On “I Am a Zombie Filled With Love” by Isaac Marion

Jovi sent me this story; he picked it up somewhere on the peyups LJ methinks. I papered it for English 11. Haha. Here goes:

The story deals with a well known, fictional creature—the zombie. A reanimated human corpse who eats living flesh to survive, the zombie is something of a pop culture icon, spawning many horror films, comic books and novels. The zombie prototype was established in the hugely popular 1968 film, Night of the Living Dead.

In this short story, Isaac Marion delves into the mind of a thoughtful young zombie, as he tackles life and love in the realm of the undead. Marion writes with humor and insight, and is able to connect with the readers, even when speaking from a rotting corpse’s point of view.

Being dead changes you, as the nameless narrator points out: I don’t think much about the future anymore. That’s something that’s very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me.

The story takes place in a post-apocalyptic world, where pretty much everyone has been turned into a zombie. Of course, there are still cities with living people in them, but everything is slowly disintegrating and decaying. The author describes to us the way of life of a zombie: they eat, they lose some of their number, they walk around in circles in the dust, and they groan. As mentioned earlier, death is uncomplicated. There are no more obsessions to worry about, because there is no more future. Dead is dead.

Of course, there are certain things that transcend death, according to the story. A handful of memories, the capacity to think, and, love. The narrator falls in love with another zombie named Emily, but according to him, it is a different, simpler kind of love than the love that existed when he was alive. Here, the world is stripped of sex, fights, and ulterior motives. There are no more reasons to hurt each other, and no more reasons to mind anything.

In the end, the story is all about how nothing really matters anymore, once you are dead. It’s an entertaining read, and it brings to light a question: What really matters when you are alive? Is it riches, sex, ambition, success? What do they matter, when you’re a zombie? The story’s answer, of course, is love. Love matters, love can be carried over, even in death.

Ten-thirty tales at a table for two

It was nighttime. Equally excited, we settled our behinds on the long jeep-benches, sitting across one another. We were talking in chirpy, bright voices, and the jeep’s lone light bulb flickered like a candle, tinged our skin with yellow.

I peered outside, felt the cool air toss the troublesome bangs into my eyes.

“I think it’s here. Right?” I glanced at Reez for some affirmation, as navigation wasn’t one of my strongest traits.

“Hmmm…” her eyes flickered over the square forms, the passing shapes in the darkness. “No, I think it’s there pa.”

The jeep drove on.

A few minutes later, she tossed the driver a “Para ho.”, and we hopped off, fixed our eyes on the little restaurant built to resemble a tree, and the floating lights surrounding it. I pointed to it, said,

“There it is! Shall we trek through the jungle?”

Reez looked indecisive for a moment, and she put her hand to her chin. “No, I think there’s a way through here.”

We walked through another building’s ramp, which eventually led to the little tree-shaped restaurant. The lights were lovely, and several tables were vacant. A handful of people were having dinner, and a petite waitress approached us, menu in hand. Reez and I hesitated for a moment, as she turned to me.

“I don’t see a poetry night going on here.” I nodded, and she turned around to ask the waitress.

“Ay, na-move ata. Hindi sila natuloy.” A pained look must’ve crossed both our faces, as she smiled at us sympathetically, and went to the front desk to consult a little piece of paper taped behind the counter.

“March 20 ho. Na-move nga. Ito ba yung sa Underground?” I looked at Reez quizzically. She was the one with all the details, more or less. Reez nodded.

“Wow, that sucks.” I checked my phone for time time. “So. What now?”

—

Five minutes later, we were standing by the roadside, waiting for a jeep to rescue us. A lone streetlamp curtained us in yellow light once more, and Reez begain to sing.

“I know your eyes in the morning sun! I feel you touch me in the pouring rain! And the moment that you wander far from meeee, I wanna feel you in my arms agaaaain….”

The Bee Gees. At this point, I joined in, a little amused.

“And you come to me on a summer breeeeze, keep me warm in your love and then softly leave, and its me you need to shooow..HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE!”

Sadly, there are few things more magical and smile-provoking than two friends singing at the side of the road, with no where to go in particular. We both sounded sub par, but it didn’t matter. At all.

I really need to learn
cause were living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me

Nine-thirty in the evening landed us at the McDonald’s in Katipunan, amidst a gaggle of screaming, talking, laughing students whose Friday nights were probably just beginning. We had dinner, and in situations like these, the ice cream must always be eaten first. Reez made her way to the bathroom, and I reached for the plastic spoon, scooped a bit of the white and brown into my mouth.

We sat there, and, it wasn’t a conscious effort, but we made our own poetry night right then; out of notebooks and the backs of Haruki Murakami printouts, out of screaming schoolgirls and big-eared, bespectacled janitors. Out of the cars passing by, painting trails of light in the blackness. Reez’s lines are italicized.

9:30 pm in McDo when you’re bored.

The street is filled with cars in caution
Denizens, brisk walking, always in a flurry
The world is a hive-
But here I am, eating spaghetti
With my eyes glued to glass windows
With my ears plugged into the blues
And I think I’m in deeper than a submarine
So I type the hours away on my laptop of doom
Thinking that the guy with the mop is lonely
So I put on this smile and say, “I’m the hot friend.”

It was pretty simple. We’d observe, write down words. A fat girl was wearing this T-shirt that said “I’m the hot friend”, another girl wore a Yellow Submarine shirt. The janitor mopped the floor beside us, and beyond the glass walls, cars. Easy, no?

The next poem was kind of weird and sad and funny all at once.

“MEMORIES” 8D

I can’t believe you lost me on a train
So I sat on the roof and watched
The sky explode instead.
So I’m drawing on my shoes
The things I hated about you
While someone on TV cried about
How she got Hepa-A from isaw.
I napped on you and
Dreamt about Flo-Rida and
We rolled like lumpiang shanghai
Down the grassy slopes of
The sunken garden (in the afternoon)
You know I can’t dance
But I hope you teach me
How to boogie so fast that
We can reach Jupiter today.
Running after the balut man,
cause we’d be tired and hungry
And gift him with Hershey
Kisses divine. (for he is just awesome.)

–

“Your phone’s vibrating.”

I lifted my pen, just about to continue one of Reez’s paragraph for a joint story, this time. It was 10:45. Dad was calling.

“Dad?” I rose from our table and glanced outside. “Yeah. Okay, I’m coming.”

I gathered up my things, and gave Reez a hug. “Are you SURE you’ll be ok?” She smiled at me, “Yeaaaah, I’ll text you when they pick me up.” Her parents were somewhere along EDSA at the moment. “Alright. I’ll see you on Wednesday!” I walked towards the door and looked back at her. She waved a bit, I think. “Bye Hammie!”

Heh. Friday ended awesomely, and in the most unexpected way.

—

We like our fun and we never fight
You can’t dance and stay uptight
It’s a supernatural delight
Everybody was dancin’ in the moonlight

Hapless Broccoli Giants Eat Bangladesh

Stumble upon that pebble drop,
(In front of the space between AS and FC, that tricky, damp spot.)
That grey, loose stone,
It makes her trip.
(Because she wasn’t paying attention to the ground, silly girl. And her muddy lilac shoes grow muddier.)

White, soft palms on the gravel ground,
(Or at least, they used to be soft, those palms. I can’t remember anymore.)
You tip your hat,
And wish her luck. (For the heck of it; I was too preoccupied at the moment.)

Three minutes into the roaring din, (The tin can rattle of the people-packed vehicle.)
She steps off,
The rain begins. (It’s a good thing she had an umbrella.)

Fingers push metal
And glass, and cloth. (The cloth was the softest, and nicest to feel, of course. It was blue.)
They smile at each other. (I fail to describe this part.)

It’s awkward, at most.

Old Maid Walking Down the City Street

The week ahead;

I report on this poem (old maid walking down..)come Friday, CW10. I haven’t begun and am  most probably going to cram.

Maniac Magee. The legend of the boy from Two Mills who ran. I must bring this book tomorrow to a budding Jerry Spinelli fan.

And, what exactly lies within the library of Romulo Hall? Our block handlers said it looked like the Hogwarts library, and I’d like to see for myself.

I haven’t tasted the mythical Isaw of UP yet. What do chicken intestines taste like? Rubber? Salt? Chicken meat? All three combined?

Runaways 26. The continuation of the story of the children who woke up and decided to escape. But with cool super powers and a dinosaur named Old Lace. I neeeeed!~

More importantly. I need to know that tomorrow, I will be able to introduce myself in sign language to a classroom of people who aren’t deaf, as well as a prof who seems to be fascinated with the male anatomy.

—-

Something to roll over in bed about:

Erik: think of this
Erik: gawa saan an
Erik: rainbow?
hannah Portugal: droplets.
Erik: yeah
Erik: and
Erik: other than rain
Erik: saan pa
hannah Portugal: hanging in the air. reflecting. light.
Erik: nagkakaroon ng other droplets?
Erik: other source ng droplets
hannah Portugal: tears?
Erik: yeah
Erik: which means?
hannah Portugal: after you cry, there will be a rainbow?
Erik: yeah
Erik: 

—

Poetry;
You bump the shore again and climb out; and see nothing but the sky and the sand, and behind, you, as always, the ocean. The yellow pod is bobbing in the salt water, and hermit crabs are climbing over the grains of sand, scavenging. Pick one up. It’s shell is black and white; like a zebra’s. Name it Tiger.

Tiger grabs at the skin on your fingers. Put it down and look around.

You will see nothing but miles of white sand.

This is a strange island, with not a tree or a creature guarding it from the sun and the sky. One gigantic sandbar. Vast and empty and barren. The wind blows from behind you, and something cracks the sky in half.

Scream.

But make it a quiet scream, it’s only lightning, after all. A roll of thunder follows next, and your heart plays out in staccato notes. Soon after, the clouds will begin their gradual weeping: first, soft tears raining on the white hot sand, and then a drumline of cold, splashing water, nailing down on your skin and your clothes and your cheeks.

Look at your yellow pod with wide, uncertain eyes. The ocean is trembling, the ocean is beginning to churn. And then, turn your head swiftly back to the island.

You will find a shelter that wasn’t there before.

It’s only a cave, hidden under the surf and the sand, dry and warm and safe from the rain.

Look back to the sky– it has changed. From white to black. Your skin is cold.

And your yellow pod that has kept you safe from the beginning–the one with your book and blanket and your hope inside it, is being carried away by the ocean’s hands, slowly at first, but later it will be snatched away from you just as hippos swallow fish.

Look back to the shore–shelter and a home and safety from the rain.

Look back to the sea–a churning, angry storm, chanting drown, drown, drown in it’s silky siren voices, while your yellow pod waits.

Hesitate for a fraction of a moment. Just the slightest bit of time, before deciding;

Go.

Run.

Run towards what really matters, and for that fraction of a moment forget the storm and the lighting. But it isn’t wrong to dismiss the thought of impending suicide. It can’t be helped really.

And if you mean it, hop in.

Despite the fact that the ocean will swallow you, hop in. Maybe, because, for now, finishing what you began is more important than whether you will survive or not. It’s not a matter of YOU. Just a matter of doing what you were meant to.

So even if you know you might die, hop in.

And curl your pale fingers around the hatch, shut it tight and hold your blanket to your chest. When you look out at the window, you will see that old, comforting cave, hiding out from the noise and the rain bullets. It is warm, safe, and might have an ancient TV set that could work for a little while.

The pod jerks to the left, suddenly.

You are rammed against the metal walls.

And, as your vision dims, clutch your hope and your blanket and your book to your chest.

It’s worth the risk, really, it is.

It isn’t about you– it’s about what you’re supposed to finish..

The Lucky Ones

The child is now official.

Finally, I am a true child of UP. After getting lost twice on foot, I finally found the Registrar (before that, I walked to the Engineering Library, and from there, back to AS, and from AS, to Sampaguita residence hall. I resignedly consulted my freshie manual and found that all I had to do was go STRAIGHT–Gah.) So my ID pic reveals my messed up hair, tired eyes, and haggard smile. At least the Arki guards won’t be blathering about laminating tempo IDs and wearing the strap. Hahah. Finally.

When someone says ‘I love you’, think twice.

Today is a much-loved Tuesday, beginning okay, ending less okay. But ending fine nevertheless. The Capili stories took an interesting turn today, as our ever-loquacious professor revealed that he had successfully matchmade 55 couples from his class since 1988. o_o Not counting those who got together but didn’t get married. The foolproof guide:

1. Pray (Sir will drag you to some chapel, apparently. I assume this is only if you’re Catholic-)

2. Plan and Plot (Again, Sir will play a big, devious hand in this. From “coincidental” meetings to crossing schedules to fruit baskets.)

3. Play hard to get, but don’t be inaccessible. (I do believe a lot of girls do this. And I do believe it works. xD)

In a way, writing is like courtship. You must know how to beguile your audience by flirting with them, dropping hints here and there, but don’t overdo it. Draw back and stick to the basics, play hard to get. Stories with overflowery words stuffed with obscure figures of speech are such turnoffs. Love the audience. Flirt. Flirt. Flirt.

Students rolling on the roof in the grass behind people’s backs

Architecture is death. I have a feeling that “No sleep tonight” will be our mantra for the years to come. But hey, I was warned. It’s not like I had much of a choice though. Heh. But hey. Block A1 rocks my socks; everyone is fun and friendly and fabulous. And the other blocks don’t have the neat foreign exchange student. xD  We’re a group that gets along well despite the lack of males. According to Socsci 3 though, males are more than just bags of sperm, and are actually useful creatures, such that they exist to stimulate femaleness. A1 is already bursting with excessive femaleness, so, yay! I look forward to our sleepless nights, our future “measuring parties”, (o_o) and block lunches. <3

But there are the lucky ones.

“If you were to go back to your former high school and talk to your former batchmates, what would you talk about?” Yet another question we each had to answer.

The first thought that hit me was crazy/fond memories. Like Cy dancing on the table during IS, Cy slamming my alcogel bottle into the track oval, Cy and me trying to weave Ia’s hair into a basket. There’s also the rockxs sessions at the front lobby, Matrix Demented, TLBTS, and many others. Mithi, Jessica and me, arguing about whether PMS is right or wrong; Sir Marc and his chalkbutt. Then, second year. The male-dominated elections, the one-man group in geom, Hannah getting hit by a basketball four times. Etc. Year the third, where half the world revolved around prom, STR, and math. The Ramayana: the Mg boys in skirts, Ervin in a dress, and Don being all gay. Prom revealed cotillion horror, date obsession, and the like. Senior year. Vladymuon, Project Runway and the viscomm people I love to bits. James of 5 seconds before now, James of a week before now, and James missing all his previous selves. 4th year, the critical period, the crossroads of life. Happy, sad, whatever. I miss high school. But this is all a different place. You cannot get lost in Pisay. You cannot take a wrong turn twice and end up having to call someone for directions. You can skip class without a care in the world, and you can always see your friends around.  Pisay is a fortress. UP is a beach. At the beach, you can drown. You can scald your eyes with salt water, step on sea urchins, get carried away by strong currents. You can build sandcastles, lie down and bask in the sunshine, chase hermit crabs and rescue starfish. Infinitely more interesting. Just as dangerous.

There are some things we miss doing in high school. Most people are thrown into new life at the universities. But there are the lucky ones.

 After all the battles and the wars, I am still the queen of my domain.

So I sat there on the AS steps and watched the sunset through the foliage. Something inside me sighed. My first UP sunset with my butt scraping the concrete, my parched throat and tongue, and my left hand shaking from too much doodling. 11 people were on the steps. At 6:22 pm, the streetlights turned on. A few minutes later, dad pulled in. Finally.

And this day ends.

Six Bushbabies

Tagged by Jovi

rules: each player of this game starts with 6 weird things about you..! people who get tagged need to write a post of their own 6 weird things as well as state the rule clearly..! in the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names..! don’t forget to leave a comment that says you are tagged in their comments and tell them to read your blog..! =]

ONE-

I do things impulsively. Really impulsively, and for no real reason. Like once I ate a marshmallow dipped in ketchup because I suddenly had the notion that it was tasteless. I decided to give all my Barbie dolls a haircut, too. So they ended up bald. Impulsive shopping happens also. There was this one time I put random liquids into a blender (shampoo, milk, perfume, milo, vinegar, etc.) and poured it on the plants in the garden.

TWO-

I like holding my feet when sitting down. Or when indian-sitting. When i’m really comfortable, I hold one of my feet. I don’t know why. It just happens.

THREE-

I never finish what I begin. Unless it’s really short, and unless it’s required. I started around six diaries, came close to finishing one, and lost the others. (Now i’m only doing one. But it isn’t finished yet. ) Every summer I start a mini-comic. That’s..three mini comics started, not counting this year. And the stories. *_* Gah. Don’t get me started.

FOUR-

I can’t sleep without an embrace pillow! Ok, it’s possible for me to fall asleep without one, but I can never sleep comfortably in my own bed without hugging something. I’ve had an embrace pillow since birth (I think) and it just feels so sad and empty without one. Extra warmth, softness…mmm. ^_^

FIVE-

I believe that, if you think about the things you want to dream about before you sleep, they won’t appear in your dream. So if I want to dream of a certain event, I try not to think about it, so it’ll pop up in the fuzzy-transition moments of falling asleep. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

SIX-

I can’t eat wet fish. Or fish soup. Or baked fish. Anything involving fish that is damp, wet, stewed…Gah. Somehow I end up throwing it up or not finishing it. I don’t feel the need to expound on the evileness of wet fish eaten as food. >_<

I tag robert, ria, patrick, erik, garrick, and zyrelle.

ahhh! wait-

SEVEN-

I talk in my sleep. That’s how my dad found out who my crush was in 5th grade. -_-  I say random things like, “No, nooo!!” or, “What time is it?” Dad always tries to hold a conversation with me while i’m asleep, but it’s only worked once.

Hannah: *mumble*

Dad: What’s my name?

Hannah: Emmanuel…Portugal..

Dad: Very good.

Hannah: *falls asleep*

^_^ It’s almost 3 am. Goodnight, people. Or rather, good morning