry 24 (wednesday 12 september 2001) In which what must happen has happened.

The dimensions must be exact. Six by six by six. Now go dig. Welcome the year of the pig.

—entry 23 (saturday 1 september 2001) In which the bastard waits late just to defecate.

The man is so full of shit. Just as i am full of shit. Just as you are shit. We all are shit. The world is a tub full of shit. Lifeshit. Birth and deathshit. And everything in between shit. So this is what means from shit to shit. Mothershit. Fathershit. Son. And holyghostshit There is simply no gap between this lap of crap. Man, I'm so tired of shitting. Try next day. I've got no more shit to say.

—entry 22 (tuesday 26 august 2001) In which all's well that ends like hell.

For a while there I must have spooked myself believing this is how we blow up only to gather the pieces by and by. One part heaven. Two parts hell.

Death's immaculate cocktail.

In a matter seconds, we know this could all be over. We also know that soon we will forget. Just as soon as we remember.

One part heaven. Two parts hell.

But for now, sit back and let the debits roll. We can always kill the devil later.

—entry 21 (friday 10 august 2001) In which the curse is broken and a baby girl is finally born.

It should come any way you cut it. It has to come any way we cut it. You've seen the future, little brother, and it is not murder.

—entry 20 (friday 29 june 2001) In which zen bastard rides again.

Finally I am spreading like gas. Mustard gas. Sarin gas. The gas of a thousand longganisas.

In this elemental state of matter, it is always wise to expect nothing substantial much less material---- at least nothing in the order of polar shifts and planetary misalignments, from which and through which all great changes come forth.

You are right: things may or may not get better. Which is, of course, saying nothing at all.

For what more can a gas say? And what more can a gas do? Well, there is one thing: The gas can always sing the song of camote. And longganisa. And estofadong pata.

So you see, there is really no cause for panic. If to some it would appear as though I am making a move, quite a move in fact: the movement, I reassure you, is mostly bowel.

—entry 19 (monday 1 january 2001) In which I tear this freshly cut year.

Bummer.

—entry 18 (thursday 26 october 2000) In which the bastard forgives himself for having offended thee.

It's been quite a while. Almost quite a long while. But it always does take a while, does it not? It always does. What was I doing? In my bed I welcome you all, take you all. I see you have done a great job, see you finally figured the puzzle. There is no puzzle, see__________________________________. But still good things happen to those who wait. Go fill in the blank. But give the man a minute. Something else needs burying.

—entry 17 (tuesday 3 october 2000) In which I cook the crook.

The ingredients are entirely up to you.
Use whatever is available.
Measure to taste or antitaste.
Innovate as you go by.
Drip dry.
Whip fry.
From here: vary carpal motion.
Dice, slice, oil, and boil.
Time for consistency
Set aside.
Add spit.
Serve while hot.
Cultivate disorder as a virtue.

—entry 16 (thursday 28 september 2000) In which the bastard cuts the mustard.

The deal is: to take whatever it throws at you, to give whatever it needs from you, to want nothing more, to seek nothing more, and when one has finally found it, believing it is really 'it' one has found, to believe and cease not believing, because that is all you have, all you really have, even when it seemed as though you had everything.

Throw the towel in. The monkey is dead.

—entry 15 (thursday 21 september 2000) In which tables are starting to turn and badmoon is rising.

Who was it that said, there are only two things certain in this world---- death and taxes? But even the dead take taxing. And the taxed? Well, the taxed may take their cold comforts with them when they die.

Your government has lost it and that is why it will lose.

—entry 14 (monday 31 august 2000) In which I hit timestreet to eat pancit.

From hell and back I cross you. The spaces I cross you. The distance. The room. The street. The line that breaks between two points of light. This night. This hard night: Everybody is killing everybody.

I watch TV.

—entry 13 (monday 21 august 2000) In which a month passes.

Edd comes and we drink the sunset. More like rainset. More like storm seeking release. The invitation comes from him. A surprise. An anomaly. As always, like pagasa predicting the weather, the talk is business. The business of business. Of doing business. Of starting business. Of succeeding in business. Whatever business the monkey is in. The monkey, of course, could be the lady who sells fake winston. Or the councilor with the most strategic position. The manboy who dug up the dead neighborhood dog for pulutan is monkey himself. This brod who could handle everything except himself. Except his sorry self. Go dig up your sorry self and eat it for pulutan! Where I breathe, it all boils down to pulutan. Crispy pata. Pata tim. Patang walang pata. Napatasapata. Pinapata. Pinapapata. Pinapapatatas. Pinapatay.

—entry 12 (friday 18 august 2000) In which I take a bath in failing bathroom light.

On any given day you might figure me as a wall beneath a wall beneath a wall between two spaces one marked as x the other floating marked as y: Is it Sunday yet? Will I get to sleep this time? The morning smells of piss and rotten ensaymadas. Afternoons spoons croons moons. The time has come to rest. Let her in. Come in. Give her the best chair. share. Soon she too will dream of wheels turning burning returning. Returning to what where? What lair lies beneath her hair beneath her lice beneath the mustard in her eyes. Don't wake me. I am only disassembling.

—entry 11 (monday 14 august 2000) In which what is sought cannot be found and what is found needs seeking.

Geronimo.

—entry 10 (friday 11august 2000) In which I eat longganisa sandwich.

Because the pillow smells of burgers. Because the sun makes rainbows on the wall. Because my nose hurts from blowing. Because I have bedmarks all over my face. Because the street is wet, the store is open, and Boogie's father sweeps the gutter. Because life is a winston. Turn up the radio. Mow that lawn. Do something to the thing out there. Take off your bra. The world awaits for longganisa.

—entry 9 (thursday 10 august 2000) In which I dream.

Of wheels.

Burning.

Turning.

Returning

—entry 8 (wednesday 9 august 2000) In which the superior man sleeps but only when all else has gone to bed.

For a moment the asshole enjoys himself thinking he has pulled the plug. 'For what is he in power for?' But this sort of pleasure, unknown to one who has neither the education of experience nor of expedience, is anything but permanent, derived as it is from sources that seemed solid only in appearance. He does not know that. He cannot know that. Now he plucks his thumb off his ass and licks it like a wounded animal. Because, man, we are still here, still alive and kicking. Kicking what? Kicking his baby powder ass.

Now I have nothing against assholes. I, for one, could be an asshole myself. I could be the biggest asshole with the longest shit hanging in there like a comet. So here's my free unsolicited advice coming from one asshole to another: If you really want be an asshole, if you absolutely irreversibly must be an asshole by choice, grow some teeth!

—entry 7 (monday 7 august 2000) In which the day boils down to this.

Last dig.

—entry 6 (friday 4 august 2000) In which that old special feeling comes back.

Sometimes I feel like smashing somebody's face. There is no special reason really, no special occasion: You have done me no wrong, caused me no trouble. But you are here. Within striking distance. And now you must know I cannot help it. If you are lucky you will also beat me black and blue, about which I do not mind. We all have two hands. But that is moonpunch: I live hard. I lift weights. I am trained in the most deadliest of martial arts. And always, there is the element of surprise. Which is why I do not like going out too much.

Which is why I do not even go out anymore.

If you live through this, if we live through this, do not take it as personal. I have nothing personal for or against you. I may not even know you. Besides, I do not even think I am still capable of being personal, moreso of harboring something so personal as anger at my stage of evolution. It is just that sometimes I get so numbed almost to the point that requires me to hurt myself just to see if I am still alive.

Could it be my lack of sunlight?

—entry 5 (thursday 3 august 2000) In which I write my things to do this thursday.

Do what I always do: wake, feed, brush, bathe, dress, Ingo.
From here my modus can vary in order of decreasing importance: Harvest bayabas. Heat lunch. Remind Krstjan about the medicine and have him clean the fans. Make room for more books. Check the gutters. Take the bottles back to Tec. If the dyaryo-bote comes, sell the papers and buy canton. Call The Wife and tell her to buy tabang talangka. Call Edd. Call Dong. Call God and inform him that his credit is good but I need cash.

In between stations: Remember to breathe.

—entry 4 (tuesday 1 august 2000) In which I give you the first word for the day.

Gauntlet.

—entry 3 (tuesday 25 july 2000) In which a probe is carefully inserted into a very black hole.

The way I see it: it is not so much a portal as it is a blackhole.
A blackhole to what? Let us see.
A blackhole to my brain.
A blackhole to my butt.
Whoever or whatever lies or dies there.

Listen. Six months ago I don't know squat about the net, which is not to say I know the net now like I know the skin of my balls. But now here I am: a squatter with my own net estate, so to speak, my own x-marks-the-spot, my own dark and quiet corner somewhere on virtual avenue inside this little known backside binary bar called spread.

As one might rightly expect, the tables here rust and the chairs limp. The piano man is, of course, fat and old and blind. Those who have just arrived will be glad to know that any minute now the agogo girls will be coming in with their chickens and bananas. It would serve you well to note that the girls do not look anything at all like girls. For those who have served quite a sentence in places like these, it would surprise me not if they figure them to be as resembling men working for the local ice plant---- bad, big, and burly.

Which now gets me thinking: Maybe they are men. These days, one never knows.

But one knows this much: The place, as you might have noticed, sucks like sin. But the beer is ice cold and cheap. And sometimes, sometimes, Lennon shows up and plays Imagine.

—entry 2 (monday 24 july 2000) In which the bastard reflects upon the sheer act of premature ejaculation.

Two days ago, I loaded the first spread, a secret project I started some six, seven months ago after another publishing venture I was secretly involved with fell on financial grounds. I have been part of at least two other secret publishing ventures before that---- a local weekly and still another local weekly, both of which also went peanuts. This one will go peanuts, too.

It must go peanuts. It must go peanuts if the laws of physics are really immutable as they say.

But let me tell you this: I am pretty sure this peanut will go down with a lot of beer.

—entry 1 (friday 21 july 2000) In which this land is marked.

This entry will not change.

The entry you see now will be same old entry you will be seeing next time you come back, if you come back.

But you will come back. You will come back just to see whether something or anything at all had grown here. And you will keep coming back just to see if we really did mean what we say or say what we mean.

You may come back to spot the difference, checking out for new words or new arrangements of words or words once here but now already gone, having probably grown old too and sick too and dead too, or: you might perhaps return just to see how the weather here is doing.

The weather here, as always, is terrible but inside it is always good and there is always this yellow bench long enough to sit everyone.

Come in.