10: the drifting siren

Never was one for a prissy girl
Coquette call in for an ambulance
Reach high, doesn’t mean she’s holy
Just means she’s got a cellular handy
Almost brave, almost pregnant
Almost in love

–  Siren / Tori Amos

Do you know me?

No, you don’t.

I actually live inside a Tori Amos song called Siren.

And sometimes, I can come to you and tell you that  my name resounds a million stars trekking melodramatically to your realm to make you a better person.  And a person worth watching for.  Then again, I may have been just . . . leading you on.

Never was one for a prissy girl
Coquette call in for an ambulance . . .

AS FAR AS I KNOW IT, you only know my name and what I have represented as a social animal who clung to your needs in many ways than one during times of your desolation and mental menstruation.  Sometimes, I come to you needy of your time but more often than not, I come to you with open arms (and legs) to be engulfed alive or be nibbled at, for your greater greedier pleasure.

My name is Jon.  My father named me Hilarion III, his last attempt to iron out the shitty things his generation has done for him and I guess, with all due respect, that that is how I want to think about it.  Unfortunately, I have had my own generation to think about and it all began melodramatically when I started reading and writing became my ultimate revenge to what I have done both in the past and now, at present, hoping against hope that I did not just smoke through my days and chronicled what I presumed as plausible when I know that deep down inside, I spent my time drifting towards life and love – married it – and divorced it.  Then wrote about it.


In 1997, I created my first email account and called it siren_hoot.

The advent of sounds, Tori Amos’ song for the movie Great Expectations called Siren, the ultimix sound of both words and my actuated chassis demostrating freedom of the soul pooled the siren_hoot email ID that I still use and somehow survived after many years.  It did, however, spawn amillion jokes in the event of a work colleague asking me for an alternative email and I would say, “Oh to my siren_hoot . . . ”   and then the unbecoming smirk that says, “Oh you whore!”.

A friend of mine even commented on it being a nice prostitute’s name.  “Ladies and gents, to give you the performance of a lifetime, the lapdance of the century, wearing nothing but her birthday suit . . . please help me in welcoming . . . Miss Sireeeeeeeeeeeen Hoot !!!”

Along the way, I managed to regain my whore-self into something more dynamically cosmic.  I would surge through the day as “me” with a little extra something about me.   The Siren-self.

Reach high, doesn’t mean she’s holy
Just means she’s got a cellular handy

True to form, I got to the blue cycle of the corporate galaxy and walked the ways of a regular man, career, credit cards, investing on dvds et cetera, all the while craving for peace in the arms of a relationship – getting to the sticky and sweet boundaries of love – hovering unabashed towards my inner sanctum.  Drifting.  Taking.  Dropping.

Drifting again.

In my wakeful and unusual rational state, I sometimes think that I dwell in relationships (both the good relationship and the eventful distorted ones) just to be able to write about it.  It may have been an alibi to escape the frustrations and to deny the mistakes, but at the end of every calloused love adventure, with my eyes droopy with crocodile tears, I look in the mirror, put a smile in my face and opted to these betraying words, “Well, Jon, at least you can write about it.”

Then I drift to the next leaf.  The next tide.  The next song.  Like a desirable and oftentimes, a psychotic, siren would.  With her hair flowing to the call of the wind and her eyes myopic to the compass of her own hand – writing about it.

No, I am not a victim to my heartbreaks or my heartaches.  I am an accomplice to my disorders. I bake my cake and eat it too.  NO WONDER I revise recipes ever so often . . . NO WONDER I have not saved enough money for the future because I am living in the future, nonetheless, I may have been the biggest fool who ever lived.

Is that evil?

Yes, because in a certain philosophical plane, it defines the ulterior motive of building a world that is so totalitarian.  Moreover, it exhausts the mind and (during seasons of polygamy back in my 20s) the body as well.

No, because as I drifted here to there, lounging here and then stretching my legs there, I found variety.  I engulfed and reconnected with my other selves scattered in the four directions of my infinite universe.

Almost brave, almost pregnant, almost in love . . . Vanilla.


What makes me whole is pleasure and the advent of beauty.  In my years on this planet, I have perfected seeing beauty even in the ugly.

In one of my articles, I wrote:  Pleasure, for me, is a multi-faceted man, who drinks red wine for breakfast, sits in the park the whole day watching people pass by; the fat, nauseated pervert, the shiny red dressed prim doll, the toddler in the stroller, the goth teenager with her piercings and Swastika tattoos, the decadent, the geek, the religious, the sad and the happy.  Rummaging through life’s  Sarcophagus of Contentment through the years, I have unearthed the realness of my pleasure man.  In love, in sex, in happiness, where pleasure stems appropriately as its prefix, he veils the alternating veracity of his contentment and comes out as a hermaphrodite.  A double edged sword of a man whose basic instinct is to make reality a little less tragic.  Had I been a serial killer and murdered 25 women in one year and got away with it, that would give me pleasure.  If I was a competitive businessman who exceeded my sales target for the month, that would give me the biggest orgasm in my life.  To me, currently, pleasure means arousing people to smile even more. Pleasure watches everyone.  He is liquefied in form like sexuality.  Once revealed, he screams unfailingly from the innards of his discontentment and looks into the horizon of happiness.  Happiness, on the other hand, is always short-lived.

Through the years, I have been a walking misinterpretation.  Please forgive me.  That was my Siren-self bilocating and tending to my other selves.  Please understand that there is no party in multiplicity.

However, the Siren believes in poetry.  There are days when words are unyielding – stubborn – and the language of poetry is the only way to get to the thought.  The dimensions of thought, as Ayn Rand would have articulated it, should always core to reasoning.  In poetry, however, the reason for thought must always be dimensional.  It becomes seduction.

The seduction to play.

And this is where the Drifting Siren creates his home:  in the language and in the movements of poetry.  He sings melodically the voice of the child, the whore, the man, the wife, the bourlesque, the pained, the bohemian, the hooter and the killer.

Pleasure meeting you.

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