.: citybuoy :. or how i managed to stay afloat

segueing cousins

2012-01-30T00:48:00.001+08:00

The lengthy disclaimer you're free to skip. Oh the wonders of compact discs. I was cleaning my room when I found an old CD of stuff I wrote when I was younger. This one takes me back. I remember writing this story in 2005 knowing exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to write and write I did. I wasn’t worried about what people would think. (In fact, prior to me posting this, only two other people have read this story.) I wrote for the sake of writing and it was always enough to keep me going. I was in full control.

Seven years later, I am a corporate slave. Writing is a hobby now and it mostly takes the backseat to reports, presentations and other grown-up shit. This year, I vow to take control of my life again. I will relive my childhood dream, find happiness, and folks, it all starts here.

What you see here is the unedited version, of course. To paint an accurate picture of what I wanted to achieve, I had to post this verbatim. I must warn you. The language is a little more colorful than how I write these days. There are some not-so-subtle attempts at making things rhyme. *cringe* and I was completely obsessed with the word segue. Regardless, I read this and recall my pony-tailed 18-year old self thinking hmm… not bad, kid. Not bad at all.

“THIS SUMMER, I learned that I slept with not one, but two cousins” I announced. I must admit, this probably wasn’t what Ms. Pearson had in mind when she gave us the assignment. “Find something that will make you grow” she said in her voice that quivered desperately. “Tell the class how in one way or another, you have used your summer vacation time wisely with a new lesson in life.” One by one, even the butchest kids held out cheesy mementos of summer camps and stones from lakes in Idaho or Utah all chronicling the wonders that the mind can achieve with a little stimulation. All I had was a picture of the said cousins. I searched far and wide for a lesson but it never came. So in all truth and honesty, I told the class the one thing that I learned that summer and that was that I slept with not one, but two cousins.

It wasn’t really two cousins, if you wanna get all rational about it. One was apparently my cousin and the other was his cousin. One had a dick and the other, well she was a chick. The chick was Annie. She was my best friend. Was my best friend. We grew up together back in Austin, right before the time my mom and I had to move because of the divorce. She and I went to middle school together and later, she moved with us to Colorado. She and I shared my one of my first moments of brutal honesty.

“Will it hurt?” Annie asked, holding the condom out with her free hand. Her other hand was hopelessly occupied with a hairbrush.

“I’m not really sure. This is my first time, too.” I said, stark naked, sitting on the fluffy pink carpeting that went from wall to wall. The carpet’s thick fibers were tickling my butt.

“How do we know what to do?” She said.

“I’m not stupid. Haven’t you watched porn before?” I asked.

“Of course, I have but it’s just not the same, you know? It all seems pretty hard.”

“You wanna see hard? Try having this hard-on.” I said, standing up showing her the woody I’ve been keeping for what felt like hours.

“Who told you to strip anyways?” She said, with a laugh in her voice. “It wasn’t my idea, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t you wanna see some of this?” I said, coming closer to her. She barely covered her eyes, letting out little squeals of excitement.

I looked at her through the mirror and she looked at me. I remember thinking there’s no other girl that I would rather spend this moment with.

“Let’s just get this over with.” She decided. “It’s bad enough being the last virgin in class. Now I have to do it with my best friend?” She looked at me as a hit-and-run dude stares at a doe he’d just run over.

“No offense, man.” She returned. “But, you know what I mean.”

“Sorta.”

“In all fairness, there’s not one other person in the whole world who I would want to pop my cherry.” She said. I came closer and the rest was history, shamefully of course.

And that was it. That was my first time. It was short, not so sweet and full of embarrassing moments here and there. But hey, isn’t that why first times are so hard to forget? At the end of everything, we lay in bed, totally exhausted from letting nature be our guide.

“Phew” I said, obviously beat. “Should’ve rented that movie where they teach you how to fuck.”

“I saw that. Honest… With my brother.” She said, nodding inconsistently. “My brother says his gym teacher could teach sex better than that rip-off.”

We were silent for most parts of the afternoon as the shame and regret of the act slowly ripped through us. All I could hear were the birds outside her window who chirped all throughout the afternoon.

“Why did I do this?” I remember thinking.

“Let’s promise we’ll stay together for a million years.” She said, mapping out the timeframe with her hands raised to the sky. My hand puppet dog bit her left hand as I snarled indiscriminately.

Segue to us three years later. We live in the same city. We almost live in the same block but we barely see each other. We talk haplessly online and through SMS but never the same late night conversations that seem to go on and on for hours. Things were different for the both of us. While she had continued on the straight-A path, my parents divorce held a lot of permanent consequences for me. I was a rebel, a fucking emo for the early parts of the divorce but then I got into all these crazy parties that seemed to go on all night. I had gone from straight-A to barely-see-straight. After a while, I didn’t want to be straight anymore. Add in a few years and a couple of uncomfortable mishaps with that uncle, I emerged a homosexual.

“What?” She said as the messaging program sent chimes with the incoming message. She and I had been chatting all night.

“Yes. I’m gay. Dan finally got to me.”

“Who the hell is Dan?”

“My uncle. My really young uncle, remember?”

“Young? He’s thirty-four and you’re half his age!!!”

“That’s still pretty young considering most of my uncles on my mother’s side are septuagenarians.”

“That’s not true.”

“Okay, so it isn’t but he’s still pretty young.”

“I thought you hated him. He was the one who was always scamming on you, right?”

“Yeah but he’s really nice if you can see past the asshole facade”

“Now are you sure it’s a facade?”

“God, I hope so otherwise I would’ve fucked him all for nothing.”

“…..” She stopped typing after a while but the program kept telling me she was typing a message. My cursor blinked blankly. I must’ve shocked her.

“Did I shick you?” I typed.

“Shick me?”

“I meant shock you.”

“No. Well, sort of.”

“I’m sorry.” I typed but later erased.

“God, is nothing sacred anymore? Where’s the Neil I knew and idiotically loved? It seems like yesterday when we were screwing for the first time and you came all over my…”

“Okay, that’s enough” I said loudly as I closed the window.

A few seconds later, the window popped back.

“There he is. I thought you’d shine through somehow. There’s the Neil I know, or at least his ego who I heard types really well. C’mon, everybody does poorly at their first time. Except Tommy Lee… He must’ve been fucking since day one.”

“Hahaha… it’s a shame sarcasm doesn’t show nicely online than it does in reality. If it did, you’d understand the irony in the situation.”

“The situation isn’t ironic. Stop using words that you don’t know the meaning of.”

“Shut up. I know what ‘ironic’ means.”

“Then use it in the proper context!” she said.

“Sadly, I take no offense in this.”

“Good.”

“Fine”

“Glad to be of service!”

I minimized the window to the taskbar as I continued my online conversations with other people. Two seconds later, she buzzes back.

“BUZZ!!!” The window popped in. “Are you mad?”

“Not really. More of bored-to-tears.”

“Fine, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll fix you up, okay?”

“Fine, who is he. Remember, I like men now.”

“He’s fine. His name’s Martin. I would’ve let him schlam me if only he was mine for the schlamming. But it seems he likes being schlammed as much as you like it so I guess it’s a… PERFECT MATCH” She said in big bold letters. Within seconds, the window was filled with big red hearts.

“I’m sending you a picture.” She said as a window popped up seeking acknowledgement of her online parcel.

“He’s cute” I muttered as I browsed the picture. “Are you sure this is him?” I typed. “You never know with the internet and all.”

“Of course that’s him. Would I lie to you? Plus, I’ve seen him with my own blue eyes.”

“Well, you do have the history…” I typed, recalling the many times she tricked me using different chatting accounts.

“Hey, not fair. Those were all done in the pursuit of pleasure… You chat funny when you think it’s a complete stranger.”

“I’m pretty sure the pleasure was all yours.” I typed. “Good night, I’m sleeping. Got a big day tomorrow.”

“Hey Neil, just one last question.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you slept with him?”

“Nope.”

“Honest?”

“Okay, maybe just a few times but I swear I’m breaking up with him tomorrow!” I said. “It’s one thing to be gay but screwing your kin is just spitting in fate’s eye.”

“It’s nice to see you still have faith, however flimsy.”

“G’night.”

“G’night. Don’t shick me anymore, okay?” She said, a big smiling emoticon beside it.

“Okay.” I said, logging off.

The guy she introduced? Total airhead. But that didn’t stop me. I wanted to explore, expand my territory.

“What’s your name?” I asked, even though I knew his name.

“Martin.”

“I’m Neil” I said.

“So…”

“So…”

The room was as blank as the expressions on our faces.

“Nice place.” I said. “Very minimalist.”

“Thanks.”

I looked at his eyes and I looked at his crotch. I looked at my watch and I looked at my crotch. I just wasted two hours of my life in that horrible date I just had with him. I can see his hard-on from across the room. Mine has been thumping since the cab ride here. I’ve got two choices. Head home and take a long, long, long, cold shower or fuck this guy’s brains off. Let’s just say I’m a slut and leave it at that.

Segue to about half a year later. My dad tells us we’re seeing good ‘ol Uncle Dan. Oh dear, I said to myself. I hope he’s not in another one of his feely moods.

On the way there, amongst the frilly conversations between my mother and my female cousins, I thought to myself ‘What exactly do I know about Uncle Dan? I know that he’s really aggressive in bed and that he has a weird taking to underage boys and… and… and… nothing. Nada. Zilch. I really had nothing on me. Our relationship was just rooted on weird, casual, pedophilic, incest-ridden, homosexual sex. Now if that didn’t spell dysfunction with capital punishment, I didn’t know what did.

So I guess you all probably see where all this is going. When we got there, there he was. Good ‘ol Uncle Dan who is as dysfunctional as the sun is bright. Today, he had company.

“I want y’all to meet me son.” He said. None of us knew he had a son so you could understand the shock in everyone’s faces.

His back was turned against us as this bizarre man looked at the old pictures on top of the piano. Everything about him braved the sea of unfamiliarity but something told me this guy and I had met someplace else.

“Dan, I didn’t know you had a son.” My mother said in a disparaged tone.

“His name’s Martin. Martin, this is the family.” Uncle Dan said as he introduced us one by one.

It was then that the whole world stopped. I looked around for a place to hide. I wanted to pillage time; needed just a little more to find a nice, quiet spot to hide or even run away. I imagined dumping my head in the garbage bin if only the place wasn’t so utterly filthy. I ran to the bathroom and traces of this morning’s meal went down the drain.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Aunt Josie asked as I stepped out the bathroom. “Something you ate not sitting right with you?”

“Lady, you have no idea.” I said as images my encounter with Martin filled my head. I fudge-packed him! I swallowed his cum! The thoughts kept ringing in my head.

“Oh lord, here comes another one” I squealed as I ran to the bathroom. After a few more moments of kicking myself in the head, I stepped outside for some fresh air.

“So did you know at that time?” I asked Martin who was smoking on the front porch.

“No, of course not. I found out right around your second bulimic sprint.” He dismissed.

“Oh God” I said. It was all I could say at that time. He didn’t seem as affected at that time.

“And Annie?” I asked. “How the heck does she know you?”

“We’re… sorta… cousins, too.”

“Really?” I asked, hoping he’d turn around and tell me it was all a joke.

“Yeah. On my mother’s side and all.”

“Where the heck does she get off pimping cousins?!”

“Ha. She’s crazy like that. That chick’s crazy. She made a pass at me and all even though we were like, cousins. I finally told her I was gay just to keep her at bay.”

His rhyming didn’t calm me down.

“You said you were an investment banker by day and cartoonist by night. You had me believing that shit about your dad passing and you inheriting your family’s business. I know Uncle Dan. He ain’t dead, nor does he have a business!!!”

“Oh yeah, you said your father killed your mother, leaving you to the custody of your blind stepfather. I’ve seen your mother. She ain’t dead! Jeez, man! You gave me nightmares for about a week!” I snickered as he told me this. I had a different story for every guy I went out with.

I looked at him with disparity. Here’s the guy that in every single way should repulse me. He’s my cousin. He’s my first boyfriend’s son. He’s my first girlfriend’s first cousin. He has smelly privates, this I know personally. But I was entering a whole new level of dysfunction. I had stepped into… the twilight zone.

“There’s a bedroom upstairs with a queen sized bed.” He said, with a weird look in his eyes.

“Are you crazy? You’re my goddamn cousin! Don’t look at me like that!”

“Don’t look at you like what?”

“Like you’ve got a sweet tooth and I’m some goddamn Popsicle!”

“So you remember?” He teased. I suddenly remembered why oral sex was so different with Martin.

“So how ‘bout it, Neil. For old time’s sake?” He said. His eyes told a story different from what my logical mind was telling me. I nodded gently as he held out his hand so that I could follow him.

“Oh Daaaaaaaaaaaad…” he trilled on our way up the stairs.

This was a whole new level of dysfunction for me. Something tells me I’m going straight to Hades for this.

♫: fun. featuring Janelle Monáe | We Are Young (2011)

The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: A Happy Childhood Memory

Spiral Prince: Wishing Stars
citybuoy: segueing cousins
Sitting Pretty: Grab My Hand

side x side (II)

2012-01-16T04:40:00.000+08:00

It starts with the smallest things. I could be at work, in bed, having coffee or watching a movie and then something reminds me of you. Like a pebble tossed into the river, I watch the ripples getting bigger and bigger. You are the pebble, my heart is the lake (and this is a crappy metaphor). I think of your voice, the way you say my name differently, the way you mock the way I speak. And then I smile. It’s a quiet one and barely anyone notices but inside, I’m all giggly and stuff and so I text you so you know I’m thinking about you.

I picture the life we’ll have together. I see your paintings in galleries, my stories in books, our names in the paper and magazines. I see the house we’ll buy in the city, the pictures on the piano that make this house a home. I smell dinner from the kitchen. I see toys messy on the floor. I see you painting in the bedroom, my sleeping face forever imprinted on easel and paint. I embrace you because it feels like I might burst if I don’t. And when I do, it still feels that way.

I let these thoughts crawl into every corner of my life. My friends say I’ve been smiling more, like there’s more bounce in my step. I go about my day and wonder what you’re doing at that exact moment (probably sleeping) and daydream about our lives, your paintings, my books, the pebble and the feeling of bursting if I don’t hold you, the feeling of bursting when I do. The office DJ starts playing a song and I’m like oh my gawd. Turn it up! This shit’s the best. The lady sings. Off key and at full volume, I sing along.

It starts with the smallest things. I could be at work, in bed, having coffee or watching a movie and then the darkness comes back. It’s like a gunshot through thick glass. It doesn’t shatter right away. It creeps, killing slowly with tension and force. I act normal, control the tone of my voice, the way I sip my coffee and watch for the twitch in my left eye. And then I smile. It’s a fake one but no one notices. Inside, it feels like the hollow has taken over and it’s sitting on my chest and I can’t breathe and I’m lonely and dying.

I look at the life I live. My promotion didn’t help like I thought it would. I read reports with glossed eyes while I think of stories I failed to write. I go home to my house in the city, find it is every bit as lonely as me. I jerk off severely because apart from alcohol, it’s the only way I can get some decent sleep. I think of you because you’re the only one who makes me burst. If that doesn’t work, I watch simulated rape videos online and worry about feeling guilty another day.

I keep these thoughts from crawling into my life because that’s what good, normal boys do. The darkness whispers and I shush him. I make an effort to smile more, force a bounce in my step. I go about my day and wonder if anyone is as lonely as I am. I close my eyes and wonder if anyone else hears the gunshot through thick glass or faps to Japanese porn or if my stories will die when I do. The darkness visits more regularly now. I use my iPod to block him out. Off key and at full volume, I sing along.

Do you want the truth or something beautiful?
I am happy to deceive you.
Sacred lies and telling tales,
I can be who you want me to be
But do you want me?

♫: Paloma Faith | Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful? (2009)
Post: side x side

It all started with a tweet. Can emo bloggers change their stripes? Blog superstar Spiral Prince and I shall attempt to do just that. The rules are simple. Write ten consecutive happy posts. If you falter, you have to write five more. *gulp*

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED! It all starts next week. Wish us luck!

The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Prologue

Spiral Prince: Vintage Truths

citybuoy: side x side (II)

Manila Bitch: Surviving Ennui

disconnect

2011-12-19T14:46:00.000+08:00

I stumbled out of the bar looking for a cigarette. I had a bottle in one hand and my phone in the other as my arms felt my pockets for a stick. I was sure I had one left but like most things in my life, my last cigarette eluded me and so I sat on the curb resigned.

You’re only worth your last cigarette, I heard a voice in my ear. Sometimes blog posts come to me like that. You’re only worth the contents of your wallet. You’re only as good as your next project, next blog post, next big thing they expect of you. You’re only as good as your capacity to love and right now honey, you ain’t worth shit.

Just as I was about to spiral into self-pity, I start smelling the familiar scent of tobacco smoke. I look up and see a boy, probably in his early 20s, looking nervous as he stood dangerously close to me. I get up, smile, rest my hand on the wall, our faces close to touching. He hands me a cigarette and we smoke until the pack runs out. We talk shit, our fiction mixing with reality. He tells me he’s in college but with pores like that, I knew he was lying. I told him I was a nursing graduate looking for a job. We bullshit each other some more then he asks if I wanted to go somewhere quiet.

The next morning, I wake up and my head feels like it’s been split into two. The motel room is bright as fuck and it’s a struggle to find my clothes. I locate my underwear near the dresser, my pants near the TV, my shirt balled up between the sheets. College boy is still in bed. I plan my quiet exit.

Forgetting something? I look behind me to find college boy with my wallet. By impulse, my right hand flies to my back pocket. Thank you, I say as I take it from him, my voice hoarse from an entire night of abuse.

Am I gonna see you again? he asks. Or is this one of those things? His voice starts to trail off. I never was good at these things. I could tell he was a good kid. Seemed a little fresh off the boat but workable under different circumstances. He lights up a cigarette then offers me one. I reluctantly accept. I don’t know. This seemed nice. Leave me your number and maybe we could do this again some time.

I smile at him, take deep drags off the cigarette then leave a few bills on the table to pay for the room. In my head, I hear Isaac singing.

There’s really no way to reach me.
There’s really no way to reach me.
Because I’m already gone.

♫: The Fray | Vienna (2005)

MC2U. I’m closing the books (or hanging in the towel or whatever cheesy expression you have in mind) for 2011. I realize I have a few unfinished projects for this year but in light of recent events, I don’t think I have the time or effort to write anymore. You can only get your heart broken too many times before you have to start thinking if you’re going to live the rest of your life an empty shell or if you’re going to heal and adapt. This year, I’m spending the holidays far from the bus horns and the lights of the city. Let’s all hope that 2012 will be kinder to all of us. To anyone who’s reading this, maligayang pasko at manigong bagong taon!

PS. If you miss me too much, you can watch me tumble or hear me tweet!

breaking

2011-12-09T00:46:00.001+08:00

May girlfriend ka na ba, dong? Bakit walang laman ang Facebook mo? Kelan ka ba mag-uuwi ng babae dito? Malicious little questions that mean so little yet betray so much. There are no easy answers to them (Hell to the no, kick ass security settings and when they start making them differently) so I just smile politely and change the topic.

There are so many things I’d like to tell you. Sometimes, I wonder if I can. Like maybe you’d understand, like maybe you wouldn’t think I’m evil or that I somehow wanted this. Maybe you’d be alright with it.

I imagine you and Papa. It’s a nondescript day. He is engrossed in a ₱50 book. You are in the kitchen reheating leftovers. I can hear Pet Society music in the background.

We start eating. Out of the blue, I tell you my secret. I talk about all the lies I’ve told you since all this began. I talk about my lover and how thoughts of him keep me warm at night. I talk about the urges, how they never stop, how I once thought they would. Papa stops eating. He gets up to smoke outside. You hold my hand and say you’ve always known. Papa comes back and just when I think he’s about to hit me, he holds me tight in his arms and tells me he loves me still. We all hug because that’s what happens in those bullshit Hallmark movies.

(OR)

Maybe I’ll tell you in the van. We are on our way home, at least where it used to be. Through the years, this van has witnessed many meltdowns. It is no stranger to tears. In the smallest voice I could muster, I tell you everything. You look me in the eye. I can tell you are fighting back tears. You slap me hard, so hard I almost fall off my seat. Papa slams the breaks. His door flies open and like the bass line in a heavy metal song, he marches to my side of the vehicle. He slides the door open and drags me out. You are not my son, he’d say and you leave me in the middle of Pasay with nothing but my regrets and tears.

But in reality, it wouldn’t be anything like that. It would be quiet. The only sound would be of your heart breaking, of your collective dreams suddenly shattering. Mama, I’m sorry.

I don’t ever want to break your heart. If I could, I would explain that this isn’t my fault, nor is it yours or anyone’s for that matter. It’s just how things are. It took me such a long time to accept it for myself. On most nights, I was on my knees praying, bargaining, saying I’d give all the shit I own to be “normal”, whatever that meant. There were many moments when I just wanted to be like everyone else. But I couldn’t do that. I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not. Didn’t you teach me that?

And so although I want you to see the man I have become, my true self away from the lies I tell and the masks I wear to protect you, I know now is not the time. Someday, I pray you’d understand. I pray you wouldn’t think I’m evil or that I somehow wanted this. I pray that one day, you’d be alright with it.

I do not want to break your heart and so instead, I break my own.

♫: Plumb | Damaged (1999)

crash

2011-11-22T16:32:00.001+08:00

“I hate flying,” I said to the woman next to me. I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers but I figured since we were stuck in Economy for the better part of the morning, it wouldn’t hurt to pass the time with a new friend. “Though they say you’re more likely to die of heart disease than a plane crash.” She smiled politely at me as she plugged her earphones in. I had half a mind to tell her she’s not allowed to play music during takeoff but as I glanced at her iPod, I noticed it wasn’t even on. So much for making new friends.

When we hit a stable altitude, I decided I should probably take a nap. I wasn’t really sleepy. I just didn’t have anything better to do. Smarter travellers would’ve brought a book or a gadget of some sort. I had the inflight magazine and half a KitKat. I didn’t want to look like a loser so I figured sleep’s the only thing left to do. I shut my eyes. One by one, the sounds around me started to fade away. Within minutes, I found myself sleeping miles above the earth.

I didn’t get much sleep though. Of all things, it was the oxygen masks that woke me. I quickly took the one that hit me and put it over my mouth. The plane shook violently as the pilot talked to us about lightning and where we were trying to land. The stewardesses fought hard to keep their balance and their composures. One was helping an elderly woman with her life vest. Another was barking out instructions. Put this on! Pull both at the same time! Women with infants! I looked around me. The woman next to me was in tears, her paperback soaking in a puddle of coffee. The overhead bins flew open as bags threw themselves at unsuspecting passengers. Couples held on to each other as though love could get them through a plane crash. The religious clutched rosaries and prayed. In the middle of it all, I was strangely calm. I wasn’t afraid. I was thinking of you.

The plane ripped open and one by one, the seats flew out like they do in cartoons. My seat ejected soon enough. The clouds and the cold air felt sharp as I passed through them. The city lights looked like stars. I mapped out the bridges and skyscrapers like they were constellations. I floated aimlessly, my heart fearless, my mind hell-bent on a destination.

I wanted to float to you. In my mind, I pictured landing on your doorstep. You would open the door and let me in. It would be awkward at first, you not knowing exactly what I was doing or how I got there. Me, heavily burdened by all that I couldn’t but wanted to say. If that happens, would all the things we couldn’t talk about stop mattering? Or would we still be afraid of all we had to lose?

I’d like to think that at that moment, it would just be me and you and no one else. No meddling friends, deep-set issues or exes who refuse to be forgotten. There’s only us and the bright opportunity to fall in love. We’d hug and it would feel like we found missing parts of ourselves in each other. Our hearts would start beating in tune. We’d kiss in sweet slow motion, like honey dripping or something pretentiously poetic like that. Maybe a few birds would sing. There would be a double rainbow. But none of that would matter because we’d be lost in each other’s embrace.

The only thing worse than waking up from a nightmare is to wake up from a silly dream. We will never meet. We will never touch. We are too fucked up to let go. The pilot announced that we’d landed early. I stood up to get my carry-on. I turned my phone on to check my messages. There was one from the office, another from an old friend. I tapped compose.

“Just landed. The airport is five different shades of lonely.” Not that you asked. Not that you will.

♫: Jason Mraz | Plane (2005)
Photo: airplane window / pixlr.com

conflict

2011-11-14T03:44:00.001+08:00

Bird’s losing his feathers, I casually said to my sister over breakfast. Over warm pan de sal and small talk, she and I came up with theories. I said he might be shedding like snakes do. She said he might be sad or lonely. For the entire year since he crashed into our living room*, he’s always been alone. Everybody needs somebody, she reasoned. Perhaps music would help.

Since then, I’d grown accustomed to hearing her sing to him in the early morning. Jazz standards, hymns from the church we grew up in, top forty mainstays – my sister’s repertoire knew no bounds. The bird responded frequently. Though off key, he did his best to keep up with her vocal runs. I wish we’d listened to him at night when we all went to bed. If we did, we’d understand the real reason why he was losing all his feathers.

This morning, when I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I saw Bird with one of his feathers between his beak. There were a few others on his cage’s floor. If I’d come earlier, I would’ve heard the incessant gnawing of his self-mutilation or the sound his beak made as he slammed it repetitively on one of the bars. He wasn’t shedding nor was he particularly lonely. He was stripping.

---

I don’t understand this, my father said one morning. He was tending to his latest project: an herb garden and though he stuck to the internet how-to he’d printed out, he could not get the sprouts to live past a few days. My mother, ever supportive, suggested that maybe it was the weather. Perhaps November’s too chilly to be growing arugula.

Rubbish, he dismissed. The man at the seedling bank said it was the perfect season for arugula. I wondered how he could care so much for something so frail. I could not find any compassion for those green little things but they kept my father busy so I couldn’t complain.

I’m thinking about all of this as I sit outside our house at three in the morning. I have a cigarette in one hand and a cup of ash and water in the other. I puff, flick twice into the cup and think about my father’s rosemary, his Thai basil and a few more that I couldn’t name. I think about the care he takes, nipping the bad ones, treasuring the good. My big toe traces the outline of the chalk fence he drew to keep the pests away. And when I finished my cigarette and thoughts of his babies, I carefully poured the contents of my cup into each pot.

---

Are you leaving because you’re in love with me? he asked. My mind knew this game too well. It was time to override the control of my heart. I was starting to lose it. I was acting funny, saying things I wasn’t sure I meant, spiraling into an abyss of empty promises and failed expectations. I pleaded my case and lost. I convinced myself I gave it a fair shake and it was time to move on. It was time to say goodbye.

No, I said, my voice thin and frail. I’m leaving because you’re breaking my heart.

From out of nowhere, a voice whispers in my ear. Honey, you’re breaking your own heart.

---

97% of scientific experts agree that the climate changes, the crazy weather, the spontaneous tsunamis and consequent droughts are all very likely caused by man-made activity. We like to destroy our own, don’t we? After all, what is life without conflict?

♫: Jet | Look What You've Done (2003)

surrender

2011-11-06T08:40:00.000+08:00

We may never speak again. That was my first thought when I woke up this morning. I don’t usually get up before noon on Sundays but today was different. My head throbbed from drinking too many beers in too little time. My three-hour ~~sleep~~ nap was yet another cosmic joke that I didn’t get. But none of that mattered. The only thing that did was that we may never speak again.

And there is so much to say. Sometimes, the sheer weight of all the things I say to you and all I leave behind feels like it’s going to crush me. My shoulders ache from lugging it around, the way I conceal my psychoses, the way I pretend to ignore yours, the way I used our common pain as common ground. I carried them around for weeks. One day, I said to myself I didn’t want to carry that weight anymore. Especially not on this strange Sunday morning where I find myself hung over, with a splitting headache, heartbroken and writing draft after draft for you.

What took me months to rebuild is once again shattered. I stare at the mirror, at the cracks on my cheek, the glue stains on my neck and wonder what it’s like to be unbreakable. I run my hands through scars, both fresh and old and wonder if there was more to me than what you saw. Perhaps I’m not really as wonderful as I thought I was. Maybe you were right.

Over dinner, a friend talks to me about strength. I only half-listen for in my mind, I was still reeling from what little we had ending so abruptly. Through bits and pieces, she told me that strength is not winning the break-up game. It’s not about being the first to move on or the last to hold a grudge. Strength is getting punched in the gut, doubling over, standing up and asking for more. Many lose when they look for love. I guess that’s why so many of us just wait but only the strong can love, get hurt and still find it in them to come back day after day after day, heart on their sleeve, smile on their face, saying let’s do this. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s never going to hurt.

When it’s time to live and let die
And you can’t get another try.
Something inside this heart has died.
You’re in ruins.

One, 21 guns.
Lay down your arms. Give up the fight.
One, 21 guns.
Throw up your arms into the sky.

She said strength is in standing up and asking for more. I’m sorry I’m not that strong.

♫: Green Day | 21 Guns [Cast Version] (2009)

what it was like

2011-10-31T10:41:00.000+08:00

I needed to know what I was like back then. For nights, I thought of nothing but my youth, hoping he would come to me in my sleep. On the sixth night, he finally did.

It was like I had my eyes closed for a long time. His image, blurry at first, began to focus. We exchanged pleasantries, neither of us wanting to acknowledge that we met because of a mutual pain and that perhaps we are each other’s keys.

“Can you tell me what it’s like?” I asked when there was nothing left to say. “Can you remind me what it’s like to have a dream?”

“I want for nothing,” he began. “But I want everything. Hunger fills the corners of my silences like a dark flame. It’s a reason to get up in the morning. Something to look forward to when I give my mind up to slumber.”

I remember how that felt. I remember how my dreams felt like little flames on my skin that would consume me if I didn’t work for them. I remember yearning for the future – the future which has unfortunately become my present. Ah, but I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now.*

I yearned. It was all I had. I had an image of where I wanted to be and I was determined to do whatever it took to get there. And all these years, I climbed the mountains of my ambition and desire. I went on a lot of dates. I worked myself to the bone to get promoted. I climbed until my legs hurt. I climbed until the air was so thin, I had to shut my eyes. It wasn’t until I opened them again that I realized I had finally reached the top.

What happens when you realize you have nothing left to climb? I have come to the realization that there is nothing else to want in life. I live my days with a vacant expression hoping that someone or something would wake me from this comatose.

“You know I’ve been looking for you too,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’ve reminded you of who you were. Maybe you can tell me what it’s like.”

“What’s what like?”

“The future. Will I be happy? Will it all make sense in the end?”

I wanted to tell him everything: the hollow that haunted me, the sadness I still could not explain, the vacant that punctuated my days. I felt he had a right to know and I was going to tell him but then something made me stop.

He stared at me with such hope in his eyes. I didn’t want to crush him. I didn’t want him to worry about the things I should be searching for myself.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, I am,” I lied. “And you will be too.”

“Will there be more mountains?” he asked, his voice sounding more like an echo. “Will we live long enough to see?” His eyes pierced through me with hope. I knew it would be impossible to be truthful.

I suddenly awoke in a pile of pillows and bedding on the floor.

“Plenty,” I said to him even though he was gone. “There will be plenty of mountains,” For both our sakes, I pray my words ring true someday.

♫: Shakira | Hopes For Plans (2005)

this is your life

2011-10-24T09:17:00.000+08:00

Last night, I let a paid man fuck me. It had been years since anyone went down there and though I thought it would be like riding a bike and a few moments to jog my memory would be all it would take, it wasn’t. I felt like this man went inside my body, spit on my soul and asked for payment.

And my legs hurt from the haphazard massage that came before it. I went to one of those dinky massage places. Within moments, I was butt naked with my face pressed on a hard mattress. The entire place reeked of semen, cigarette smoke and broken dreams. Through the harsh red lighting, my seemingly innocent masseur asked me if I liked it hard.

An hour later, he was inside me. I was okay at first but then I started weeping. The pain was a little too much. Though he was pretty short, his cock had somehow transformed from flaccid and infantile to erect and ginormous. I thought that the bit about me paying for this would ease the pain or that he would stop when I told him to but despite all I said, he kept going and going and going. He rode me hard and with such abandon. Intent on getting my money’s worth, I focused on the ceiling and made patterns with the irregular brown stains. He finally came, then I came and we settled the bill. As he popped out to get a towel to wipe the blood and shit off my leg, I closed my eyes and imagined I was at the beach, relaxing with the warm sun in my face. I imagined I was far, far away.

And then I realized at that exact moment that this is what I've become. This has become my life.

Two weeks ago, Nick asked if he could “borrow” some money. This was weeks after his last text to me. His promises to love me despite myself were left hanging in the air. I sincerely thought I would never hear from him again but when I opened my eyes, he was in front of me, taking the last of my money. I looked at him, trying to memorize each line on his face for in my heart of hearts, I knew. I knew I would never see him again.

A sugar daddy at age thirty-three. I guess that’s why I allowed the masseur to fuck me even though I didn’t really want him to. At least I knew what I was getting into. I paid him to fuck me. There weren’t any messy complications or pretensions of affection. If I give him enough money, he can make me forget that I am who I am – someone who is impossible to love without a few Ninoys involved. After we both came, the masseur and I lay side by side on the small mattress. He offered me a cigarette as he lit one for himself. His breathing was labored, probably by all the smoke in his workplace.

“Can you kiss me?” I asked him. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I looked at him with disapproval.

“Not like that. I want you to kiss me like you mean it.” And he did. It felt real. True enough, he was worth every single centavo. For a little over an hour and at the expense of an entire week’s salary, he was mine and I, his. It felt nice to be owned again.

He held me for a little bit and then with the sounding of the house bell, we knew our time was up. I got dressed and walked home. It was drizzling a little but I ignored it. I had my iPod on shuffle and it started playing a Switchfoot song. This is your life. Are you who you want to be? the singer asked. It was almost 5AM. The sun was beginning to rise and everywhere, people were waking up and to take part in their lives.

This is my life. I am not who I want to be.

♫: Switchfoot | This Is Your Life (2004)

seeing

2011-10-17T01:55:00.000+08:00

She sits at a lonely table in the middle of a busy restaurant. Her hair is pulled back, her clothes simple but stylish and there’s barely any blush on her cheeks. She has her hand in an open book but her eyes stare blankly at the window. Her fingers feel the words. A woman. A man. They are in love. They kiss under the pale moonlight. She finds it hard to focus on the words, on the promises they betrayed, on her own thoughts racing quick like fire. She closes her book, takes a sip of water and listens to the sounds around her.

There is a baby a few feet behind her. His cries pierce through the symphony of spoons and forks scraping against plates. There is a man talking loudly on his cellphone, something about an art deal that went sour. She can hear a pair of women gossiping about her from a faraway table. They comment on her shoes, how they’re too high, how they’d have bought a pair in a different color. They speculate about why she’s alone. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“Phone call from an unregistered number,” an electronic woman speaks from her purse. She fishes out her phone and taps lightly on the screen. The voice of a man from a thousand miles away patches through crystal clear.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

She smiles. His voice feels like soft fur across the fleshy part of her thigh. It’s not right but it feels nice. He talks about Cleveland, about how it’s not what he imagined it would be. He talks about the airport, how the people look funny, how the shops feel alien to him. He talked about how slowly time seemed to pass over there and how he longed for nothing than to have her by his side.

“I got you a little something.”

She inhales sharply. Perhaps he did remember after all.

“I know I shouldn’t. At least not after the last time.”

Her eyes stay transfixed on the window. He reminded her of what happened, how the wounds have not mended, how it pains her to not know where they stand.

“Anyway, I wish you’d talk to me. I really am sorry.”

She sighs. It is all she could give him. Any more would be indulging. Any less and she’d explode.

“Are you seeing anyone new?” he asks. She waits for the line to click, certain he’d soon tire of speaking to the wall she’d put up.

“I wish you had remembered,” she says after he ends the call. She stands, her napkin falls to the floor but she does not pick it up. She walks towards the sounds of the bar and lightly touches the arm of one of the waiters.

“The middle table,” she commands. “It’s her birthday. I want a cake – strawberry, not chocolate. I’d also like for you to sing her a song. Do this when she asks for the check.” She slips a horizontally-folded fiver with a handshake and walks slowly back to her table.

Her food arrives and she eats slowly and carefully. The meat tastes sinewy. Its juices tickle her taste buds. She tastes a bit of the potatoes. They are mushy and overcooked. She listens to the hollow sound of her swallowing, of food making its way down. Do they sound the same way while I digest? she wonders as the sounds of the restaurant fade away.

The women have stopped talking about her. The baby has stopped crying. The man on the phone has left. She listens as new people take their places in booths and tables around the restaurant. People coming, people going, nobody stays long enough to enjoy their food anymore.

When she is finished eating, she hears the familiar sound of tambourines coming from the kitchen. People stop talking as several waiters slowly approach her table.

They sing Happy Birthday, their voices loud and off-key. She smiles politely, her eyes resting lazily on the flowers on the table. One voice particularly stood out. She imagines him to be stout and sweaty with long curly hair. The song ends on a sustained, happy note as the lead waiter wishes her a final happy birthday.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. He hands her the check. She pulls out three vertically-folded bills from her purse and slides them into the leather holder. She takes a final sip of water, puts her book in her purse and maps out her exit route.

“Is she?” one of the gossiping women asks.

“Dakota,” she calls out and her golden retriever springs up from his rest. She clicks her tongue and he pops out from under the table. He walks slowly, guiding her out of the restaurant and onto the street.

The October wind was a little chilly but her nape burned feverishly from the restaurant’s collective gaze. She walks calmly, confidently, her heels making loud clacking noises on the pavement. He had asked her if she was seeing anyone new. She smiles an empty smile, wondering if he understood the irony.

♫: Rachael Yamagata | Answering The Door (2008)

reprising the teacher

2011-10-10T06:41:00.000+08:00

There are moments, little victories, I suppose that I relish. I find myself in the middle of a café and I am smiling at nothing. Or I laugh at a scene in a movie and I feel like it’s real, like it’s not that laugh I keep rehearsing in the mirror at home. There are days when I hardly think of him.

But there are others that are unforgiving. They knock the wind out of me until I’m a big useless ball weeping on the bedroom floor. I press an ear against the floor, waiting to hear his footsteps returning. I imagine what they would sound like. Plop. Plop. Plop-plop. Or was it just Plop. Plop. Plop? The jingle of his keys, the turning of the doorknob, the shuffle his feet made on the welcome rug. I jump up, turn around to face the door but no one was there. I couldn’t find him. He didn’t want me to. So I guess I’ll just have to wait.

Or do I? I slowly undress, my nude body almost translucent in the livid moonlight. I picture his face, each line, each shadow. My pencil traces intricate dances on the paper. I sketch his hands and with each stroke, each line, I could feel his warmth brushing against my body. I sketch his eyes, the way they looked at me when he first beheld my nakedness. I blush. No one’s looked at me that way before, I whisper to no one in particular. I sketch his arms, his chest, his wobbly knees. I sketched him to life.

And he came into my room looking just like he did on the night that we met. A cold draft entered through the doorway. I shiver, hide myself behind feeble hands as though I hadn’t noticed I was naked. He comes towards me, his big hands reaching for mine, feeling, longing. He kisses me and it feels just like it used to.

Tell me a lie, he says. Just like before. Soft whispers in my ear trickle down like water.

I didn’t miss you. I answer, my eyes unfeeling, staring right into his.

Tell me another one.

You don’t turn me on. At least not anymore.

Another one.

I still think of you on most nights when I can’t sleep.

I told you to lie to me. He looked confused. That wasn’t a lie.

How would you know? You weren’t there.

---

Did you miss me? His breath feels warm and wet. He leads a hand down to my crotch, the pain of my arousal relentless against his will.

Now you tell me a lie. I command.

I don’t miss screwing you.

Another one.

I never loved you.

Another one.

I’ve stopped loving you.

Another one.

It’s been difficult to move on. Not when I see you like this.

I bit my tongue. I wasn’t sure if he was lying like he was supposed to. All I knew was either way, it would hurt.

I awake from my daydream yearning for a time so clear, it could have been a memory. Whatever happened to us? I used to see us, hands clasped, waking up to a million forevers. Why did we have to lie?

♫: Azure Ray | Sleep (2001)
Post: in oblivion [mots]

Reprising again / Year Seven. I haven’t reprised any bloggers in a while. In case you weren’t here last year, they’re like song covers for blogs but way looser. Click here to see the others. Ooh, and this blog just turned seven years old last Thursday. I know I haven’t been the most consistent blogger but it means a lot to me that you guys are still here despite my craziness. Thank you for the friendship and the encouragement-slash-ego boost. I promise to write more often real soon.

this year's love (II)

2011-10-03T18:00:00.000+08:00

“Honestly, I don’t know if you’re lucky or unlucky,” said a friend. He put stress on all the right words so they cut right through. We were talking about love and logic. He says when you find love, you can’t help yourself. You have to surrender to it in all Amy Winehouse glory and do whatever it takes to be with him. I said it was possible to be logical about it and when I find myself with people who can or have hurt me, I use my mind to bottle up all my feelings and stow it away.

“You have to protect yourself,” I argued. “I’ve seen too many people scarred beyond repair from what you call love and I don’t want to be like them.”

“If you keep doing that, you’ll never truly open yourself up to anybody,” he warned.

“It’s helped me survive all these years,” I said. We argued well into the morning light, both of us drunk and exhausted. In the end, we agreed to disagree, or at least I did. He predicted I would soon see that he was right.

I walked home and met a nice black kitten. He was playing with a twig in front of my house and didn’t mind much when I came close to touch him. We exchanged a few meows and purrs and after saying goodbye fifty million times, I opened the gate and went inside. It was such a breath of fresh air – a street cat who isn’t afraid of humans. I would’ve said he was being avant-garde but if I were to be honest to myself and to my new friend, I knew he was just being naïve.

Two days later, he was dead. I saw his guts splattered on the concrete and he had a strange expression on his face. I wanted to take a picture to show my friends so that they could confirm what I was seeing – the dead avant-garde kitty was smiling. What was he smiling about? A bigger black cat walked towards us. I assumed she was the mother and so I got up and let the woman grieve. As I walked away, she sprung up in defense and I could hear her anger through her fangs. She was older and in cat sense, wiser not to trust humans. People will kill you, if you let them, she seemed to say.

People will kill you, if you let them. I’m not talking about getting run over or shot. I’m talking about a harsher death. They can make you feel worthless and ugly, they can crush your spirit if you let them. I should know for I’ve made that mistake too many times. For weeks, I’ve been spiraling into an inferno of self-pity. There’s a voice in my head that tells me to stop and cling to whatever I have left. I’ve got a good job, a stable family, fantastic friends. Why do I need anybody to validate me? Why should the actions of one person define me? My logic tells me to be big and brave like the mother cat. It’s a big old world filled with assholes and those naïve enough to believe in love and its fragrant promises usually find themselves squashed on the pavement with their pink parts exposed to the world.

There’s another voice though and I hardly recognize it as my own. It must be from when I was younger. The kitty was smiling. He was on to something. You’ll never know love if you don’t try. Not everyone will hurt you. Not everyone who does, means to. If you give up now, how will you ever find it?

Question is: do I lick my wounds and become calloused or die with a smile on my face?

I don’t really know what the future has in store for me. Truth is, I’m terrified of the thought of meeting new people, going on dates again and opening doors that I quite recently forced shut. As I got home last night from what felt like such a long day, I glanced at the sky and saw something I hadn’t seen before in my twenty-five years of existence. I was beginning to think they weren’t really real but last night, it shone in its brief teal glory. They say you have to wish when you see a falling star. I closed my eyes and through clenched teeth, I wished to fall in love again.

♫: David Gray | This Year's Love (1999)
Photo: Yohan | cat / sky
Post: This Year's Love

Re-imaginings. It’s been weeks since I wrote anything fresh. I was in the middle of this series* but I suddenly found myself straddling the line between reality and fiction. I have so much hatred for the third person in the story that I just couldn’t find the empathy to pen his version. Instead of going on hiatus yet again, I thought I’d come out with some reworked blog posts from before Citybuoy. This one is from three years ago*.

how would you do it?

2011-09-16T01:55:00.001+08:00

How would you do it? It’s a question that’s been in my head for over a week now. I suppress it, fill my head with things to do, anything to get my mind off it. Deal with problems as they arise. My laptop battery dies, I grab my charger. My tummy rumbles, I eat. My coffee spills, I wipe it up. Never succumb, nothing is let go. But there are days like today when I’m too weak to fight; too weak to stay sane so I just let the thoughts calmly trickle down.

I imagine white sheets on a white bed in a blindingly white room. There is a Tornatore score in the background. The windows are open but the sun is too bright to see anything. The curtains sway feverishly. I am naked, lost in slumber in the middle of the bed. A small red dot appears in the middle of the bed. It grows and grows until all you see is red. The sheets, the bed, the curtains, the wallpaper. The cellos end on a peculiar note. I’ve slit my wrists. The scene fades to black.

The next scene finds me on the roof of a skyscraper. It is nighttime. Hyperballad plays from a loud car on the street. I go through all this before you wake up, Björk sings. Her song mixes with car horns, traffic sounds, trains screeching through tracks. I feel the wind on my face. My shirt gets magically unbuttoned. I leap. I am free. I smile. Safe again with you, she sings over and over again. The scene fades to black.

I am in the bath in the house I grew up in. I soak. My mind is at ease. I close my eyes. My mother is listening to the news on our old multiplex. A murder in Marikina. No one saw it coming. No suspects, no leads, just a body in the middle of the river. I tune out. The water is so calm, so inviting. I fidget a little, ripples on the water’s surface. I dip my head slowly. The water enters through my nose, my ears, my eyes. I feel it in my lungs. The radio begins to sound muffled. The scene fades to black.

Hanging. Sleeping pills. An insane amount of ecstasy. An air-conditioned car with a hose in the muffler. Leaping in front of a speeding bus along EDSA. Gasoline and a match. A river and a stone. The scenes mix, one right after the other like boom boom boom. The soundtrack confuses. Sia, Adele, Sparklehorse, Fiona Apple, Liz Phair and Amy Winehouse. OneRepublic, Robyn, Paula Cole and a Lady GaGa song for good measure. Silence, static, the Angkor Wat theme. I am dizzy. And then, a realization.

How can someone die when he’s already dead? How can you kill someone who’s already been killed?

How? We meet. It is wonderful. We share coffee and cigarettes. A Train song plays in the background. We laugh, discuss poetry and movies, time flies. A park bench. Love. A day, a week, a month, six months. I start to believe in myself again. All of the shit I went through in the past suddenly makes sense. We make plans. He talks about our home, our children, the stories we will write. Promise me you’ll always be happy by my side. I promise to sing to you when all the music dies.*

And then, it does. There is only silence. A bump in the road. And then another one. And then another one. It feels like all we ever think about is him leaving. I hide, weep quietly. I show him nothing. There’s no reason for both of us to be miserable. I withdraw. Am I here? A missed opportunity. Another one. Another one. I am invisible.

A week before a year and he needs me. I am distant. I am busy. He seeks comfort in another man. Can you blame him? A choice, a decision. Him instead of me. Another decision. Him again. Again and again and again. Can you blame him? I am broken. I am nothing. I’ve lost faith in men and love and the birds in the sky. I’ve stopped believing I will ever love again. It feels like I’m a sheet of paper slowly burning in anger and self-pity. He has killed me. The scene fades to black.

A co-worker barks my name snapping me back to reality. I am suddenly awake and painfully aware that all that I’ve written is true. And then there are things to do, bills to be paid, emails to respond to and reports to be sent. Life goes on despite the absence of it. I breeze through the tasks at hand.

Are you okay? a friend asks. You look terrible.

I’m not, I answer reluctantly, but I will be. I smile. It is vacant. In my head, I see slit wrists, tall buildings and buses speeding along EDSA. I put on my headset, plug it into my iPod and the world is silenced by a song.

You'll say you'd never let me fall from hopes so high.
But never is a promise and you can't afford to lie.

♫: Fiona Apple | Never Is A Promise (1996)

vacant

2011-09-05T10:17:00.002+08:00

“Story,” I called out from the darkness. The dungeon was dark so I brought out my lighter. I spotted him in the corner, sleep in his eyes. “C’mon Story. Let’s go. It’s your turn.”

“Not today, boss.” he said. “You’ve got something else you need to write.”

I looked around the room. Stories in various states of finish looked at me and then ran away into the darker parts of the room. “They don’t want to be written today either.” He looked at me, or rather looked through me as if to say he knew something I didn’t want him to know.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked. “I thought I was hiding things pretty well.”

“You are. But we know better.” One by one, my stories came towards me. They wrapped around my legs, some crawled up my back as they fought to lay me flat on the table. Some struggled with my button fly, others with the leather to bind my hands and feet. Stripped and bound, I took a deep breath to get started.

“You could go on and on and on, given the state you’re in. You could fill a whole novel about your sadness,” Story warned.

“What do I do?” I asked. “How do I even start to talk about how my love died?”

“Focus on what’s important.” His beady eyes still sliced right through me. “Focus on this.” His bony finger resting on my heart, I knew just what I needed to say.

“Write this down.” I began. “Before I forget, I want to tell you I love you…”

---

Before I forget, I want to tell you I love you. I can feel my fickle brain, fragment after fragment pulling you away from me. I close my eyes, trying to remember your face, the way your eyes squint when you laugh at my jokes or the wheeze you make from smoking too much. Memory is a tricky bastard. Count on it all you can but it’s got a mind of its own.

There are moments when I find myself staring at lost corners of the room. I think about our plans, the children we were going to have (adopt?). One was gonna be a boy and he was gonna be like me. He’d be friendly, not that smart but really active in school. We talked about him playing sports, the unlived lives of his fathers coursing fiercely through his blood. I remembered our daughter, how she was gonna have your gentleness, your eyes, how she was gonna be a dancer. I pictured her pink tutu as she fluttered around the kitchen. I saw her poetry written in crayon, magnets on the refrigerator door. And then memory took her away. He took them all away.

And then anger fills the Vacant. I picture you, I picture him. I close my eyes and all I can see is his hands on your body, your mouth on his lips. I hear your moans and I hear his (with the voice I imagined he has). I clench my teeth, my fists, my soul. I’d punch my eyes out if it would stop these tears. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, feeling ugly, feeling obsolete and unworthy of anyone’s attention. I hear the collective laughter of my exes, how they said I would never amount to anything. I listen closely, wondering if you had already joined them.

And then shame fills the Vacant. Last night, I dreamed that I was flying and everyone could see. I was yelling, screaming, squealing with delight. I relished the moment, setting myself apart from those I walked the earth with. I’m different, I’m special, I seemed to say. My feeble wings reeked of bird shit and glue and then I flew too close to the sun.

I still hear your voice when the room becomes quiet. There are days when I feel okay. Then there are days like today when I stalk you both obsessively on Facebook. Part of me is praying you’d unfriend me soon so I wouldn’t see the pictures you just posted or his vague status I saw right through. And then the vacant fills the Vacant and it’s a struggle to remember your face, the way your eyes squint when you laugh at my jokes or the wheeze you make from smoking too much. So before I forget, before my mind loses to its own defenses, I want to say I love you.

---

“I promised you a song. We had just met and you asked if I could sing. I’m sorry I never got to.” I opened my eyes but it was still dark to see. From behind me, I could hear Story scribbling angrily on my notebook.

“Who was it that said that loving is too short and that forgetting is too long?” I asked Story as he wrote down my last few sentences.

“Neruda,” he answered, almost instantly. “That bastard.”

“Let’s throw that in somewhere.” As our voices faded into the night, the other stories untied me from the table. The leather left marks on my skin. I sat up, the cold creeping from the window to the table to the small of my back.

“I want to forgive him, Story. I really do. It’s just…” I looked around me and I realized I was alone.

Someone wise once said that love is a series of choices and that you choose to love somebody despite understanding, despite all your defenses. I’m sorry I chose myself.

We are born innocent.
Believe me, Adia.
We are still innocent.
It’s easy. We all falter.
Does it matter?

♫: Sarah McLachlan | Adia (1998)

two of three: fragments

2011-08-28T08:39:00.000+08:00

Question: How do you ruin your entire life with one decision? Is that even possible?

To say that I never loved her is a lie. Because I did, maybe I still do. I had once pictured a life together, silver in our hair, hands still clasped.

But now, there are only fragments in my head, floating like entities in space. I want to make sense of them but whenever I try to grasp those little shards of images and sound, they just float away, farther away from me. The most I can do is observe them carefully, quietly and with the eye of a jeweler stringing beads of olive, copper and cerulean together.

“It’s not easy for me either,” she said to me. We were in the kitchen fighting. There was a piece of burnt toast on the table, the butter slowly melting onto the wooden placemat. The purple plate it once rested on lay in pieces on the floor. “You think it’s easy to be 25 and feel like your life is over?”

“I was young too.” I barked. “I used to be funny. I used to know how to laugh. I used to write you letters. Now what am I? I’m old. I might as well be dead.”

“Who are we,” she asked. “and what have we done? Where are the people we used to be?” There was a sadness in her voice, something only years of regret can give.

“How many times can I lose you before I finally do?” I asked. She turns around, tears in her eyes as she comes at me with fists in the air.

It’s a slow death, I realized. When love dies, perhaps a part of you dies with it. When we met in high school, I thought she was the gentlest person I had ever met. I didn’t know anything about life or love but I felt like I didn’t need to know any more. Just being around her, I had all the lessons I would ever need.

I’d tell her I missed her when what I wanted to say was how I loved her. I’d write poetry about the delicateness of her fingertips or the curves on her body. But now, that all feels like a lifetime away. Now, there is only hollow and anger and lots and lots of regrets.

Question: How do you ruin your entire life with one decision? Answer: You don’t. Truth is, it’s an orgy of a million wrong decisions. You hardly notice them but they pile up. Before you know it, you’ve got your clothes stuffed in the car trunk speeding into the city in the dead of night.

He’s been good to me. He listens to me and he laughs at my stories and I know he means it. We were complete strangers when this all began. He found me one night nursing a beer. With a lit cigarette in one hand, he asked if I had a light. It was bullshit but he had a kind face and I needed a friend so I let him sit with me.

Night after night, I’d see him at the bar. We’d talk and get drunk and everybody just blurred away. It felt good. I felt alive again. He'd listen to me gripe about my marriage, my work, the things I never got to do and I never felt judged. Not one bit. In return, I listened to his problems with men and offered a different perspective.

“Why are you straight and married?” he asked one night. “Sometimes I feel like maybe you were the last good one out there.”

“Where were you when I was 17?” I asked.

Two men sitting at a bar. Both of them filled to the brim with regrets.

I just wanted to feel like a man again. I wanted to feel like for once, I could do something right. One night, I dreamed I was back in school waiting in line at the drinking fountain. One by one, the kids stepped on the lever and drank. They walked away with smiles on their faces, feeling blessed with their good fortune. When my turn came, I stepped on the lever and the dirtiest water I had ever seen came out. The spigot reeked of decay and I walked away with thirst unquenched.

All the fights, all the arguments, I was slowly dying. It seemed she had something new every day. She rambled about how the kids were fucked up and how they needed a father with a backbone. She complained about how little I made and how much work she had to do. She accused me of being a sloppy fuck and how I didn’t hold her like I used to after we came. I sat there listening to her wondering how many deaths I had to suffer through before I could put all this behind me.

I just wanted to feel like a man again. So it’s ironic how someone queer made me feel that way. We were drinking. They had one last call for alcohol. When we finished that, he offered to continue at his apartment. “It’s just a block away,” he said. I didn’t argue.

Waking up the next day, both of us naked, I could smell his sex on my skin. At that moment, I knew I was right where I was supposed to be.

I knew what my marriage was doing to me and I could take all of it just as long as he was by my side. I was being selfish but for once, I was happy. One night, I woke up to an empty bed. He was perched on a chair smoking, the window open just a crack.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked, sleep in my voice.

“I’m fine,” he answered although I could tell he was crying.

“I can leave.” I said.

“No, don’t. You don’t have to. You can stay the night.”

“I meant her. I can leave her. If you want me to.” His face lit up from across the room.

Question: How do you ruin your entire life with one decision? Answer: You just do. But sometimes, it’s not really important how we do things. It’s why we do them that makes the difference.

Part 1 | 2 | 3
♫: Leona Lewis | Happy (2009)
Photo: American Gothic / Masterpiece Me!

happy birthday / vlogging

2011-08-08T06:29:00.003+08:00

So I decided to give video blogging a shot. No one tells you how difficult it is to find the right scene, the right words, even the proper lighting. And no one ever says how ang lakas pala niya makapangit. :X At the end of everything, I just said fuck it. Let’s do this. I have very poor EQ.

For those who can't see the video, I was just talking about my birthday, being sick but still being blessed. I thanked everybody who's been on this crazy blogging journey with me and I made several excuses why I haven't posted the next part of my story yet. lolz

Before I forget, I also wanted to say Happy Birthday to other bloggers: Momel, who is crazy but that’s why we love him, Green Breaker, who is new and therefore fresh, and to Herbs, the Coffee Babies’ very own bebigurl.

UPDATE: TwitVid's being weird and YouTube finally cooperated so here's another link to access the video. Also, the post I was talking about can be seen here.

one of three: like clockwork

2011-08-01T13:18:00.006+08:00

Is it morning? I ask myself as I lay awake in bed. My eyes hurt as the room comes into view. The bed is a mess as sheets lay disheveled on the floor. Violent sleep has become my reality. Outside, a bird is singing me good morning. The sun is bright and angry and we are just ants under a magnifying glass.

I stare at the empty space beside me. In the early morning light, I dared to want to see his body and its arches. Instead, I see the imprint his body has left on the mattress. I run my hands through it like a child does to a scar, his absence even more blinding that it was when I first woke up. These valleys that once caressed his body and its arches now stare at me in disgust. Why did you let him leave? they ask. Wasn’t he good for us?

Why did I let him leave? Simple. Because he wanted to. I couldn’t make him stay, none of the things we have, none of the life we’ve made was good enough for him. I should be happy that I’m alive for another day but this feeling that’s crept up and stayed in my gut is anything but that. I resolve to make breakfast not because I want to eat but because I have to. It’s been almost a whole day since I last ate and so with all the energy I could muster, I head to the kitchen.

The wooden floor feels cold on my bare feet. My robe tickles the backs of my knees as I make my way through the stairs and into the kitchen. The fridge door feels heavy to the touch and like clockwork, my hand grabs two eggs. One egg, I remind myself. Not two. And just like that, all the strength I was faking crumbled. Winded, I sit on the kitchen floor. Why is this happening to me? From my view on the floor, I could not make him. The flowers were dead, the books and records segregated and distributed, these are just my things. None of our things are here.

Of my five senses, it was my nose that missed him most. I rush up to the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. I open his and see the shirts he left behind. I gather them up in a bunch, the hangers making rattling noises as I searched for his scent. I inhale deeply. He is here, they seem to say. All at once, fabric conditioner, hints of aftershave and cold memories fill my head. He is still here.

I take the last pair of shoes he left from the bottom drawer. I put them on and walk around the room. I walk to beat of the second hand, the clock reminding me that time has never once stood still. I listen to the sound my steps make. I wanted to hear his footsteps again, wanted to hear the shuffle his feet made on the carpet. Try as I may, I could not copy it. It was as unique as he was. Why do I feel so common?

There’s a voice in my head that has guided me all my life. Right now, it’s telling me to keep going, keep living as though none of this were real. Go on, it says and so while my whole body tells me to go back to bed, I crack open the egg into my waiting skillet. Like clockwork, I say to myself. Life should go on like clockwork. I empty the skillet onto a piece of toast and stare at the window. My mouth opens, the toast crunches as I chew, the salty egg stings my tongue. All this I observe as though I were alien to my body. I might as well be in the yard, staring from the outside.

Hunger filled and dishes cleared, I crawl back to bed like a snake. I clutch the sheets close to my heart and wonder what the day must be like for him. Wherever he is, does he know that I am here, feet stuck, wondering what to do with the hours that pass? They say time is cruel and from the tears I cry, it makes a raincoat. There really is much to do but right now, this is all I can manage. Tomorrow will be better, of that I am certain but at this moment, at this precise time, I only want to fill my head with thoughts of him.

Part 1 | 2 | 3
♫: Carla Bruni | Quelqu'un m'a dit (2003) | translation
Photo: The Persistence of Memory

IN MEMORY. One of my work friends and also, one of the first readers of this blog died recently. I’d like to take a moment to tell you about him. I’ve mentioned him a few times in this blog*, mostly around the time I was still dishing out lessons and epiphanies in every post. He always said we learn something new every day and that the day you stop learning is the day they put you in the ground. Looks like that day finally came for him.

I will remember him for our yosi sessions, our long talks over beer and how he would always find something good to say about everybody, whether it be a new haircut, a new shirt or something related to work. He would force his trainees to visit my blog and whether they actually do or not, it’s nice to have someone who believes in you that much.

To the writer of Canned Thoughts. You taught me so many things. I’m sorry if I never got to thank you. Ride in peace, D. We’ll miss you forever. ♫

existence

2011-07-11T11:45:00.005+08:00

Phillip: How can I love you? I don’t even know who you are. And you know what’s sad? I don’t even think you know who you are. So, how am I supposed to love somethin’ that don’t even exist? You tell me.

Steven: How does a person who doesn’t exist go on existing? The answer is, he doesn’t.

[Steven Russell and Phillip Morris, I Love You, Phillip Morris]

Can love define who you are? Or is it something you need to figure out on your own before you can truly love?

♫: Garbage | Nobody Loves You (2001)

sinehan

2011-07-04T15:58:00.007+08:00

WAIT. Okay, so here goes another disclaimer. I said to myself I’d stop doing these but I think for this particular post, there are so many things that I need to explain. For the longest time, I’ve been wanting to do a concept post like Tori’s American Doll Posse. In 2007, she introduced five women: Isabel, Clyde, Pip, Santa and Tori. Each woman had her own personality. Each had a story to tell. I remember listening to that record feeling completely blown away. I said to myself that one day, I would try it for myself.

This isn't the first time that a blogger changed personalities for a specific post. For example. Victor becomes Greg when the need arises. In Journal No. 257, Manech experimented with the differently-abled. I took a story that was in the back-burner for a few weeks and thought of the best refraction of myself to bring it to life. It was quite an effort. I don’t think I’ve pushed myself this much to write in a while but I hope that it was all worth it in the end.

So anyway, without further ado, my first post in Jeje-nese! Enjoy!

sBe nila, lHat ng ta0 may kwent0.,cgUr0, if u sAw me iN pers0nal, dI m0 maiicp nA andAme q naNg npaGdaanan. gNun nmAn kCe ak0, jAz go wid dA flow,. sbe ngA niLa. waLang em0, wlaNg k0mpliKasyon.

,gBi gbi aq nglalakad s cuBao.., cguRo meI hnaHnap aQ, im nAt sUr. pAg gnTo n kC khBa yung kwent0, nkKlit0. cgUr0, cmUlan q nlAng nunG bta paq. yUn ung lSt tym nA i feEl I am mE.. nA walaNg nagdIdiktA qng cNo aq dPat.. nMatay aNg nAnay. hLos syA lang aNg ngPalaki sKen. nUng laMay q na uNang nkta si pApa. iNiwan nya kc kMe bGo ako napaNganak. mGulo unG tIme na un, uNa, bTa pA tlga aq nun., bu0ng buhAy k0, dI q nmAn klala c paPa. ngaun, I nid to liVe wid hIm daw.

,.tHimiK c papA sa bYahe. dNala nyA aq sa maYnila. fIrst tym k0 nuN. sbe nYa mnunu0d daW kme ng cNe. sAkto! firSt ulEt. 6Th sEnze., nkakatAk0t., bGo mgcMula unG m0vie, sbe nyA bibilE dw sIya ng p0pc0rn,, anG s2pd k0 lng kce di q tlGa alAm wat is dat aLl ab0ut. npanCn nyA atA na natak0t aq, sbe nYa, be bRave, anaK. baBalik agAd aNg daDdy. mlUngkot mukha niyA.., cgUro nalUlungk0t sya dhIl kei nAnay,.

nAg-cmUla na uNg m0viE per0 wlA priN si paPa. gRabe, s0brang ntk0t aQ dun sA m0viE per0 inAlala q ung sbe ni pA na be braVe daw. dI k0 nmaLayan na ntp0s nA unG m0vie eH wlA prIn xa. nKailanG ulet pa uNg m0vie pr0 wla prin xa. gnCng aq ng gUard nuNg nagsAra na cLa. ksMa k0 sI paPa nunG puMasok ak0 sA sInehaN per0 mAg-iSa nak0ng lumaBas. aNg lamig-lamEg nUng gabIng 'yUn. dI ko aLam san aq pUpunta kYa nAglAkad-lAkad nlang aq hAnggang sA mapag0d.

..,lIfe go On, ganUn nmAn tlgA. mDameng plAboy sa cuba0. mdAme kmIng nkatIra sa mgA madidIlim nA eskInita. kYa dI nmAn ak0 msyad0 nhraPan. ntUtunan k0 unG kalaKaran ng buHay sa labaS, yUng linggwaHe ng kalsaDa.,. pr0 dI ko mpGlan na tuwIng maY nkKta akoNg kamukhA ni paPa.,. nagbaBakasakAli aqng xa yuN. sBe nilA, cnadYa daw nI paPang dI buMalik. nA ntk0t sYa sa resp0nsiBilidaD. aYuk0 icpin yUn. bSta paG mhaNp k0 sYa, aLam k0 na maY dhIlan t0 lhat.

ngAun, paB0ooking aq sA sInEhan... cMple lng nMan anG gnT0ng trbh0. kaIlangAn lng ng kpAl ng muKha at lkAs ng lu0b., mdAMI aqng cosTumer,. iba'T iBang klce ng ta0. mdLas mgA mtaTandang bkLa. aUs lng nmAn sken. yUng cnEhan nu0n, buHay prEn per0 iBang iba nA unG mgA ta0 ngaUn,,. datE kc mgA pmilYa, mgA btA, mgA mag-j0wa anG nanunu0d dit0. ngaUn, puR0 gAy at mgA ktulaD ko nAlaNg ang puMipila sa tikEtan. nagkAkapAan sA dilIm,. preh0ng gust0ng makara0s, mkAtawiD sA bUhay sa lBas ng cnehAn. tulAd nI paPa, madalAs umaalIs sila kaAgad,.nsAnay na ak0 na man0od ng cnE mag-iSa., pagkatap0s labAsan, magaab0t nlang ng perA tapos ni thaNks u, walAng sasabhen.

,.cgur0 nmAn alAm ng mgA tao kunG an0 aq,. tInitgnAn nilA aq, prAng may juDgementaL sa matA nila. maY isa, iLang lingGo nAng duMadaan,. gAy, di katangkAran,. nsA mAy trntA na rin yung edAd., tUmitingEn, pag ngingitiAn ko nmAn, bigLang titIngin sa baBa. prang gAgo. iSang gbe, kNausap k0 na. aNg kulet kc eh,. nLapiTan k0, saBay nag-uNat prA mkitA nya ktWan ko, k0ntIng kamByo, dI na nakatIis., sbE k0 sbAyan nyA aq maGlkad. sun0d nmAn sYa.

,an0 kyA saLtik nit0ng ta0nG it0? thMik siYa,. di mKatinGin sa maTa. cniMulan k0ng makipAgusAp. pAngalan, eDad, mgA ganUn., dI talAga sya nagsAsalitA. aKala k0 nga pipI eh. daDalhin k0 na sYa sa sinEhan nung bgLa sIyang nagsAlita.

.,waG diyan, wAg munA. sbE niYa. e saAn?? tnung k0,. bSta.,.

ngLakad kmE hangGang sa nkAratIng kmE sa may SM. umuPo kme dUn sa haGdanan, nkaHarap sa mgA builDing., thImik prIN siYa,. prAng tk0t na tk0t. gnIt0 ba nkIta ni pApa skEn nUng kumuhA xa ng poPc0rn?,

.,pano ba t0 ngccmulA? tn0ng niya., bBgay k0 n b sau uNg perA?, an0ng ggwin nteN? anDami nyaNg tan0ng,. praNg antgaL na niYa t0ng pnagIisiPan. bglA k0 syang ngEts. tak0t, mlmAng. ,.first tym m0 ba? tn0ng k0. tumUngo syA.

.,mtgaL n ktAng pnaPanaood., ibA ka s kNila eh,. sbe niYa. prAng dI k bgay sA gngwA m0. pn0 ka bA nagIng ganyaN?

pAg tnatan0ng ak0 ng mga costUmer k0 ng gan0n, mdalAs, pinaiik0t k0 silA,. kuNg an0 an0 knikwent0 ko, mInsan triPper lang aq, dala ng lib0g,.. paG mukhaNg myamAn, cncbE ko n may skit l0la q., at gngwa k0 lng t0 prA may pambilE ng gm0t.., di k0 alaM qng an0 nangyarE,. bakIt yunG tot00 cnbe ko.. knwent0 ko si naNay, lhat ng naAalala k0, yung b0ses nya pag kumAkanta siya, yung am0y ng giSa sa kusIna nmEn pag naglulut0 siYa,. yuNg araW na naglaSlas siya,. kinwent0 k0 si paPa, ung p0pc0rn,. yUng paghAhanAp k0 sa kanYa khet ilaNg ta0n nA lumiPas., kinwenT0 k0 yung mgA nagi k0ng kaibIgan sa lbas ng sinehAn. ngUlat ak0 sa nanGyare,. bakIt k0 nakwEnto yuNg mga yUn e di k0 nman xa kacl0se. yUng mga ut0l ko ngA, di k0 makausAp ng gn0n.,.sa tutuo lanG.. pwEra barbEro.. nging k0mportablE ak0 sa kanIya. khEt kaKakilalA k0 plAng sa knIya, filing k0, magkabAbata kmi,. nkInig siyA nang wLang paghUhusgA. nakatIngin lng siya sa rabber sh0es k0,.nkikInig, nagmAmasId.,

,.hUy,. mag-aMbag ka nmAn sa kwEntuhan.. binir0 ko siYa. an0ng iniiCp mo?

.,di k0 alam,. naKiking ako. medy0 nangInginiG b0ses nya. iniIcp ko cncbe m0. maluNgk0t..nakakalUngk0t. tinItignAn ko siYa, malungk0t nga mukHa nyA. suMama l00b k0 na nagIng malungk0t sIya dahIl sa kwEnt0 ko.

nalUlungk0t ak0 sa kwent0 m0 kasE dI mo deserVed 'yUng ganon. niYakap niYa mga brAs0 niya,. s0brang higpit, namula yuNg balat.. dI ko mainTindihaN naraRamdaman k0, per0 nunG cncbE nyA yun,.nunG pinanod ko ginGwa nYa prAng gust0 ko syaNg kumUtan,. ntAwa nga ak0, sa isIp iSip k0, srile ko ngA di k0 maAlagaAn, siyA pa kYa?

bakIt ba kasi sa iy0 pa koH 'nagKagust0? bul0ng niyA sa srile. nKatingIn siyA sa mlayo. mayA mAya, nag-aYa na sIyang man0od ng sIne,. ak0 na bumiLi ng tiCket, tp0s sa l0ob umup0 kamI sa may lik0d. hal0s wlAng laMan yunG sineHan, mangilan-ilAng anin0 lang..,

nUng ngcmUla na yUng pelikula, binaBa ko na ziPper ko,. ganUn nmAn pratI yun eh sbaY ab0t sa kmaY niyA. ngUlat nlAng ak0 sa ginWa niyA. imBis na hAwakan ak0 du0n, binAlot niyA kamay k0 sa kaMay niyA., pag gan0n, mdalaS tinatAbig ko yunG c0stumer. haseL lang yun eh. di k0 tlga maexplaIned ng mabUte kunG bakit per0 di k0 yun ginAwa,. nUng unA kamIng naghAwak, prAng may k0ntIng kuryentE. nkaKaadik,siniKipan ko pa lal0 yUng kapIt ko sA kanYa.

maYa myA, natap0s yuNg m0vie, mgkahaWak prIn kami ng kamaY. nung bInuksan na yUng ilaw, biglA siyAng bumiTaw. dumUk0t sa buLsa sbAy nagAb0t ng pEra,.

,.bro, slMat ha. sbi ko. humIngi sYa ng pseNsya kc yUn lng dAw kya niYa tap0s naglaKad paAlis.

,.wait lang, sbE ko. dI nmAn yUn ung dhLan bat Ak0 naGpsaLamat.

.,bKit k nagppSalmat? tn0ng niYa.

inIsip k0 kung sSbhIn ko, na kUng msYado nA ba aqng ngiGing komp0rtable. tInignan ko siYa sa maTa. di nMan niYa inalis yUng tingin nyA. tanG-ina ak0 nMan kinaBahan.

,.firSt tyM k0 kce mno0d nG m0viE na mAy ksMa. ngUmiti sYa., tp0S prAng may sSbihiN siYa per0 di nIya tinul0y. ngumIti siYa ulit tap0s lumaBas na ng sinEhan. inisIp k0 kuNg makikiTa ko pa kaYa siya?

fIrst tyM ko kcE man0od ng m0vIe n maY ksMa. yUn lng nsBe k0 sa knYa pr0 sa tutu0 lng, andamE k0ng gust0ng sbHin. di k0 mainTindihan kung an0 nangyarI. magpApara0s lang nman kMe dpaT. dapAt aalIs din sIya agad. an0ng nangyare? nUng nakaup0 kme duon, magkhaWak aNg amiNg kamaY,. pkIramdam k0 i aM righT weR i bel0ng., praNg sa lakI ng siyUdad, sa dInamI damI ng lugAr na pwEdeng puntaHan at ta0 na makAkasAma, sakt0 lNg ung knalaLagyan q. dI k0 kaIlangan magpUnta kuNg saAn maN. pKiramdaM ko, sa uNang pagkaKataon, I am hoMe.

may milyon-mily0ng ta0 sa pIlipinas., sabI nila, lHat daW tay0 may kwent0., ikAw, an0ng kwent0 mo?

♫: Maldita | Porque (2011)
Co-conspirator: manilabitch

eraser

2011-06-27T14:14:00.003+08:00

My sister visited an eraser factory in Japan and picked up a few trinkets for my nephew. Among the fake sushi plates and the gummy animals was a red and blue helicopter with plastic blades. She was showing it to me the night she arrived and while she was sleeping, I slipped into her room and stole it.

A and I had been going out for quite some time then but I couldn’t find the words or the courage to take us to the next step. It was clear that we loved each other. We both were just afraid of what could happen if we became a couple. One night, after videoke with a few friends, I took him to my favorite park. We both knew what was coming. I was going to ask him to be mine.

“I’ve made so many mistakes,” I began. “I’m not perfect. I’ve fallen for all the wrong people. I didn’t even bother to check if they were going to catch me.”

The September night was crisp. The park was almost deserted at that hour, save for a few insomniacs who were walking around to clear their head. I looked at A, wondering what he was thinking of as he stared back at me. His eyes were a familiar shade of brown. I remember thinking I could swim in those dark pools forever without tiring, without breathing.

“I once said* that the next time I’m going to love, I’m not going to fall into it. I’m going to fly.” I took out the eraser from my backpack’s front pocket. “I want to use this,” I told him. He didn’t laugh. He must’ve been used to my crazy by then.

“And I know that I’m going to make a lot of mistakes. When that happens, I need to know you’re not going to go anywhere. I need to know we can just erase those moments and start over.”

He smiled at me as if to say that he completely understood. There were a few challenges but we didn’t discuss all the details. We were young. We were in love and that was enough.

That was almost a year ago. We’re still in our red and blue chopper, floating around each other’s lives, hoarding the good, keeping out the bad. Several times, we had to use the eraser. Moments when we’d fuck up and we didn’t know how to move on. Lately, I ‘ve been wondering if I could ask for it back. You see there’s a moment that I desperately need to erase.

We should’ve seen it coming. In all fairness, he did tell me that day on the park bench. I just refused to listen. A few weeks after our first anniversary, I will have to say goodbye to A. He’s moving to a place where my arms can no longer reach him. With the advent of technology, you’d think it would be easier for us to stay together but fear and anxiety have their ways of making us doubt. I doubt if I can be enough for him when he’s miles away. I doubt if I can love him when he’s no longer with me.

“I don’t want to be like those long-distance couples who fight and end up consuming each other,” I told him. “I want us to end nicely.” He made a face. I could tell he didn’t agree. He just didn’t want to say anything. He was, after all, the one leaving. I was the one who had to pick up the pieces after.

We had so many plans. I saw countless mornings waking up beside him, hearing the slight wheeze he makes when he sleeps, listening to him talk about random things like life, work, dreams and friends. I saw him come to my aid when I felt lonely, when the demons would be too strong to contain. In my mind’s eye, I saw us sitting on matching recliners, reeking of BenGay, not a single hair between our heads, recounting times when we were just commenting on each other’s blogs. Will I ever see those dreams come to life?

So I want to take that eraser back from him. Because right now, it feels like it’s ending. It feels like we’re ending. It’s like watching a movie after hearing the spoilers. I have nothing but questions, so many questions. Most of them begin with why. Why all of this? Why now? Why did I have to meet him and fall in love if it was all going to end anyway? Why is he the only one who ever really got me? Will we ever be the same?

When he leaves, I know the world will still turn. The streets will still be filled with people rushing, never knowing what was left behind. They say the course of true love never did run smooth*. I was thinking of this one morning as I walked home when I saw a tree almost stripped to its core. I looked at the ground to see the damage most likely caused by that week’s storm. Flowers and leaves lined the street like glitters. They know not of death, I pondered. The flowers, the leaves, they are so unafraid to die. They leap, they fall, they embrace their fate. Why can’t I be as brave? Why can’t I hold on to him like I know he wants me to?

I want to take that eraser back from him and erase this part of our story. I want to rewrite our story so it can be fair, so it doesn’t hurt as much. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to rewrite our own endings?

♫: Adele | Take It All (2011)
Photo: manilabitch

write me

2011-06-12T07:04:00.007+08:00

They come from all directions. They whisper in my ear while I’m at work. They spark with my lighter when I smoke. They are in the exhaust while I shit. They tug at my underwear while I sleep. Each one beckons, they need something from me. I close my eyes so I can hear their voices.

Write me, one says. No! Write me first! says another. Their voices grow in volume and succession until I have to open my eyes to block the sound away.

My stories, I feel like they need me. You need us more, one snaps back. Without us, do you even know who you are?

One creeps up from under the bed. He wraps his body around me, slithering from my leg to my crotch, from my chest to my neck. Write me first, he begs.

Write me, they command. I get up from my bed, brush the dust off my laptop and clack away.

♫: Eliza Doolittle | Empty Hand (2010)

to be enough

2011-04-04T03:10:00.002+08:00


	Switchfoot Let That Be Enough New Way To Be Human

I had a dream last night. I was in a lot of white space. The whiteness was blinding and in the middle of it all, I was falling in sweet slow motion. You could see the fear in my face. My eyes were wide in panic, my arms flailing for something to hold on to. But then I realized what was happening. I realized I was free. There was nothing keeping me, no one watching me and it felt really nice.

I started to laugh. It was quiet at first but then it grew in volume until I filled the entire white space in shameless, high-pitched laughter. I was still falling. I still didn’t know what was below me. I just didn’t care. For once, I was alone and it felt so good.

Nothing like falling to make you feel so free. But was I really falling or did I somehow learn to float? Was I even floating or did I learn to fly?

---

I have this friend who lived with a man for three years. Together, they found a unique happiness most of us call love. They talked about families, of houses, of lives being spent together. They were so in love with each other until one day, it all stopped.

He found someone else. She was in pieces for a long time. It was hard to talk to her without her breaking into tears every now and then. One day, she wiped her tears and told me it didn’t hurt anymore. She says it felt like her heart was broken into too many pieces and there was nothing, just a ringing sound like a bomb had just exploded. She couldn’t hear anything. She couldn’t feel anything. She was numb.

She had every right in the world to feel that way, that much I understood. When someone is happy for so long and then suddenly, the thing that makes them happy is taken away from them, the body finds ways to protect itself. Perhaps it goes into a little cocoon, hence the numbness.

I knew exactly what she meant even though we were on opposite sides of the pole. For years, I’ve cultivated my sadness. For years, I’ve written about every failure, every bruise and every tear. Late last year, it seemed like the universe suddenly shifted. I got promoted*, I fell in love*, this blog won an award*. It seemed like everything was supposedly falling into place. In the chaos of it all, I dared to call myself happy. But when all the pieces settled and the dust was shaken off, I realized I wasn’t. I wasn’t sad anymore but I wasn’t happy either. I was numb.

I was always just waiting for that day that everything would be reclaimed. I was waiting for a fuck-up at work big enough to get me fired. I was waiting for A to leave. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m still waiting, I suppose, even though my verb tenses seem to say otherwise. One day, the feeling became too big and too heavy to handle by myself. I decided to talk to an old friend.

I talked to my mirror. He always understood when my own mind can’t process things. I told him about my ambivalence, the constant ringing sound in my ear, the dream I had, my friend who became numb. And after everything he said, it seems I finally understood.

For years, you’ve wanted nothing but for people to love you. You worked hard for your boss to love you enough to promote you. You’ve played the good son so your family can stop treating you like a stranger. You waited patiently for the one who you imagined would love you. But you never really understood what all that meant.

Could it be I was stuck in a movie? Did I think I would get a Hollywood ending?

You wanted everyone to love you. Maybe on some level, you hoped that when they finally do, you’d finally start to love yourself. Surprise, surprise. Everyone loves you now. Why can’t you do the same? Why do you cry when no one is watching? Why do you dream of white space? Why do you secretly wish to disappear?

Maybe I don’t think I deserve any of it. Maybe it’s just not possible to get it all. Or maybe, just maybe, some people do not know how to be happy. Maybe I’m one of them.

For years, you thought you needed to be enough for all the people in your life. Now that you are, perhaps it’s time to be enough for yourself.

Last night, I confided in A’s arms. I tried to tell him everything. I told him about my unhappiness. I told him how it wasn’t his fault and that there are just some ghosts who are a part of me and cannot be expelled. I told him how I felt defeated even though when I was younger, I wanted nothing but to be where I am now. I told him about how I didn’t feel I deserved to be his. I told him about my thoughts of flight and how my mind and my heart are in constant battle. I told him how I was afraid I was clinically depressed and how when I finally became honest to myself, I only realized that nothing can make me happy; not when I’m not happy with who I am.

He listened patiently, without judgment or prejudice. I knew it hurt him too but he did his best to understand his crazy boyfriend. When he fell asleep, I put my hand on his chest. I wanted to count the beats and to know how many of them were for me. As he lay there sleeping, I whispered a simple wish.

Let me know that you hear me.

Let me know your touch.

Let me know that you love me.

Let that be enough.

B4N. As I look at my archives, I realize I haven’t written anything real in a long time. It feels like I’ve lost my purpose, my reason for logging into Blogger week after week. I started this blog because I wanted a means to express myself. Why then does it feel like I’ve stifled my own voice?

My life’s a little fucked up right now. There are things I need to discover, feelings and ghosts I need to deal with and so I’m taking a little break from blogging. It’s a decision I made with a heavy heart but one I know I need if I hope to return to some semblance of normalcy. I’ll be back faster than you can say not-another-blog-hiatus or didn’t-he-do-this-last-year? Hopefully, by that time, I’ll have found the real reason for my unhappiness. To friends, followers, lurkers old and new, wish me luck as I venture into a new quest of self-discovery.

interlude: opposites

2011-03-21T04:21:00.000+08:00


	Switchfoot You The Legend of Chin

When I was nine, I witnessed a strange event. I was in the car with my parents and it was raining like crazy. When we crossed the state line, the rain suddenly stopped. I gasped in equal parts fear and amazement. No one else in the car reacted. It was like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I craned my neck to see behind us, wondering if the rain stopped for everyone. It didn’t. It was a horrifying sight– the line where the rain ended and sunlight began. How could such opposites be so close to each other? More importantly, what did I do to deserve to be on this side?

Lately, I’ve been thinking maybe a part of me got left behind in the rain that year.

Photo Credit: rain windshield

evol no

2011-02-28T03:25:00.002+08:00


	Train Marry Me Save Me, San Francisco

Ayoko nagsusulat ng mga ganitong kwento. Parang tuwing nagsusulat kasi ako tungkol sa pag-ibig, parati nalang malungkot yung ending. Pero kahit ganito, pinipilit ko paring magsulat ngayon. Hindi kasi ako makatulog. Iniisip ko yung mga sinabi mo. Parang gusto kong suklian, kahit papano.

Sa totoo lang, madami nang nagsulat tungkol sa akin. Minsan, parang ang bait ko sa mga kwento nila. Minsan naman para akong may sademonyo. Pero ni minsan, walang nakakuha kung sino talaga ako, kung ano talaga ako. Mahilig kasi ako mag-kunyari, mahilig sa palabas. Nung binasa ko yung sinulat mo, kinilabutan ako. Para kasing for the first time, may naka-gets sa akin.

Kaso nga, takot ako mag-sulat ng mga love story. Pwede bang iba muna itawag natin sa kaniya? Baka yung salita lang yung malas. Pwede ko kayang isulat yung nararamdaman ko na hindi ko ginagamit yung salitang love?

---

Tuwang-tuwa ako kapag kasama kita. Natatakot ako kapag kailangan na kitang iwanan. Tuwing pumapasok ako sa opisina at hinahatid mo ako sa sakayan, parang gusto ko maging bata ulit. Magmamakaawa ako kay mama na sa bahay lang muna ako kasi ayoko pumasok. Gusto ko kasama lang kita parati. Gusto ko manigarilyo lang tayo ng manigarilyo sa sahig nung sala mong wala pang laman. Yosi ng yosi hanggang sa sumakit ang mga baga natin. ‘Yun lang kasi ang alam nating paraan para mapantayan ang walang tigil na kabog sa ating mga dibdib.

Gustong gusto ko yung mga kamay mo. Ang sarap nilang hawakan. Parang nakakalimutan ko lahat ng problema ko pag-hawak ko na sila. Tuwing natutulog ako sa inyo, ito yung una kong hinahanap pag-gising ko. Pag sa amin naman ako natutulog, alam mo bang nagiiwan ako ng puwang sa kama ko para sayo? Pilit kong pinagsisiksikan sarili ko sa isang sulok ng kama ko para kunyari andun ka.

Sa totoo lang, minsan naiinis ako sayo. Naiinis ako na kailangan kita. Kasi buong buhay ko, hindi ko kinailangan ang sino man. Naaalala mo nung nagkasakit ako tapos pumunta ako sa inyo? Kumuha ka ng bimpo at tubig tapos pinunasan mo yung katawan ko. Naglaban pa nga ako diba? Sabi ko wala talaga akong sakit. Pero makulit ka talaga eh. Di ka tumigil hanggang sa nalibot na ng bimpo mo yung buong katawan ko.

Sa totoo lang, takot na takot ako nun. Mahina kasi ako. Nagtatapang-tapangan lang naman ako pero malambot talaga ako sa loob. Natakot akong makita mo yun. Natakot ako kasi na-realize kong gusto kitang kasama parati. Kailangan na pala kita.

Pag-nakikinig ako ng radyo, pinipikit ko mata ko at ini-imagine ko na kinakantahan kita. Oo na, di ako marunong kumanta pero imagination ko naman ‘to, diba? Wag kang makialam. Naalala mo nung nasa taxi tayo tapos hinawakan ko ng mahigpit yung kamay mo? Bigla kasing tumugtog yung kantang ‘to. Sabi mo, gusto mo yung mga kantang ganiyan yung gitara. Sabi ko, katunog niya yung Dust in the Wind. Ang gusto ko talagang sabihin ay pakinggan mo yung kanta. Hindi man swak yung lyrics at medyo may kapareho man yung tugtog, mukha mo lang naiisip ko tuwing naririnig ko ‘to. Wag ka mag-alala, mag-aaral ako mag-gitara. Gusto ko kasi kantahin yung part na ‘to sayo balang araw.

Mangako ka na kailanma’y hindi ka magiging malungkot sa tabi ko.
Nangangako ako na kakantahan kita kahit iwanan tayo ng tugtog.

Hindi man tayo parating magkasama, sana alam mong wala akong ibang gustong makatabi. Hindi man tayo pwedeng magpakasal, sana alam mong wala akong ibang gustong makasama habangbuhay.

rain

2011-02-21T04:08:00.001+08:00


	Bonnie Raitt I Can’t Make You Love Me Luck of the Draw

I shed no tears in front of you but in the solace of my room, I am left with nothing to do but recount the steps that lead us here. These tears in my eyes and the hollow in my heart are my only witnesses. I hold your memory here.

It starts raining. I walk outside and with cupped hands, I try to catch the rain. I watch as the cold raindrops slip through my hands. I stick out my tongue, my mouth fills with rain. Perhaps this is all love is—a fleeting feeling, an inevitable ending.

I recount times I took for granted. There was a time when my heart could call out to you and you would hear it. Our hearts were bound by invisible string. Now I’m calling out to you, my voice frail but strained. Can you still hear me? There was a time when I’d reach out my hand and it would find you sleeping next to me. I wonder if you miss me as much as I miss you.

I never used to mind being alone. Now it haunts my sleeping and waking life. All day, silences are filled with regrets. Maybe I could’ve tried harder. Maybe you could’ve loved me back.

Someday, you and I will look back at this mess of a situation. Over coffee, cigarettes and pleasantries, we’ll talk about how good we had it back then. And if I’m good and pay my dues, maybe it won’t hurt as much. If I drink my milk and eat my vegetables, maybe you wouldn’t notice how I haven’t moved on. Maybe then, we could try again.

But right now, that seems like an eternity away. I will see many moons before I am ready. I still love you. You are in the rain, in the sunlight, in the darkness when I close my eyes. You are in my head constantly and in my heart eternally.

Oh God, what can be done with the hours? I have all this time and no one to spend it with. All this love and no one to share it with. I have all this life and only one person I want to live it with.

I come back inside, close the door and turn down the lights. Tonight, I set down my torch—the one I carry for you. It is heavy and my hands burn from holding it for too long. In its place, I light a candle. Until the flame dies out, my heart will ever be yours waiting.

Photo Credit: f8 in the rain

d-i-y

2011-01-31T03:10:00.000+08:00


	The Calling Our Lives II

“These instructions don’t make sense,” I said out loud. “I’ve wasted an hour of my life with this thing and I still don’t see which part goes where.” The culprit: a do-it-yourself dresser with instructions loosely translated from Chinese. The pictures weren’t helping either. A first grader could’ve done a better job.

“Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough,” A said from the kitchen. “Let me try.”

I handed the frail sheet of paper to him. “It says ‘attaching Piece C and take to Piece M with a #3 screw.’ Sounds simple enough.”

He looked up from the instructions to find me in a sea of wood and screws. “Now, problem is… which is which?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said in a gray tone. In my head, I was thinking we should’ve just gotten the ready made kind. I wouldn’t mind shelling a few more pesos if it meant not having to do this. But it was too late to think about that and besides, it wouldn’t really do either of us any good.

He sat beside me on the dusty cement floor as we tried to match wood planks to shaky illustrations. On his face, you could see he was starting to get worried.

And then it dawned on me. These are the moments that make up life. And though forever may seem like a long time, if I were to fill it up with moments just like this- him and me sweating, screwdriver in one hand, blind hope in the other- I’m pretty sure the hours would pass us by.

I got up, unearthed the toolbox from the mountains of boxes the moving company delivered and brought out a hammer and some nails.

“How’s this for do-it-yourself?” I announced as I held the hammer in the air like a madman ready for vengeance. I started hammering the pieces together, trying my darndest to make it look like the picture on the box. When I was done, it looked decent enough despite the fact that we had about three or four orphaned planks with nowhere to go.

“It looks wobbly,” I said, wondering if it would be stable enough to hold our things.

“I think it looks just fine,” he retorted, a smile on his face.

Forever. It’s a really big word. Why am I so unafraid?

Photo Credit: clock

leftovers

2011-01-27T02:52:00.000+08:00


	Sia Breathe Me Colour the Small One

i brought out the large corelle bowl-
the one we only use when we have visitors.
(and in this order) i dumped in
this morning’s sausages,
last night’s lasagna,
tuesday’s fish,
last saturday’s fried bananas
a couple slices of cheese,
oregano, basil, marjoram,
and a dash of salt to taste.

i popped it in the microwave,
watched it rotate,
listened to the sound of oil popping,
of cheese melting,
and a need about to be filled.

i wish you had been there
to see me eat it all.
viciously, selfishly,
like it’s going out of style.
i burned my tongue.

and i wish you had been there,
to watch it go down the toilet
in strange circular motions.
(they say it turns differently over there.)*

but you weren’t. so it doesn’t fucking count.

0:20:26

2011-01-23T02:45:00.001+08:00

ʎonqʎʇıɔ is online.

Hey! So, you gonna write something new today?

Uh, yeah. Trying to but the words don’t wanna come out.

What’s it gonna be about?

This thing I thought about.

Duh. Like, srsly what’s it gonna be about?

I was thinking of how we cope with…

(interrupting) Death? Oh, I so love it!

No, I meant how we cope with…

(interrupting) Loss? Oh, I’ll tweet all about it!

Yeah, loss.

(awkward silence) So…

Yeah?

Where is it?

Where’s what?

The story? When’re you posting it? Oh, I bet it’ll fetch a gazillion comments.

Hmm… I don’t know. It’s stuck in there.

Can I see it?

Sure. (opens brain, comes closer to webcam)

Oh… it doesn’t look that nice.

Really?

Yeah, I feel like I’ve seen that before. Like in a movie or something.

You did? (sounds confused) I’m sorry.

Doesn’t matter. I’m still gonna love it.

Okay.

ʎonqʎʇıɔ is offline.

ʎonqʎʇıɔ is online.

Hey, where’d you go?

Sorry, I got a glass of water.

Is it cold? Like the night that doesn’t want to forget?

Hmm. No.

Why not?

My throat’s soar.

You mean it’s sore.

Yeah. That’s what I said.

Like the pain in the middle of your chest? The void you can’t seem to explain?

No. Like I’ve had too many cigarettes and not enough water.

Oh. Okay. (uneasy) So, where’s the story? How does it start?

A woman is dancing. She’s wearing old clothes. I think she’s…

(interrupting) reliving her past? Escaping from the terror of an abusive husband? I LOVE IT! POST IT RIGHT NOWWW!!!

No, not exactly. And I can’t.

Why not?

Because I don’t know how it ends.

Just say something clever like She could wear the old clothes but it would never be like it was before. He had broken her far beyond repair. I LOVE IT!@

Okay.

(long silence)

So, where is it?

I can’t write it.

Why not?

Because I hate it.

Why?

Because no one will read it. Because it’s not new. It doesn’t sound like me. It doesn’t have the littlest part of me.

And that would be strange because? All your posts in the last two years have been like that.

I know.

When was the last time you wrote something because you wanted to? When did you become such an attention whore?

I’m not gonna even dignify that with a…

(interrupting) It’s almost like you spin one of those roletas on TV. What’s it gonna be today, citybuoy? (mocking) What’re you going to write about? Love? Sorrow? Work shit? Family issues? Money issues? Blogging issues? If you think about it, you have more issues than The Inquirer.

Fuck you.

You know it’s true.

(silence)

I mean, what’s the point? Why do you even try so hard to write when no one’s even gonna remember it?

That’s not true. I’m sure they’ll remember it.

I bet it’ll only take five minutes before they’ve forgotten all about that story you worked so hard on. Five minutes.

That can’t be true. They say they love it. They say they can relate.

They say that all the time. You say that all the frigging time. You’re not changing any lives with your work, citybuoy. Don’t take yourself too seriously.

(silence) So, what do you want me to do?

You remember that picture I took of you?

The one where I had a wig on?

Yeah. That one. Post it.

I can’t. I look terrible in that shot. Like a na’vi in grayscale.

Post it. I’ll bet you they won’t even read the post. They’ll just comment on the picture.

But I can’t post that picture. That was just for us. It was a joke.

Don’t explain. Just do it.

Fine. (sulking) Let me look for it. (…) Okay, got it. Now what?

Post it.

Now?

Uh huh.

Okay.


	Liz Phair U Hate It Funstyle

When was the last time you wrote something that was just for you?

sorry story

2011-01-07T02:10:00.003+08:00


	Lisa Hannigan / Damien Rice Silent Night O

In the darkness, my hands move. I tap on the walls, feeling, searching for the wooden door. From afar, I can hear a faucet dripping. Its hollow sound is like the beat of a song lost in time. It is almost silent, save for the jingling of my keys. The rusty hinges moan as I open the door.

Story, my prisoner, is lying naked on the table. Her plate of food remains untouched near the window. The moon illuminates her body, her breasts sullen but plump in the pale light.

I close the door behind me, the midnight wind howling through the small cracks. “You haven’t been eating,” I say to her.

“You didn’t come back.” Her voice betrays a pain familiar to me. It is my own, only amplified.

“I was busy.”

“You forgot about me.”

“I came as soon as I could.”

“I could’ve died here, you know. You’re lucky I’m still here.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I come closer. Her face is covered in sweat. I shush her, my fingers running through her hair.

I feel a sharp pain on my left hand. Story is biting me. Her legs tense up as she musters all her strength. I cry out in pain. I beg her to stop but she doesn’t. I slap her with my free hand.

“Story!” I bark. “You weren’t supposed to do that. You were supposed to play nice.” She lets go of me. My ruby blood drips to the stone table.

“Do I repulse you?” she asks without looking at me. “Do you find me ugly?” Her thin hands seem translucent as they run through her body. Her right hand rests on her breasts, her other fondles her crotch.

“It’s not that, it’s-”

“You forgot about me!” she interrupts, shouting. “I waited for you. All these weeks, I’ve done nothing but wait. Someone told me you’ve been looking at other stories. Like you were gonna write them again. Have you forgotten that I’m still here, still unwritten?”

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. She was right. I procrastinated too much. As the days go by, it has become increasingly difficult to commit her to paper.

“I was beautiful,” she whimpers. “Now look at me.”

“You’re still beautiful. I still think you’re beautiful. Come, let’s go. I’ll make us some tea and we can write you down.”

“These past few weeks, I’ve been finding hate for you.” She seems proud to say this. It would’ve worked, had she not been crying. My heart breaks as I search for the right words to say.

“C’mon Story. It’s time. I’m sorry it took so long. Take my hand. I’ll help you off the table.” I offer her my right hand. She takes my left, the one that’s still bleeding. I wrap a blanket around her, both of us ashamed of her nakedness. As I help her up, I feel her ribs through her skin. Why didn’t she take care of herself?

“What kept you?” she asked. “It’s been weeks since you last wrote anything. The other stories have already left. They looked for other writers who weren’t so difficult.”

“I guess I was scared. I wanted to prove something. And it terrified me to write.”

“Why were you so scared? It didn’t used to matter if anyone liked us. You would catch a story, write it down, then catch another one and write that down.”

“I know,” I said, exhausted by this prolonged realization. “I wanted them to like me. I wanted it so badly. I used to write alone. Now it feels like I’m in a crowded room looking for a quiet corner. My eyes look through the booths and tables but they’re all packed.”

“They shouldn’t matter,” she whispers in my ear. As we walk out of the dark room, Story sings me a little song. It’s one I know from my childhood but she has changed the words.

Silent night, broken night.
All is fallen when you take your flight.
I found some hate for you just for show.
You found some love for me thinking I’d go.
Don’t keep me from crying to sleep.
Sleep in heavenly peace.

“I’m sorry,” I say when she finishes her song. “It’ll be over soon. I promise.”

postscript

2010-12-13T12:30:00.019+08:00


	Florence + the Machine Dog Days Are Over Lungs

Six years, three months, eight days, an hour, thirty minutes, twenty-six seconds. It’s been a while since I signed up for a Blogger account. Through the years, this page has seen me through different times. I was an angry kid, a wannabe humorist, a pretentious movie critic, a washed-up advice columnist and lately, an emo writer. When I set out to write, it was just for the love of writing. I never imagined that anyone would pay attention to me for it.

Segue to last night, my legs shaking on stage, there was a screenshot of my latest story on the screen. I felt like I was gonna crap my pants when the woman called my name*. My heart felt like it was going to jump right out of my chest. My mind searched for words but I couldn’t find any. Under pressure, I am so not eloquent. In an awkward and hurried speech, I just thanked the Philippine Blog Awards and busted outta there. Now that I’m calmer and sober, allow me to give credit where credit is due.

First, I’d like to give a big wet kiss to A. Last night, I was looking for your face in the audience. Your smile made me feel better. I was just another emo writer before I met you. You inspire me more than you’ll ever know. On our third month, you said we still have a lifetime to go through. I can’t wait.

To the Coffee Babies for making sense of the jungle that is the blogosphere. You know how much I love you guys and though I may not show it much, I depend on you more than I care to admit. Jeff and Victor, you have my body. You just have to want it first.

A special shoutout to ןıuǝ oɟ ɟןıƃɥʇ for being my most loyal follower, commenter and friend. I really appreciate your guidance and no, you are not a bully.

To all the bloggers who have landed on this page, who linked, followed, shared and all those other cyber words I don’t have the time to enumerate. I believe that there is more goodness in our community than people understand and I am excited to see what new things the next year has for us.

And finally, to anyone who has ever cared to read my stories. I could say that I’d still write even if no one read me but being a Leo, I know I’d be lying. You make this all the more worthwhile. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

2010 has been a very good year for me. I got my heart broken, I met a ton of good friends and lost a few ones. I’ve had bigger milestones like my family being complete again, getting promoted at work, meeting the love of my life and now this. I don’t know what I did to deserve any of this. All I can do is thank the Lord every time I count my blessings. Now, I can officially say that my dog days are over. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Photo Credit: Manech

com-promise

2010-12-06T02:30:00.011+08:00


	No Doubt Cellophane Boy Everything In Time

com·pro·mise (ˈkɒmprəˌmaɪz), n.

a settlement of differences by mutual concessions; an agreement reached by adjustment of conflicting or opposing claims, principles, etc., by reciprocal modification of demands.
an endangering; exposure to danger, suspicion, etc.: a compromise of one's integrity.

He opens the door, a crack just enough to see who it is. I stand there, hair still stringy from the rain and say I don’t love you anymore. Because loving him is a disease I needed to be cured of. Because people like us have no right to love. He lets me in. My boots make squishy noises on the doormat. The music starts to play.

When we were younger and when music was new, he asked if I knew how to dance. I shook my head. I’ll show you, he promised. He took my hand and made it hover over his shoulder. Keep it there. We mustn’t touch. His arm moved near my waist. Our palms faced each other like magnets of the same pole, an inch of space in between. When I advance, you must retreat, he began. If you advance, I retreat. We must never touch. This is how it must be if we want to keep dancing. This is how it must be for the music to play.

And so I learned to move the way he taught me. As my left leg steps forward, his right foot steps backward. Our knees moved carefully so they would not touch. We would dance for hours, my left hand longing for his right. The inches felt like miles. Each sigh seemed like an eternity. Our bodies were so close. If I tried really hard, I swore I could even hear his heartbeat. And if I breathed a certain way, I knew I could make my heart beat in sync with his.

I wanted to close the distance. Was I wrong to want more?

I became greedy. I desperately needed to touch him. I stepped towards him. He stepped back. When it was his turn to come to me, I advanced. At that moment, our bodies smacked into each other, the force strong enough to make us both fall. The music ended abruptly, the last note sounding like the pianist slammed a bunch of keys at once. With our bodies pressed together, I slithered my fingers into his right hand. My other hand squeezed his shoulder. His hand suddenly gripped my waist. I could smell the fear in his breath.

I closed my eyes and waited for him to kiss me. When I opened my eyes, he was gone. The song, his words, like an echo ringing in my ears. This is how it must be if we want to keep dancing.

The song ended. The room fell quiet. Now that it’s over, why am I the only one crying?

Sorry, I begged. I was wrong to want more. I don’t love you anymore, I said, my clothes dripping with rain water. Because I was wrong to touch you. Because it’s wrong to love you. Because I am addicted to the way we danced.

The music started playing as he let me in. The apartment smelled like dead flowers and heartbreak. Can we continue? Is it too late? My questions seemed alien. My voice didn’t sound like my own. He put his left hand near my waist. I made my right hand hover over his shoulder. Our free hands came together, the mandatory inch apart automatic. I advanced, he retreated. He pulled close, I stepped back. Those were the steps. I knew them very well. As long as I didn’t change them, he would never leave.

I knew you’d be back, he whispered into my ear. It was only a matter of time. His eyes seemed to pierce right through me. His pinky shuddered as it reached to touch mine. I fought it at first but he imposed himself. When our fingers touched, it felt like a mild current just coursed through my body. I looked at him, not understanding why he was breaking his own rules.

What’s this? I asked, my eyes fixed on our pinkies touching.

Compromise, he answered, a sly smile on his face.

We danced for hours, our bodies never tiring. If only my heart could be as willing.

Photo Credit: 141209

kissing

2010-11-29T03:37:00.001+08:00


	Bliss Kissing Quiet Letters

We live in a world full of lies. Every day, we run into liars and fakers and it’s easy to get lost in all of it. Sometimes, I feel like joining the party, like maybe that would make everything easier. I know all the lines by heart. It’s easy to fake a smile. But then I’d be lying too, wouldn’t I?

Last night in bed, I stared doubtfully at our reflection. You seemed so small and frail, like a child spooning a giant. Your left leg rested comfortably on my hip. Your face peeked from the valleys of my shoulder. It seemed I could squish you like a bug if I wanted to.

“Parang ang liit mo,” I said as I stubbed my cigarette into the ashtray.

“Ikaw na. Ikaw na matangkad.”

What I wanted to say had nothing to do with height. What I meant was I wasn’t really sure if you could take me. Adaptation makes the parts we need bigger and the parts we don’t, smaller. For years, I’ve cultivated my wrath, my bitterness and strength. It’s helped me survive. It’s helped me write. What makes you think it would be that easy to undo all of that?

I sighed, one of those long, pregnant sighs when you know I’ve gone crazy again. In my head, the questions kept burning. Why do you love me? I have nothing left to give. Why do you stay?

And then you kissed me.

You kissed me and I tasted truth. Everything, all the doubts in my head and the voices that tell me it’s not gonna work, they all faded away. These are lies, your lips taught me. Believe only in this, they whispered as you kissed our hands intertwined. Trust only this, they said as you kissed the left side of my chest.

You kissed me and I felt honest again. It was a quiet shift but I felt it. My lips formed a clumsy smile. My heart sang a quiet song.

On a journey of the heart,
there’s so much to see.
And when the sky is dark,
you’ll be right here,
right here with me.

We could fly,
you and I.
On a cloud,
kissing, kissing.

Photo Credit: robyn

a bird named Bird

2010-11-22T04:58:00.004+08:00


	Zooey Deschanel Sugar Town (500) Days of Summer

I have a bird who hates Zooey Deschanel. Which is unfortunate because I love Zooey Deschanel. I was playing Sugar Town one night when he started freaking out. I was afraid his squawking would wake the neighbors so I had to shush Zooey and work in the deafening quiet.

Okay, so technically he’s not my bird. He’s no one’s bird. One day, he just crashed into our house. Swerte yan! my superstitious aunt announced and so we kept him. We sent the maid out to get a cage for Bird (yes, we named him Bird. We are that imaginative.) but it seems she underestimated his size. The poor thing barely fit in his new home. If he escaped from his last home to look for freedom then I’m guessing he wasn’t very happy about where we decided he would live.

For something fluffy and yellow, Bird is pretty ill-tempered. He squawks like a madman when his food’s late. It’s impossible to work around him because he hates all my songs. In the morning, he flaps his wings really, really fast and it sounds like a bunch of winged demons just escaped from Hades to attack me.

My best guess was that he was miserable because he was in such a small cage. Bird flaps his wings but can’t go anywhere because of cruel Physics laws. I took it upon myself to find him a proper home but since I’m lazy and I procrastinate way too much, it took me about a year to find Chez Bird- a fancy, two-storey mansion with rods to perch on and a neat ol’ swing. It was everything a bird could ever want. I was certain he’d be pleased.

He wasn’t. For days, Bird was quiet. Oddly enough, he didn’t like his perches or his swing. He just stood there on the cage’s floor as though his life depended on it. This is for your own good, Bird. I assured him. You wanted this, remember?

I tried to poke him with a cotton bud but he was practically immovable from his spot. He would inch a little but as soon as his white invader left, he’d be right where he started. After some time, I realized he was still living on the floor space of his last home. Move, Bird! I scolded. This space is yours for the taking! He wouldn’t listen. I tried to cheer him up by playing that Incubus song* he enjoys and getting him the expensive bird seed he likes but he just stood there with a hollow expression.

He stopped making strange noises whenever I play the songs that I like. He stopped flapping his wings early in the morning. He wouldn’t even look at me. For days, he stood there as though he was at the end of a long death sentence and I didn’t know what to do. I was puzzled. Why wasn’t Bird happy?

I was happy in my loneliness. It sounds strange but I was. I loved wallowing. It forced me to write. But then all of a sudden, the stars aligned and I got everything I ever wanted: my family was complete again, A and I fell in love, I got promoted*. Why couldn’t I be happy?

For years, I searched for stability and now that it’s here, I don’t quite know what to do with it. What happens after they ride into the sunset? What happens after they pull away from that reconciliatory kiss in the middle of a busy airport? Nobody tells you what happens after the screen fades to black. Nobody stays long enough to see the last of the credits roll. All you should remember is it was a happy ending, done in the way that only Hollywood can.

I let Bird be. I figured he’d come around soon enough.

One day, my neighbor’s daughter asked if she could have Bird’s old cage. She was gonna use it for a project or something. I unearthed it from the mountain of useless junk in the garage. As I walked past Chez Bird with the old cage in my hand, the winged creature made its first sound in weeks.

I don’t speak bird nor do I know anyone who does but at that exact moment, on that unnervingly warm Thursday afternoon, I thought I heard Bird say something. It was strange and murky like water in an unused fountain but I understood it as though the words were my own.

As Bird saw his old cage, I could’ve sworn I heard him say Home.

---

Peace is beautiful but it’s not for everyone. If you’re not careful, you could find yourself stuck, looking for trouble in an effort to revert to your old self. Don’t get too comfortable, a voice tells me. It wasn’t meant to be this easy.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VICTOR! I said "bird" twenty-two times for you.

black widow

2010-11-09T01:01:00.004+08:00


	Rihanna Russian Roulette Rated R

All around me, everyone seems to be having a good time. Alcohol does that to you and coupled with friendship and other spirits, it’s not hard to feel alone in a sea of happy, inebriated strangers. Pardon the cliché but it’s all I have right now. My word processor’s cursor blinks like an irregular heartbeat and I can’t help but feel that if I don’t start writing, I would dry up and vanish forever.

I’m alone, save for an empty bottle of beer. I’ve been trying to get another one but the waiter seems very intent on a much delayed airing of a boxing match. On the table, I have my cigarettes and a relatively untouched bowl of tokwa’t baboy. I’m not hungry. I came here to drink. And to write.

I close my eyes. There are stories that need to be told, scenes that need to play out. In my mind’s eye is a woman with a toaster. You can hear an old song from the radio. Which song is it? It sounds like the intro to Michelle Branch’s Are You Happy Now?* The woman is frozen in time, toaster in the air, her husband in the bathtub seemingly unaware of the fate she has decided for them. Why is she there? Why does she want to kill him?

My head hurts. It seems I cannot find the story. It’s like that store in the mall, the one where you saw that really nice pair of jeans a week ago. It has a way of hiding from you right when you need it. And when you finally arrive at its well-lit façade, the jeans are either not how you remembered them to be, not in the right size or if you’re really unlucky, the store has just closed for the night.

The waiter looks my way and I signal for another bottle. Where is the woman with the toaster? Where has she gone?

If you ask me, toasters are a little too cliché. It’s so old-fashioned, you can literally taste the damask wallpaper peeling off the wall. The scene’s poorly lit but you can tell that her hair has been dyed from its original color to platinum blonde. The roots show like a weak story with poor delivery. Let’s change the toaster.

She walks slowly with a loaded shotgun. The bathtub’s gone too. Her husband is showering. You can see his blurry nakedness through the frosted shower window. He needs a pubic trim but that’s something you don’t really write about.

She slides the door open. There is no fear in his eyes. Did he see it coming?

I take another swig of my beer only to find it is my last one. I promised myself I would stop drinking so I guess I should stop at three bottles. The waiter is behind me. With the smallest voice I could find, I ask him for a glass of water and the bill.

Chit? he asks.

Bill, I correct.

“Hands up,” she commands but he just stands there, one hand soaping his left shoulder, the other covering his privates. She needs something from him – a look, a confirmation her lover loves her still.

“Hands up!” she says again, this time shouting. Reluctantly, he drops the bar of soap and throws both hands in the air.

“Say it,” she barks as she cocks the gun.

“Say what?”

“Three words.” There is a wicked smile on her face, like she’s done this countless times before. There is still no fear in his eyes.

“Do you want me to say I love you?” he asks. The scene is in black and white so you barely notice that he has peed on himself. The warm liquid trickles from the tip of his uncut penis to his hairy, muscled leg to the soapy water on the cold bathroom tiles.

Yes. (?)

Yes? Do I want her to say yes? Does she want him to say he loves her? Wouldn’t that be too quick?

“Pull the trigger,” he says, not I love you. More than any combination of all the words in the English language, those were the three she least expected. Why did it seem more genuine then? Could it be that he knew all along? Why did he allow it to happen? Is love really that strong or that stupid? Help me understand why he let her do it.

He loved her knowing it would be the end of him. In my mind’s eye, she is cleaning the gun’s barrel as they do in the movies. Do shotguns have barrels? This story has no ending. None of my stories do.

Sir? Sir, the waiter calls to me and I awake from my daydream. He hands me the bill for the food, a pack of cigarettes and two bottles of beer.

I ordered three, I say. Or was that all in my imagination too? I lay a crispy Ninoy on the tacky leather envelope and tell him to keep the change.

Photo Credit: it's my life

if i were you

2010-10-26T05:02:00.001+08:00


	Tamia If I Were You A Nu Day

There are three people in this story- him, me and you. Now, how many of us will end up hurt after all this is anyone’s guess. If you ask me why I did what I did, I really wouldn’t know what to tell you. I was searching for something, the way a kid breezes past lonely grocery aisles when he has a sweet tooth. But no one ever told him he was looking too quickly. No one warned him that when you run, things have a way of passing you by.

There’s a part of me that will always love him. I think that’s the way it is for everyone we have loved. But this particular love was destructive. I was young then, unaware of the dangers that conceal behind the guise of love. I married him without a prenup, figuratively, of course. He would have all of me whether or not that relationship worked out. It was chaos, I know but it was our chaos and I gave furiously without requiring anything in return.

It didn’t work out and like a broken wing, my heart was dormant for close to three years. I tried endlessly to fly but it hurt too much. I numbed myself, sure that it was the only way I could survive. I promised I would never give myself the way I did with him. I built an impenetrable wall around my heart. Relationships became logical and unfeeling. Fucking started to feel routinary and mechanical. There was only one goal: to feel better. Slowly and in time, I became stronger. I learned to live my life without anyone seeing I was hollow. I was stronger, yes, but at what price?

And then you came into my life. You changed everything. You made me think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as broken as I thought and I wanted to hold on to the feeling for as long as I could.

One day, you asked to see my heart. Shaking, I held it up for you to see. I was afraid you’d look closely and see the cracks, the pieces of scotch tape and dried-up glue recklessly put into place. I knew you could tell that a part of me was dead. What crushed me was that you stayed anyway. You would kiss me with your eyes closed. I could feel your passion and the pressure to love you in equal amounts.

I wanted to. I really did. It’s just, I had given all my passion to him. I had nothing left to give. Would you be angry if I told you I went to him to see if I could get it back? I wanted to see if that part of me was still there, hiding behind layers of bitterness and sorrow. And so I came to him and over vodka and triple sec, he showed me that my passion was still there, sleeping. Waiting. Why was it so easy for him to bring it out? Was it because he was the last person to make me feel it? Was it because he was the last person who had all of me?

That night opened my eyes to a lot of things. I learned that you could only pick at a scab so many times before it starts bleeding again.

Would you hate me if I told you that I fell into his arms? I do. I’ve been blaming myself nonstop since I left his house, shitfaced and intoxicated late that night. I’m a bad person. Behind all the pretenses and walls I put up, I am an evil, needy person who only takes and never gives back. Cliché as it may sound, you deserve better. You’re a good person who should only be surrounded by rainbows, butterflies, perhaps a unicorn with a golden saddle. Okay, bad image but you get the point.

And I said all this to you with a straight face as we looked out into the city. Your eyes were blank. From afar, I could’ve sworn I could hear a strange bird singing. You couldn’t look me in the eye. Even after my confession, all you could do was blame yourself. I am the bad one here, I corrected. You are beautiful and blameless. You have every right in the world to hate me but you chose not to. I wonder why you chose not to.

Seek vengeance, I offered. Slap me. Hit me. Tell me you’re not just gonna stand there and pretend everything’s fine. Everything’s not fine. I am broken. Don’t you see that? I cannot love you the way you need to be loved. I cannot hold you the way you need to be held. I have never admitted to it but I have always known.

I am broken. I need you to be strong so you can fix me. Can you be strong for me?

Your closed your eyes. I wanted to shake you so you would look at me, so you would talk to me but you had already retreated into your safe place. I let you because I cannot hurt you there. And though it seems that’s all I’m capable of, I never meant to hurt you like this. I never wanted to hurt you the way he hurt me.

You need me to be passionate. I need you to be strong. Could it be that in the end, all we ever do is look for ourselves in each other?

Photo Credit: speed blur

links

2010-10-21T02:11:00.003+08:00


	Rachael Yamagata Moments With Oliver [Instrumental] Happenstance

Chaos. Such Beautiful chaos.
Eruption. Destruction.
Sadness. And lots of it.
And then Anger in equal Proportions.

Blaming Him.
Blaming Me.
Loneliness. Emptiness.
Hopelessness.

And then You.
Like a beautiful melody. Without lyrics.
I close my eyes and finally
There is Peace.

Photo Credit: SVA

his jacket

2010-10-11T06:00:00.003+08:00


	Curtis Stigers To Be Loved Songs From Dawson's Creek

In almost all of my father’s pictures from when he was my age, he wears a thick leather jacket. It didn’t matter if it was eighty degrees out. He would always have a crisp white shirt, tight dark jeans and that bulky jacket on. I always assumed he needed that whole macho image to enter manhood, something that my grandfather and seven uncles failed to teach him. No one ever teaches you to become a man. It’s just something you should know from the get go.

He refused to throw it away even as he outgrew the style. It stayed at the back of his closet for decades. I remember one time, he caught me and my sister playing with it. I think I was about seven or something which made my sister about ten. Anyway, she and I had no idea about the jacket’s history. We just saw it and thought it would be cool to play dress up with it. When he saw me wearing it, he saw red. I had no right to wear his precious jacket and I got the beating of my life to make sure I always remembered.

I think that’s why it felt a little weird when he called me into his room and said he had something to give me. His room always smelled like naphthalene balls, a scent I have since associated with old people. He reached into his closet, pulled out the jacket and told me that it was time for me to start wearing it.

“I was about your age when I bought that,” he said. Part of me cringed and I was hoping it wasn’t very visible in the afternoon sunlight. I’m not exactly the leather jacket wearing type. But this wasn’t just any jacket, I would soon learn. It had a very special meaning to my father.

When he was in his early twenties, most of my father’s clothes were hand-me-downs from his brothers. He knew his wardrobe lacked a few key pieces. With his first paycheck, he bought that jacket. At first sight, it was a simple accessory, just scraps of leather, cotton and polyester sewn together. But underneath those layers, it symbolized everything he deemed important- freedom, growing up and making it in the real world. Whenever my father put on that jacket, he was becoming less like the boy who grew up in a farm and more like the man from the city he was becoming.

“Now I know times have changed but classics like this will never go out of style,” he beamed as he removed the jacket from the wooden hanger. I was torn at that point. I knew there was no chance in hell I would wear that thing but at the same time, I knew how much it meant to him, how this moment must’ve been in his mind for years. He was passing the symbol of his manhood to his only son. Now why did it feel like such a burden?

He put the jacket over my shoulders. I popped my hand out of each sleeve to find that it was at least three sizes too big for me. The shoulders drooped and the sleeves swallowed my hands. All in all, it just looked like a real big mess. I walked over to the dresser to see my reflection. I looked like a large black cow swallowed me whole.

“It’s too big,” I reasoned out as I took the jacket off. “I could have it tailored but that might ruin it.” My father stood behind me, his lips pursed and tense. I stared at our reflections in the mirror. How could we be related when we look nothing like each other? He stared at my reflection, his eyes lingering on my frail shoulders. Was he thinking the same thing? Was he asking the same questions?

“Perhaps you’ll grow into it,” he said, his voice filled with an alien hope. He took the jacket from my hands, folded it up and gave it to me. “Who knows? One day, you might decide to bulk up and it’ll fit then.” I smiled at him, that polite smile I only use when he makes me feel uncomfortable and thanked him for his gift. Deep down, I too wished the jacket would fit me one day.

Photo Credit: TSY

six / war on chores

2010-10-06T00:00:00.029+08:00


	Weezer Buddy Holly Weezer (The Blue Album)

Today marks my sixth year as a blogger* as well as my first month with A. Normally, I’d write something snazzy to celebrate but I’m going through this phase where I feel like everything I write is crap. I’ve got about a dozen or so stories all in my mind or on torn up pieces of tissue paper and I can’t seem to make sense of them.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been sick. I haven’t been to work in ages. This stupid mosquito bit me and poof! It became dengue! It’s not the big D I’m worried about though. It’s the boredom that comes with it. I’ve been on reverse isolation for about a week and a half now and I’m about thiiiiis close to exploding from sheer idleness.

And so because I feel like I should post something but at the same time I feel like nothing I write is good enough, I figured I’d dig something up from the old baul. The article I chose is one of the first things I ever wrote with the intention of posting online. I published it in early 2004 when I still had my own website and before I signed up for a Blogger account. I reeeeally want to edit it but I know that would go against the whole activity. It’s all very whiney, self-deprecating and fake-cool which was how everyone wrote in those days.

Anyway, I just spoiled everything with a lengthy disclaimer. Here is my War on Chores.

There should be a law against chores. There should be. I mean it. There should be a law that makes it illegal for suburban homes to be without a maid. I hate chores. They’re messy and you get nothing in return for them. At least the maid gets a monthly check. What do I get? I get calloused hands and the distinct smell of leftovers. I hate chores and I hate people who assign them. They keep me from the more important things that I have to do like… hmm… I dunno… I’ve been doing chores so long I don’t even remember what a normal teenager does in summer!

Chores always upset me and when I’m upset, I eat and get fat. It’s what I do. So basically, the ten pounds that I lost last month is now down to a dwindling five. I got it! That’s what I wanted to do with my summer… concentrate on slimming down.

Do you know that fifteen minutes on a treadmill or a bicycle will burn you about 70-90 calories? I biked briskly in the gym two weeks ago and it burned me 96 calories. I was mighty proud of my accomplishment until I realized I didn’t even burn enough calories for the bag of chips I had for breakfast. 96 friggin’ calories means nothing.

Elections came again and I was assigned another chore. Bring my grandmother to Makati so she can exercise her suffrage. For the record, I never agreed to this arrangement. Next thing I know is people are waking me up to bring Lola there! I didn’t give in and I just slept the whole morning. My sister ended up going. It wasn’t so hard. They rode cabs to and fro and they didn’t have any heavy bags to carry. So I was a bit surprised when my sister came home tired and sleepy. Suddenly, she was exempted from chores! Aaargh! I was so freaking pissed! It just wasn’t fair! What do I get for walking fifty blocks just to deposit Lola’s money or mail Lola’s affidavits? Mind you, Lola’s a very picky person and you have to do things perfectly or you’re doing it again… So, what does she get for helping Lola out. She gets exempted for chores. What do I get for helping Lola out? A shitload more chores. There is just no freaking justice left in the world. And just to prove my point, here’s another story.

It’s no secret I failed trigonometry last semester. Trying to convince them a new school is best for me only terminated the possibility of future attempts. So I needed to accept the fact that I’m going to be an irreg. That’s basically the kiss of death for someone like me who’s unassertive most of the time. So I figured you got the car, might as well drive it. I was going to take some advance courses so that I won’t be soooo behind next few years. But in UST, that’s not even possible. I need to talk to a bunch of people who will then decide if I can do that. So I told my mom last Friday that I needed to go to UST. Guess who didn’t want me to go. Guess who didn’t leave me any money… Clue, she’s my father’s wife… It doesn’t get any simpler than that. Water under the bridge, I said when she got home. So I reminded her this afternoon and she said (and I quote) “There are a lot of more important things that you need to do that go to UST. What makes you so sure they even have office tomorrow? Mag floorwax ka na lang!” So I guess the floor’s future is more important than mine… and for further proof of the world’s injustice and the overabundance of chores… here’s another story, though somewhat unrelated.

I called Bleep’s cellphone last week in the middle of a chore. To my surprise, it wasn’t Bleep who answered but someone else who sounded like they were just waking up. Complete with yawning and stretching sounds. I quickly hung up and repeatedly told myself it was the wrong number. Several days later, Bleep calls me up. “Listen, I was checking my ‘Received Calls’ and saw this number. I don’t remember you calling me so may I ask who this is?” Bleep doesn’t know my number. That was the beauty of everything. Everything was casual, no strings attached unless I wanted them to be. But now I guess Bleep’s moved on. I faked (with expertise) a probinsyano accent and said “Sorry piru sari-sari store lang pu tu i kaya de ko talaga alam kong seno ang tomawag jan. Pusibleng kahit seno kasi madami naman nakeketawag deto eh” which was quite a change from my greeting (Good Morning, Hello!). There is no justice in the world and when I hung up, guess what was right there waiting for me… chores!

two letters

2010-09-20T19:00:00.033+08:00


	Nerina Pallot Nickindia Fires

Sunday morning. You lay asleep beside me. It was a special morning, one that came at the heels of our first night together. Outside, the sun was looming behind the curtains. It threatened to take away everything that took place here.

In a world that constantly forgets, who will remember us?

I feared for my memory was weak. I wanted to document everything so I would never forget. I wanted to write about the way the light danced from the swaying curtains, the hum of the air conditioner and the bead of sweat that trickled slowly down the small of your back as you rose to get a glass of water. I felt bad that we were leaving this place without any proof that we were even here.

There is only one way to leave your mark, a voice said to me. Write a letter.

When I was a kid, my mom enrolled me in a school that was very close to her office. Convenience, she said but I think she just wanted me to be close to her at all times. While most kids spent their afternoons playing with friends or watching cartoons, I spent the hours after class in my mother’s office watching her work.

On a particularly boring day, I told her I was claiming an unused desk at the northeast corner of the room. I need the space, I reasoned. To do my homework and stuff. At that time, it was the closest I had come to becoming an adult. The location was prime. There was no one around to bother me. The drawer proved most useful. All at once, it held my books, crayons and lessons learned.

I was very sociable back then. I made many friends in different departments and floors. One time, the seventh floor guard gave me a piece of Stork. He was a pretty notorious bully but even he couldn’t resist my charms. After I devoured the candy, I kept the wrapper in my drawer as proof that there is good in everyone’s hearts. You just gotta dig deep sometimes.

There was this other time when I was running around the office in my white socks. I think I was pretending to skate or something. My socks would often turn gray those days but it was a fun way to kill time. During one miscalculation, I ended up slipping and crushing this huge ass bug on the wall. Upon closer inspection, it was a beautiful insect with many colors. I started crying, the guilt of having taken a life deep in my gut. To remember how fragile life is and how some mistakes are irreversible, I wrapped the bug’s body in toilet paper and stored it in my drawer.

There were many stories, each one with a different lesson and a different addition to my collection. I learned a lot that year and it didn’t take long before I had enough stuff to fill the entire drawer. On my last day before summer vacation, my mother told me it was time to clear my desk. Next year, I would be studying in a school closer to home.

I had an urge to leave something behind, something to prove I once occupied that space. If I didn’t, it would be like I was betraying all the lessons that I learned. I decided to leave a letter in my special drawer. I wanted the next user to know how special it was to me. I wrote everything down in my crooked second-grade handwriting on a page I tore out of my notebook. Right before we left that night, I pushed the letter into the now empty drawer, hoping that my message would find its intended recipient.

In a world that constantly forgets, who will remember us? I asked.

Write a letter, my eight-year old self replied. Put on a show and no one will ever forget.

I started writing in my clumsy twenty-four year old handwriting on a pad of hotel paper. I wrote about my search for love and how it took me to different beds and different hearts. I wrote about giving up and resigning to live alone. I recounted all the mistakes I had ever made, mistakes that somehow led me to this hotel room and in your arms. And then I realized it was too long and too emotional. No one wants to read stuff like that anymore.

I crumpled the page and started anew. I chronicled each kiss, the way our bodies moved as one, how I was you and you were me. I retold Hedwig’s Origin of Love* and how each touch, each kiss brought you closer to me. I wrote about how I entered you and how it felt like we were jigsaw puzzle pieces who had finally found each other. And then I realized it was too erotic and I didn’t want the next resident to think it was that kind of hotel.

I wrote about the conversations that we had over cigarettes at the balcony. I recounted how I felt when I woke up beside you, your chest rising and falling gently with each breath. I described the wonderful, warm fuzzy feeling love brings and how I wanted to die and be reborn as that mole in the middle of your chest. I wrote about how we slow danced to a Sade song* that was playing in my mind. And then I realized that it was too cheesy and I didn’t want them to think I was some fool obsessed with love.

One thing was clear. We had stumbled upon something very important within these four walls. I just couldn’t seem to write it down. The concept was elusive and each attempt to capture it felt like a betrayal. After many drafts, I realized I was down to my last piece of stationery.

Make this count, my eight-year old self said. Use no other voice but yours. Ours. I looked at him in his navy blue shorts and graying socks and I automatically knew what I should write. He was there for a reason. His drawer was my hotel room. I furiously wrote down my letter, my penmanship heavy and excited. Right after we checked out, I ran upstairs and slipped my letter in the bedside drawer. There, beside the Bible and the room service menu, someone would find a letter. It would contain the most important thing I know.

Dear 3A Resident,

There is magic in this room. It taught me that love exists.

NL

Photo Credit: crumpled-paper

reprising little boy sam

2010-09-12T16:42:00.003+08:00


	Liz Phair Only Son whitechocolatespaceegg

As a child, I had dreams of Superman. I valued his morals and envied his strength. I thought the world of him. In many ways, he took the place of my father. I always abhorred the latter for not being strong enough, brave enough or even honest enough. He was never around for the big stuff. He was always out working. His politics paid for my education, the roof above my head and the food in my gut but in no way did it afford him my love. Money does not raise a child, a father does and I was determined that the greatest power in the universe was to be my new father.

My coming out to him was a sign, at least to me, of respect. I probably wanted to tell him first because on some level, I blamed him for how I turned out. Needless to say, he didn’t take it well. He called me names, even tried to hit me a few times. He would always stop right before his fist hit my face. He punched the walls, screaming in a voice I had never heard him use before and in a language that seemed of a different world. Resigned, he cursed the heavens for what happened to his only son. He looked at me with the eyes of an animal. I had never been so delighted and terrified at the same time.

My lover Grey greeted the problem with a response that was equal parts ambitious and arrogant. Elope, he said. Fuck him. Fuck them all. He put his lips around his middle finger. His spit glistened in the distant moonlight. With a child’s attention to detail, he raised his finger towards an imagined figure of my father and mouthed a subtle fuck you.

But not after I fuck you first, he added as he pulled me under the covers.

But there would be no need to run away. Days later, the fates decided to throw us a bone. I went to my father’s office one afternoon to talk to him. It was his sanctuary, his Fortress of Solitude if you must. Using the key that he kept hidden in one of the building’s many crevices, I unlocked the door to find him naked and in the arms of Luther, his childhood best friend and longtime business partner. I hid behind the door, quiet as a mouse, listening to him moan as another man took him from behind.

Now tell me, who’s the disgrace now?

That night, I stayed up to watch him creep into our house. It was past midnight when he finally came home.

Long night? I asked. He dismissed my statement and went up to his bedroom. Outside, a lonely dog was howling a lullaby. You know, you and I, we’re not so different. I added, right as he closed his bedroom door.

Superman was not the greatest power in the universe. Denial was stronger and like glue, it put together what the truth was trying to take apart.

Father, come out, I said to him, even though I knew he could not hear me. This cross is ours to bear now. There is no one left to blame.

Photo Credit: grapesfrappe
Original Post: continuing the straight path

leaving

2010-09-06T06:38:00.004+08:00


	Kelly Clarkson Irvine My December

I knew he was leaving. The signs were clear. I just didn’t want to think about it.

“If you wanna go, then go,” I said to him through my bedroom door. He was silent. The only sound I could hear was the gentle clinking of metal. My entire house moans as another lover leaves. I didn’t think it would hurt that much. I’ve certainly had my practice. But it seems all that I have of him is all that he’s left me, a single key on top of the countertop; a reclusive reminder of a love that broke before it bent.

He did not know. There was no way he could. As he left, I closed my eyes, pressed my ear to the floor and listened for the shuffle his feet made on the wood. I was waiting for hesitation, for the sound of his steps to grow louder and louder as he came to my bedroom door. I wanted him to beckon, to beg me to come out, to tell me that he was going to fight for us. I needed him to hear the words that my pride wouldn’t let me say. Please don’t leave me. Not you.

Each year, my fishbowl gets fatter and fatter with keys returned, love disposed of and the sound of footsteps walking away. As my front door ushered him out, I wondered if anyone could see how I was doubled over, weeping on my bedroom floor. Could anyone see the tears that have come to bring me slumber?

---

Like animals, we learn to adapt. We change because we live, because we can, because we refuse to be victims of our circumstances. It’s like severing an arm to save the rest of your body. We do this because as humans, we see patterns. We do this because only a fool jumps into the same fire twice.

---

The moon looked ripe that day. We were fighting in the kitchen. It’s a scene I’ve learned to memorize from years and years of repetition. The story is always the same. It’s just the actors that shuffle. This is the part where you leave.

“If you wanna go, then go,” I said to you. You looked confused. Experience has taught me that this would be the last time I would ever see you. I sat silently on the countertop but in my head, I was already in my room, head on the floor, listening to the sound your feet would make as you walked away.

“I wish you’d stop that,” you said, waking me up from my little daydream.

“Stop what?”

“Stop assuming that everyone you love will leave you. That’s probably why you’re so strange sometimes, how you’re warm one minute and cold as ice the next.” I looked up from my spot in the room. There was a strange calmness in your voice. “If you really want this to work, you have to trust me without contempt. You have to love me without fear.”

Were you there that night my first lover left? How do you know these things when I have built so many walls to keep you away? How do you know the thoughts in my mind when my tongue bleeds from being bitten? Was I that transparent? How do you know me so well?

“I’m sorry,” I said, finally breaking down.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised as you wrapped your arms around me. In my heart of hearts and to the lonely moon, I prayed you were telling the truth.

Photo Credit: leaving

reprising the bitch

2010-08-29T16:40:00.004+08:00


	Lily Allen Littlest Things Alright, Still

It would be nice if lovers were like movies. I’d have lovers in boxes, on bookshelves, a messy pile by the bed. There are some movies that you see only once, others you play over and over again without tiring. I could rank my lovers and keep the good ones close to the television.

I run my hands through a particular pile. There’s a movie I need to play, a scene I desperately need to see. It was a moment when I felt happy, when I thought love was the strongest thing in the world. I turn the television on, pop the disc in and allow the images to fill my mind.

It’s been years since I saw it but this movie still feels very fresh. I wonder how long my mind can preserve these thoughts. They say moments like this never cease to exist. They’re just there, suspended in time for all eternity. Why then do I feel like I’m seeing a picture slowly overexposing? It’ll be all white soon. I need to recapture it with my mind’s eye.

Will I always remember the darkness of his eyes, the firmness of his grip or the smell of the street as it rained?

We were walking home, one of many walks we took around that time. It was past midnight and though darkness lurked in every corner, I felt safe with your arm around me. I don’t really remember where we came from or what we were doing. All I know is right there, right at the intersection, I realized we were at the point of no return. We had somehow jumped off a cliff together and made it out alive. You were already a part of me, a part that would hurt if ripped out.

“So this is me,” I said, my standard goodbye. My umbrella made little splashes as water dripped into a small puddle by my feet.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, the street lights reflecting on his dark brown eyes. If I ever drowned in those dark pools, it would be the sweetest way to die.

And then he kissed me. Under the moonlight, under the guidance of the nighttime sky, he wrapped his arms around me as our lips touched. I felt lightheaded. In the middle of it all, I felt him push a small piece of paper into my hand.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s nothing,” he answered. “It’s just a note. Read it when you get inside.”

As I watched him walk away, his shoes making splashes on the water, my knees felt a little weak. Here was a man madly in love with me. I didn’t know what I did to deserve him but he calls my heart his home. When I was younger, I often wondered if I had let my chance to fall in love pass me by. But then all I needed to do was see him smiling at me and my heart would fill with hope. His smile expressed a silent wish. Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad.

It was just a moment, a split second in the quilt of history, but it was our moment. I closed my apartment door, a huge smile on my face as my body sank to the floor. I touched my lips, the same ones he just kissed as my other hand struggled in my jean pocket for the note he gave me.

“This love, ever ours,” it said. How silly of me to believe.

Is it wrong to hold on to him like this? It’s just one of those days, one of those feelings I don’t indulge all the time. The end credits of our movie starts rolling, a song playing softly in the background. Would you take it against me if I asked you to dance? I close my eyes and imagine him in front of me. I wrap my arms around him, a feeble embrace as my hands fall limply on where I remember his neck to be. Our bodies move to the soft beat. If I tried hard enough, I swear I could even smell him. I inhale sharply, let his scent fill my very being. Outside, the clouds start to darken. Something tells me it’s going to rain soon.

Original Posts: Moment, Dati...

infidelity

2010-08-23T05:02:00.008+08:00


	Amy Winehouse I Heard Love Is Blind Frank

How do I say this without hurting you? I cheated on you last night with the ghost of lovers past. I was looking through some old letters and I started recreating these scenes in my mind. Letters, pictures, movie tickets and condom wrappers- I was hoarding memories, certain that love is always too fleeting to remember, too moody to contain.

I laid out all the letters on my bedroom floor and for a while, I was just sitting there, wondering where their writers were. Do they still think of me? I closed my eyes and touched myself. I tried to remember how each kiss felt, how each moan sounded. Do my lovers touch themselves when they remember me?

He came out of nowhere. When I opened my eyes, he was in front of me, inviting me, seducing me. He took my hand and led me to the bed. He whispered words in my ear, words I often wish you could say. I believed him for once upon a time, those words were true. He was true and so I let him do what he wanted.

He touched me in all the familiar places. His mouth traveled from my lips to my ears, my neck and the small of my back. He hit me like he used to when I was younger. The shear weight of his arm sent me flying. More, I begged him and he hit me again. Each strike set my skin on fire. Each bruise felt like I was coming closer to my true home.

I entered him with force and abandon. It felt just like it used to. As I pushed myself in and out, I realized the rhythm was familiar. It was a song my heart once sang to. I still knew all the words.

He was getting closer and closer to climaxing. I could tell in the way his legs were tensing up. I tried to focus on coming, too but I couldn’t. I started losing interest. I started realizing my mistakes. His face to the heavens, he couldn’t tell that I was no longer into it. I started getting soft. My heart and my body were too in sync to continue.

And then a curious thing happened. I thought of you. I thought of what we have. I thought of all the things I wanted to do to you and I got hard again. I thought of the life we could have together if we only got over our fears. I thought about your face, the lines pulsating each time I thrust into the ghost’s being. I imagined your face on his, recreating your eyes, your nose and your lips from shear memory.

I thought of you and I came. I exploded inside the ghost; my seed flying into the air, sullying the letters and pictures on the floor. I picked them up and tossed them into the trash. It was high time I threw them out anyway. Though they kept me warm through the many cold nights before I called your heart my home, the second hand ticking on the clock tells me there’s no use holding on to them anymore. I’m letting them go, love. I’m sorry it took this long. I’m letting them go to let you in.

Till next time, said the ghost as he put on his shirt.

There won’t be a next time, I promised.

There will always be a next time, he said, a smile on his face as he disappeared into the darkness.

Photo Credit: embrace

chances

2010-08-15T11:33:00.003+08:00


	Platinum Weird Taking Chances Platinum Weird (Unreleased)

On nights like this when my mind won’t lend itself to sleep, I find myself thinking of you. There are many things to be said. Sometimes, the burden of the silent elephants in the room becomes too heavy to hold and I feel like if I don’t write it all down, I’ll somehow explode. And so I try, even though each word feels like a betrayal, each attempt fails at capturing what I see when I see you.

I escape into my imagination. We are at a park bench with a view of the city. It’s a view borrowed from a movie. There is a distance between us, perhaps because we are afraid to touch. We talk about menial things like the weather or how the birds fly from one side of the sky to the other. We talk about books and music. We talk about religion, politics and all other topics until there is only one thing left to talk about- us.

“I know you’re afraid,” I begin, constantly on eggshells. “It doesn’t really help that I’m scared shitless too. I just think that if we don’t give this a shot, we would be wasting everything.”

You are silent. I look at your spot on the bench and notice that you have your eyes closed. Even in slumber, you are so beautiful. I have never seen someone so at peace, so stunning it hurts, in my entire life. Gravity takes over and your head falls gently on my shoulder. I hold my breath so that my inhales and exhales won’t wake you up. I move only when necessary so that I would not shake you. Slowly, I feel your hand search for mine. For the first time, we touch. My fingers wrapped around yours, something tells me that if I don’t hold on to something, I might float away.

And if I had to spend the rest of my life holding my breath, our hands in embrace like two lovers lost in time, I wouldn’t really mind. I would never, ever mind.

Photo Credit: iamnotastalker

beachbuoy

2010-08-08T00:00:00.004+08:00

If years were hours then today would be the start of a new day. This year, I am celebrating away from the lullaby of buses opening and closing. There are many things to be grateful for and I can only hope to be just as blessed in the years ahead.

Photo Credit: winding bay

	The Beatles Birthday The White Album

quiet

2010-08-02T01:47:00.007+08:00

To the one who called me Gori. Because this doesn’t hurt anymore.

When we were younger and much more in love, we'd often lose ourselves in pointless conversations. I love you, I’d whisper in your ear. I love you more, you’d say. No, I love you more, I’d say, stressing every word. We’d do this again and again, neither of us predicting that who loves who more was not the right question to ask. It’s who’s letting go first?

This isn’t the hardest decision to make. If anything, I think I’m doing both of us a favor. There is a strange need to leave this place as it was when I first got here. I close my eyes and in my mind’s eye, I picture the apartment from three years ago. There is furniture to be moved, walls to be painted and curtains to be changed. The sofa would prove to be challenging. I remember our combined strengths couldn’t life the damn thing. I shook off this thought. That sofa is moving if it kills me, I said to you even though you weren’t around. Everything has to be exactly the way it was. It should be like I was never here at all.

---

We were artists convinced that our little paintings could somehow change the world. I wanted to do nothing but paint your face, the crook of your elbow, the small of your back, the stray strands of hair that peaked from your boxer shorts. We bought tons and tons of canvasses, locked ourselves in separate worlds so we could be in our respective elements. We shared an immense desire to capture our love in watercolor (yours) and oil-based paint (mine). I chose the kitchen so I could be close to the fridge. You, the den so you could be close to the books.

The easel couldn’t hold you, or at least how I thought of you. It was too small, too frail to capture the strength in your eyes or the calm in your voice. One by one, I took the spices off the cupboard. I unhinged the racks and the hooks that held the pans until I had a free wall to myself. For days, I ate nothing but dumplings, pausing only to shit, smoke or both. In about a week, I had your face on the biggest wall of the house. I remember thinking I had never been as happy, so filled to the brim with contentment.

You often locked yourself in the den. You didn’t want me to see what you came up with. My mind was brewing with anticipation. But then hours turned into days, days into weeks and I saw nothing. One day, I realized the ochre I used to color your cheeks had turned a dirty shade of brown. My mural was fading and I still hadn’t seen a single painting of yours.

While you were sleeping, I crept up the narrow hallway to the den. I had to see it. I had to meet the child you birthed and reared in that room for several months. The lock resisted at first but with a little more effort, it finally gave way. It was pitch dark. Outside, the moon shone like a lover’s secret wish. I groped in the darkness for the switch. Nothing could have prepared me for that moment. I had to look away from the easel that stood lonely in the center of the room. It was empty. All your canvasses were empty. Your brushes sat dusty on top of a pile of books.

In the middle of the canvas, in clumsy red paint, I wrote you my first and only letter. They say expectations are premeditated resentments. I’m sorry I resented too much.

---

The sofa would prove to be challenging. On the radio, a woman sings me a song. It’ll be just as quiet when I leave as it was when I first got here, she promised. I push the gargantuan set, leaving large, ugly scratches on the wooden floor.

Photo Credit: the empty canvas

	Rachael Yamagata Quiet Happenstance

counting cars

2010-07-26T20:55:00.006+08:00

The weary warrior walked up the steps of his fallen home. Around him lay an orgy of rubble. If these stones could speak, they would tell stories of death, struggle and waste. Suddenly, all the victories he won, all the challenges he overcame seemed meaningless. Nothing he ever did in his short life could ever compare to the grief, the immense sense of loss that seemed to rain on him now. What good would it do if he had no one to share it with?

My father walked up the funeral home with a similar sense of defeat. My uncle died over the weekend. He was instrumental in my formative years. We spent countless summers together, playing street games and eating watermelons. My uncle was a bit of a wild child. He never conformed to anyone even when he had a family of his own. In my clearest memories of him, he is coming up to me with a big, ripe watermelon. He’d chop it in half and we’d bury our faces in the heart of each cheek, eating only the sweetest part, throwing out the rest. It showed how he viewed life. He didn’t want to waste his time with seeds or the bland parts of the fruit’s flesh. You gotta take the good parts and throw away the bad, he explained once. Outside, the trash cans were filled to the brim with half-eaten watermelons left to the flies.

His final years saw him wasting away. The last I saw him, he was almost toothless. His smile beamed at me from across the room, the years betraying signs on his face. His daughters, no longer charmed by his careless life, treated him like a prisoner. He rarely left his room, only venturing into the outside world for his daily trip to the sari-sari store for soda and some smokes. That’s what pained my father the most. He looked at them with disgust. How could you do that to my brother?

He’d been dead for hours before anyone noticed. The entire left side of his body was bloated beyond recognition. My father walked up to the closed casket with a stern expression. He’s always been such an expert at concealing his emotions, showing only what was necessary or negligible. His hands caressed the coffin’s trimmings, running his fingers through the wooden carvings. A single tear dropped on the cold wood. My eyes widened. I realized I had never seen my father cry before.

He was quiet for a long time. He sat on one of the pews, speaking to no one, refusing trays of food or drink. My father is the youngest in his family. He has buried so many people, we have all lost count. My uncle was not the first nor will he be the last my father puts in the ground. It seems that for most people born last in the family, it is our inheritance to bury our kin. I looked at my sisters sitting quietly in the corner. How will it be when my turn comes?

I saw my eldest sister staring at my father, her thoughts running parallel with mine. I couldn’t explain it. I rarely cry at funerals but all of a sudden, I found my own dams had burst. I ran to my sisters, hugging them, hoping they would understand why I felt so bad. There was no doubt in my mind we had many years ahead of us. My fear was that we had already wasted the ones we have now.

My family is not known for our emotions. Prior to this funeral, it had been weeks since we hung out as a pack. Time is a funny thing. We never realize how much we’ve wasted until we are faced with our own mortality. My father wiped his tears and as he stood up, his grown-up children rushed to him with the same fervor as townspeople welcoming a hero. We couldn’t explain it. Logic seemed to escape us but it took a great sense of grief and loss to remind us that it is not too late for our family. It is not too late to be a family.

My sister was too tired so my dad offered to drive us home. In the passenger seat, my mother sat half-awake. In the back seat, my siblings and I sat together, like we did when we were kids on our way to church. I was exhausted. The little strength I had left was taken away by all the crying. In the darkness, I felt a small hand grasp mine, my sister seemingly holding the little time we had left together.

We are only given a few years before everything we worked for, every thing we know is taken away from us. I walked up the steps to my home and unlike the warrior’s, my home’s walls were still intact, the roof firmly above our heads. It’ll take years, decades even, before this house falls to rubble. I found my father frozen in the kitchen with a glass of water. It was like he forgot what he was doing or what the next step was. Good night, I said as my arms wrapped tightly around him. What I really wanted to say was that it’s not too late. That our family will be different. And that though I don’t say it too much, I love him with everything I am.

I could tell he found this strange, too. His first impulse was to flinch. Slowly, I felt his shoulders relax. This evening armed us with an openness none of us wanted to explain. He didn’t say anything. I just felt his hold tighten and I knew what his heart was trying to say. Thank you for being here. I love you, too.

Photo Credit: parthenon

	Dishwalla Counting Blue Cars Pet Your Friends

If songs have covers, what do blog posts have? My good friend Victor translated one of my first Filipino posts into English. (And though it’s a little embarrassing to have your three-year-old posts aired out, because of the talented writer I know-he knows-I know he is, me’s izz extreeeemely flattered.) Click here to see what he came up with.

mirrors

2010-07-19T09:49:00.003+08:00

For weeks, we’ve been trying to track him down. A sage told me that all my unhappiness, my failures in relationships, my dismal career, all of these things could be attributed to one man. I told my people to look for him and for weeks, they searched every corner in the city, looked under every rock in the country. I was about to give up when I received a call from my assistant that they finally located the bastard. He was being held at the safe house in Manila.

They led me through the poorly lit room where a man was sitting on a chair. Looking back, I’m not sure if they cuffed him or not. No matter the case, he wasn’t going anywhere. He was facing the wall. The sage told me that if I should ever find him, I must never look at his face. I sat down, took out my tape recorder and began my interview.

“How did you do it?” I asked. Outside, it sounded like it was starting to rain.

“Do what?”

“Take my happiness. Sabotage my relationships. How did you do it?”

“It’s not that hard. You made it pretty easy for me.” The guard by the door stepped forward, like a hound ready to attack. I cleared my throat twice as he stepped back into the darkness.

“I would appreciate it if we figured this out as soon as possible. I don’t know about you but I’m a very busy man and personal attacks only take us farther away from the truth we seek tonight. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to business.”

“Alright. Be my guest.”

“All these years, I’ve tried hard to be happy only for you to take it away from me. Why did you do it?”

“You’re not asking the right questions,” he said. “Why I chose you is not important.”

“What’s in it for you? What could you possibly have to gain from my suffering?”

“Everything. Nothing. Does it matter?”

“Is someone paying you to do this? I can match their offer. Money is no object.”

“Money never is.”

“If it’s not money, then tell me. Why have you been doing this to me?”

“Because I can.”

“That’s not reason enough.”

“It is for me,” he replied. His voice was warm but strained. “What do you want to hear? Do you want me to say it made me happy? Do you want me to say that I enjoyed your suffering?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why? What could you possible have to gain?” I could no longer hide the frustration in my voice. Outside, the water made little drum beats on the roof. The air smelled of rain and wet concrete.

“Looks like the weather finally gave in,” he said. There was no fear in his voice, only a faint sense of familiarity. “You’ve been trapped in your own little world for too long. You’ve forgotten that people mostly do things for themselves and not for other people.”

“So you’re saying that you did all of these things because you wanted to. That it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you.”

“Exactly,” he replied. In his voice, you could hear a wicked little smile.

“Fuck you,” I said, a little too forcefully for comfort. The guards all shuddered at my voice. “Why did you do it? What did I ever do to you?”

“Because you didn’t love me!” he shouted. “Because you wasted so much time on these fuckers who wouldn’t know love if it hit them in the eye! Because all this time, I was waiting for you to love me and you didn’t even know I was there.”

“Love you? Love you?! I don’t even know you!”

“Exactly,” he said as he swiveled his chair to face me. My first instinct was to look away, the sage’s warning ringing clear in my mind. I forgot that behind me was a mirror. There, in plain sight was the man who made a living of tormenting my waking life. I saw the man who sank all my relationships, who took away all the people I have ever loved simply because I didn’t love him.

It was me.

Photo Credit: interrogationroom6

	Paula Cole Me This Fire

alaala ng daga

2010-07-12T23:37:00.002+08:00

Noong high school ako, nagmakaawa ako sa nanay ko na ipag-dorm ako. Pano naman kasi, taga Sucat kami tapos sa Diliman yung school ko. Hindi ko na mabilang ang oras na iginugol ko sa mga bus sa EDSA. Noong third year na ako, napapayag ko din siya sa wakas.

Ganun pala ang buhay pag wala kang magulang, no? Noong una, ang saya saya ko! Malaya na akong makinig ng mga depressing songs buong araw. Wala nang kakatok at magsasabing wala bang mas masaya diyan? o bakit paulit-ulit yang kanta? Malaya narin ako kumain ng kahit anong gusto ko. Wala nang magbabawal sakin manood ng TV kahit disioras na ng gabi. Wala nang magpipilit sakin kumain ng ampalaya o paksiw na isda. Hate na hate ko kasi talaga ang paksiw na isda.

Madami akong natutunan sa pagdo-dorm. Nalaman ko na masama pala pag puro Gatorade at junk food ang laman ng tiyan mo. Nalaman ko na hindi rin pala dapat mag-impok ng pagkain sa kwarto dahil naaamoy ito ng mga ipis, daga at langgam. Nalaman ko rin na napakarami palang peste sa Katipunan. Nagising ako isang gabi dahil sa isang malakas na kaluskos. Pagbukas ko ng ilaw, may malaking daga na kinakain yung Nova ko. Nagtalukbong nalang ako ng kumot at nagdasal na di niya ako ngatngatin habang tulog ako.

Isang araw, napansin kong amoy patay na daga yung kwarto ko. Noong una, akala ko sa kabila pero habang papalapit ako ng papalapit sa kwarto ko, hindi ko na maipagkaila na nasa akin nga siya. Hinanap ko ng matagal yung pinanggagalingan nung amoy. Pagtingin ko sa aparador, andun siya sa tabi ng mga sapatos ko. Kinilabutan talaga ako. Nakapikit ang mga mata nung daga pero medyo nakabukas yung bibig niya. Basa yung balahibo niya, parang naka-mumurahing gel. Nakakasulasok yung amoy, lalo nung binuksan ko ng todo yung aparador.

Napaupo ako sa kama. Di ko alam ang gagawin. Masyadong malayo tatay ko para pakiusapan kong iitsa yung bangkay. Sumilip ako sa labas, baka sakaling may ka-dorm ako na magmamagandang loob tumulong sakin kaso lahat sila busy. Andun yung isa kaso masungit yun at alam ko di niya ako tutulungan. Doon ko talaga narealize kung ano ibig sabihin ng independence. Parang gusto ko na umuwi nun. Kung ganito pala ang feeling ng pagiging independent eh ayoko na. Kadiri kasi talaga yung daga. Kinikilabutan parin ako ngayon kahit ilang taon na ang lumipas.

Sinubukan ko siyang galawin gamit ng t-square ko. Di ko rin naman kasi ginagamit. Kaso mabigat siya talaga. Medyo kumukurba na yung kawawang kahoy. Nausug ko lang siya ng konti. Hindi talaga matinag ang kadiring peste. Naisip kong medyo imposible din na kayanin ng t-square kong buhatin yung daga papunta sa basurahan. Baka tumalsik pa yun pag nagkamali ako ng tiyempo.

Pagkatapos ng ilang oras ng pagtitiis sa amoy ng patay na daga, naisip kong walang ibang tutulong sakin kundi sarili ko. Kumuha ako ng maraming plastic bag at binalot ito sa mga kamay ko. Nagtakip ako ng ilong gamit ng lumang t-shirt na spinrayan ng pabango. Sabay lapit sa daga, pikit mata at dukot. Success!!!

Ihinagis ko yung bangkay sa garbage bag na maraming diyaryo at dali-daling bumaba ng bahay papunta sa kalsada. Initsa ko yung buong plastic, kasama narin yung improvised gloves ko sa tambakan ng basura sa tapat ng dorm. Pag-akyat ko, pinaliguan ko ng Lysol yung kwarto ko at nangakong hinding hindi ko na hahayaang maulit pa ang eksenang iyon. Papanatiliin kong malinis ang aking kwarto. Sisiguraduhin kong hindi ako mag-iiwan ng mga pinagkainan. Gagawin ko ang lahat, wag lang ako magpulot ng daga muli.

Weird lang na ito yung naalala ko nung nakita ko yung mga pictures mo sa Facebook. Kahit parang dumaan ako sa butas ng karayom para iitsa yung daga, di hamak na mas madali parin yun kaysa sa kalimutan ka. Halos isang taon narin ang lumipas. Inaamag na ang bangkay mo sa aparador ko. Inuuod na ang mga panahong pinagsamahan natin. Malamang di mo na ako iniisip. Di mo nga siguro alam na iniisip parin kita ngayon. Sana talaga ganun lang kadali yun.

Photo Credits: kwarto, dead rat drawing

	Sugarfree Kwarto Dramachine

mean

2010-07-05T07:17:00.006+08:00

“Is this related to the long e?” I asked. The boy shook his head. In my hand, I held a frail sheet of paper where he had scribbled his name in seventeen different styles. On the board, a PowerPoint slide stood frozen, marinating on the screen.

“No? Okay. Do we need it?” He shook his head again. “Answer me!” I barked. “Use your words!”

“N-no,” he stuttered. “No, sir.”

“Can I throw it?” I asked. He looked up. I was standing right in front of him like an animal ready to pounce. He looked back down and nodded, signaling a surrender of sorts.

“Can I tear it up first?” I asked, with a smile on my face. He no longer answered me. The class was quiet and the only thing you could hear apart from the gentle humming of the AC was the sound of a small, innocent piece of paper being ripped to shreds.

---

I’ve been losing my temper way too much these days. This little incident started over a measly house rule violation. I could’ve solved it by rewarding points to the other teams but instead, I became emotional. I attacked him for not listening to me, for his assumption that my lessons were not important. I traced his behavior to one simple fact: he did not think I was good enough to train him. When he disrupted the class, he grossly disrespected me and for that, he got the bitter end of my words.

I thought that that whole thing was just an isolated incident but then last Thursday, I snapped at another trainee. Fearing a repeat of the paper incident, I asked him to step out instead. He was getting on my nerves. I never saw him again. He didn’t come back from lunch. I think I scared him away.

Mean. That’s the only word I can think of. My friends tell me that there’s something different about me. Truth is, they needn’t even bother. I’ve seen the change for myself. Somehow, along the way, I managed to lose the one thing I swore I would hold on to: myself*. I’ve lost the will to work, the patience it takes to do my job, the perseverance to love or to even be anything. If I could have my way, I would lock myself in my room all day until I’m nicer.

But I can’t do that. I need to work to live. And so I have to make do with what I have.

“Parang ang bait mo kasi noon. Nakakapanibago lang,” a friend from work explained. She felt she needed to step in after rumors of me turning into Hitler started to surface. My first impulse was to retaliate, to be strong in my anger. But then I realized she was right. You can’t argue with someone who’s right.

“Ano ba kasi problema?” she asked. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Wala naman,” I lied. For days, I had been trying not to think of a lot of things. If I allowed my mind to wander, even for just a tiny little bit, I knew I’d go ballistic. Being mean was my way of coping with the tiny voices in my head that tell me I’m not good enough. Being mean was my way of ignoring the insecurities that were piling up and demanding attention. I looked in the mirror, wondering how that nice little boy two years ago could turn into this miserable old man. How do I get him back?

An external change to inspire an internal one. You see it all the time in movies. I looked at old pictures of myself, when I was proud of who I was and what I was doing. I figured, if I look more like the guy I was two years ago, the niceness would automatically follow.

I had been growing my hair for close to six months. With the exception of the Bieber comparisons, I loved everything about it. One morning, when sleep seemed to avoid me, I marched right on to the nearest salon. Without thinking twice, I told the stylist I wanted most of it out. The shampoo guy who took his time washing my hair, telling me how soft it was and everything looked absolutely stunned. “Sayang,” he muttered under his breath. I didn’t explain it to him. He wouldn’t have understood.

The following day, I got mixed reactions for my new hairdo. Some liked it, some didn’t and a great number of people didn’t even recognize me. None of them mattered to me. There was only one person I needed to hear from, one person I needed to convince. With a smile that could rival most of the great movie villains of our time, I singled out my friend near the copier.

“Well, mukha na ba akong mabait?” I asked her. She stared at me for a good ten seconds. In my heart of hearts, I prayed that it worked.

Photo Credit: papercut

	Pink Mean Funhouse

interlude: on winning and losing

2010-07-03T12:42:00.001+08:00

You win enough battles, you think you can do anything.

Lose enough and you start to wonder if you should even try.

Photo Credit: scottdo

	Janet Jackson Every Time The Velvet Rope

side x side

2010-06-28T05:28:00.018+08:00

I’m a good listener. I’m a pretty good kisser too. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Not that I’ve kissed a lot of people. I’m pretty generous. I’m always quick to pick up the bill. I’ve been told that I’m smart. I’m a lot of fun so you know you won’t get bored with me. I’m really good with kids and parents love me. If I really wanted to, I know I could be a good boyfriend.

My love is bright and warm like the sun. If you let it, I promise I would never do anything to hurt you. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll let you sleep in my arms for as long as you’ll have me. I’m a pretty good lay too. Just so you know.

Photo Credit: Like Night and Day

Beyoncé
Why Don’t You Love Me?
I Am… Sasha Fierce

When people bore me, I look into their eyes and pretend I’m listening. I nod, make generic comments here and there and I have them convinced. I’m a little too impulsive for my own good. That’s something a lot of people have told me. I cry too easily. I get mad quickly. I lose interest in things before my mind is able to fully adjust to them.

My heart is cold and dark. I’m not perfect. I am deeply flawed. I hope you don’t hate me for these little things. They are the product of years of loving and leaving, of losing and winning. Forgive me for this is all I’ve ever known.

Beyoncé
Flaws and All
B'Day

un-inspiration

2010-06-22T10:48:00.001+08:00

Because it can happen to anyone.
Because it happened to me.
Because you can only write so many weepy blog entries
before you start running out.
Because the glass cannot be one-fourth full.
Because this song is cute.
Because I can.

	Laura Shigihara Zombies On Your Lawn PvZ Sountrack

in dreams

2010-06-14T00:58:00.003+08:00

I’ve never really given much thought about the future and stuff. They say your early twenties are for making mistakes. While I’m not exactly careless, I try to live in the moment as much as possible. I’m good at things I can control, my conscious mind being one of them but in dreams, I find that certain things have a way of taking over. My desires manifest themselves in figures of people and places my eyes have not seen but my heart knows really well.

In one dream, I am wide awake, naked in the middle of a white room. The windows are open and the curtains are swaying. I am alone, of course. I rise, put on my underwear and sit on the veranda to smoke. I see the city alive and hurried and find peace in the middle of chaos.

This is usually the part where I wake up. I guess my mind knows how much my heart can take. It’s not exactly the greatest feeling in the world to wake up with a heart broken by things you can’t have. But if I were to allow it, I’m sure my life in dreams would be very interesting.

I’d have an interesting job where I am accountable for little but I get to meet all sorts of people. Perhaps in one dream, I am a barista in a small Parisian café. In another, I am a travel agent in Barbados with a PhD in Anthropology. In one dream, I could be a cab driver in New Delhi with a gambling problem.

I would walk the busy city streets and strangely feel at home in a sea of strangers. I would smile at attractive strangers and strangely, they always smile back. Sometimes they follow me home and… well you know the rest. In my free time, I write or I sketch and though no one gets to see my stuff, knowing that I was able to solidify a concept once only my mind held is enough to keep me going. My study is lined with notebooks full of stories and poems. My walls are full of paintings that mean nothing to the average person but mean everything to me.

And applause means nothing to me. Because for someone to remain honest, the sheer act of expression must be enough.

I share my bed with no one but it is hardly ever empty. In all of these dreams, I am never with a lover. I am able to do the one thing I can’t in my waking life- find happiness in solitude.

---

But then there are bad dreams, unrelenting ones that leave me shaking and sweaty. My fear of being alone becomes so big, it takes over my whole body like a phantom mountain out of a molehill. There is one in particular that recurs whenever I am stressed out at work or when I go to bed in a bad mood.

It always rains in bad dreams. I am in the backyard inspecting tomatoes or something equally mundane when the first drops fall. I would go back into the house and stare at the rain from one of the kitchen barstools. The dream would be like a song on loop for too long. I’d be staring at the rain for hours until I wake up thinking will my life pass me by? Has it already?

The dream itself is not sad. It’s the reason behind the dream that shakes me. I am almost certain I am married in these dreams but the vows were made more out of convenience than love or even passion. We barely touch. Where there once was sparks, we have charcoal and dust. We sleep in the same bed but seemingly in different continents. Perhaps we have children but they do not like me. They treat me like a stranger. My diploma hangs on the study wall gathering dust, my mind equally unutilized. I have dozens of novels half-written. My dreams of getting published give way to school meetings and doctor’s appointments. But the part that leaves me cold is that I am a stranger in my own house. In these dreams, I am eternally embracing suburban cliché with a morbid flair for conformity and compromise.

---

All the time, everyone around me is hooking up or getting into relationships. The follower in me tells me I must do the same. On lonely nights, I give in to the desires of my body. But I know this is not love. This is not even life. The dreamer in me knows that my happiness will always be synonymous to my solitude. The sooner I acknowledge it, the better off I’ll be.

It is nighttime. I undress, stand naked in front of the mirror, and begin a love letter to myself. My hands journey through all the familiar places, the spots that hide from the light of day and exist only in darkened moments such as this. Right now, this is you. You are neither floating nor flying. You are alone but not lonely. You cannot change the past. It is too late for the present. Perhaps it is time to work on the future.

	Lykke Li Time Flies Youth Novels

bibingka

2010-06-07T06:16:00.008+08:00

I ran into an old boyfriend at a vintage record bar two days after my twenty-ninth birthday. Neither of us spoke at first and when we both realized it was too awkward to just stand there, he asked if I wanted to get coffee. I think he was just being nice. Maybe he asked thinking I would decline but it was a Sunday and I had nothing better to do so I paid for my records and said yes.

Years ago, we were madly in love. No wait, that’s not exactly true. I was madly in love and he had just gotten over a long relationship and was looking for a “distraction.” Ashamed as I am to admit it, that was me. I took what I could back then. Those were such different times. My hair was longer and most of my clothes had at least one food stain. I had just moved into the city and I didn’t know that there were monsters hiding in the dark spots behind alleys and doorways.

Needless to say, it didn’t work out. Two women took him away one day- his mother who disliked me from the get go and his ex who changed her mind as quickly as she changed her hair color. For the longest time, I sat at home in tears, counting hours and footsteps, wondering how many of them it would take to bring him home. Prior to that inconspicuous day at the record bar, I had neither seen nor heard from him. That’s probably why I was stunned in silence when I saw him at the Jazz section listening to an old Coltrane record.

In lieu of coffee, I told him I wanted to get bibingka. “There’s this great place a few blocks from here.” He nodded, stubbed out his cigarette and hailed a cab.

We were mostly quiet on the ride there. The pleasantries had run out and in its place, there were several elephants in the cab with us. One was for why he chose her over me. Another was for why he didn’t write me back. There was one for if he really loved me. I had thought of that exact moment more than a few times in the past but the lines I rehearsed for hours in front of an imagined audience reeked of vengeance and bitterness and I just didn’t feel that way anymore.

“What do you want?” I asked as he thumbed through the menu.

“I don’t know. Just get me what you’re getting.”

I got us two of the café’s special bibingkas. They’re laced with salted duck eggs and threats of heart disease but they’re also good as hell. The entire place emanated with good energy and the overwhelming scent of butter. Over the PA system, an unknown DJ was playing Top 40 songs from two years ago.

“So, how’s Rebecca? You guys still together?” I asked. I figured we were there anyway so we might as well talk.

“She’s good. She’s at home, I think,” he said as he checked his watch. “Yeah, she must be home by now.” I hadn’t noticed but there were lines around his eyes now. He also had a few stray gray hairs here and there. He didn’t smile as much as he used to back then. If I were to be honest, I’d like to think that that woman sucked out all the happiness in him but seriously, it could be how the whole situation was just so darn awkward.

But I was fine. For some strange reason, I didn’t think it was awkward at all. I made circles in my glass of water with a purple straw. “We should get her something.” I said as I called for the waiter. “You can say it’s a bribe for coming home late.” I ordered a third bibingka and asked them to put it in a pretty box.

“Yeah, she’d like that. She’s been craving a lot lately.”

“Is she…” I stuttered. There was a lump in my throat that might need more than nine months to get rid of.

“Yeah. It’s a little crazy at home right now. I’ve been taking these long walks just so I can have some me-time. I think it’s her hormones or something. That’s how you found me a while ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was interrupting anything.”

“No, no. It’s good. I needed a, uh, a distraction.” We both froze at that word. He closed his eyes, probably regretting why he had to bring the D-word up again. And to think we came so close, so good at toeing the line without hurting anybody.

The food arrived and we ate our cakes in silence. Every now and then, he’d drop his fork and open his mouth like he was gonna say something but then he’d pick it right back up and continue eating. When he was finished, I still had more than half of mine. I couldn’t eat another bite.

“You want more?” I asked. “I had a heavy lunch and I’m just stuffed.”

“You should have gotten us smaller ones. I’m pretty stuffed myself,” he said, patting his belly like they do in cartoons. “Or we could’ve split one.”

“It seems like such a waste of good food if I just leave it here.”

“I could bring it home to Rebecca.”

“That doesn’t seem right. She shouldn’t have to eat my leftovers.” We both stared at my plate, wondering at what moment it evolved from a simple bibingka to a volatile metaphor. I looked into his eyes. He looked a little hurt by what I said. I wanted to apologize or maybe explain but he had called for the bill and I knew there was gonna be no more of it after that.

Outside, it started to drizzle. “I’m just gonna get a cab, if you don’t mind. It’s gonna start pouring soon. Can I drop you off anywhere?” he asked. I struggled through my purse for my fold-up umbrella as he lifted his collar and turtled into his jacket.

“No, I’m good. You know my house is just a few blocks away. I’ll be fine.”

“Seriously, it’s no bother. I mean, it’s technically along the way.”

“It’s not. You know that.” I said, with a chuckle so it wouldn’t seem so spiteful. “I’ll just wait till you get a ride.”

It’s a universally accepted fact that nothing is ever there when you need it. There wasn’t a cab in sight and the thunderclouds seemed right about ready to release their load on the unsuspecting citizens of the city. We stood there, shivering from the cold, me under my frail umbrella, him with an outstretched arm aimed at the highway.

“Listen,” he began, when the silence became too heavy to bear. “I’m sorry about before. If it’s worth anything, I really did love you.”

“I know. It’s all good now. We’re cool.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

A beat up taxi spit out a passenger across the street. “There’s one. Go catch it before somebody else does.” I said. He zipped up his jacket and made a run for it. His feet made such large splashes on the concrete. They muddied his khakhis from the knees down. I wondered if she would wash them for him.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized our take-out-slash-metaphor was still with me. After all these years, he still managed to leave me with the burden of our relationship. I popped it inside the refrigerator with the milk and my feelings as I wondered if I had just undone what years of therapy tried to rebuild.

Photo Credit: Bibingka

	Gwen Stefani Cool Love. Angel. Music. Baby.

breakaway

2010-05-31T02:33:00.003+08:00

Something in the morning just didn’t feel right. I should’ve known when I realized I wasn’t in my bed but then again, it’s not like that hasn’t happened before. I guess my body felt different, my arms felt alien to me, my legs a complete stranger. Drunk with sleep, I looked around the room.

This seems familiar, I said out loud to no one in particular. I wasn’t sure of a lot of things but if I had to put all my money on one thought, I’d say this was gonna be a pretty strange day.

Over breakfast, my mother was busting my balls again about how important getting an education is and how embarrassed she gets when she thinks about her smart son wasting away as a glorified answering machine. It wasn’t anything new. She does this every day. Today was simply Track 3 on Disc 2: the remix about how when she was a child, she fought so hard to get a college education. On any other day, I’d just let all this roll away but like I said, there was something different in the air, in the way the sound waves traveled from her mouth to the air to my ears.

I snapped. It’s my life. Fuck off if you think I’m living it wrong, I finally said, breaking two decades worth of silence. Suddenly, everything was in slow motion. The eggs, the soy sauce and the poor, innocent sinangag were sent flying in my direction at a speed where seconds seemed to take ages. If I were to be honest, I was a little amused at such a show of emotion. My mother is known for a lot of things but brutal honesty was not one of them. Once everything settled- the eggs, the rice and her breath, she politely and forcefully told me to “pack my shit and go.”

She didn’t need to tell me twice. For months, I had been in complete agony just thinking about leaving, about living the way I want to and stop worrying about things that would hold me down. I mean, it may not be obvious but I’ve got a lot of ambitions. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just wasting my life. Like these are somehow my so-called prime years and all I’ve done is bitch and whine about how I couldn’t get my way. Why couldn’t I get my own way anyway? What was I so afraid of?

Grow a pair, someone once said. He had just asked me to move in with him after which I gave him a lengthy explanation of how I couldn’t leave my mother and all that. Truth is, I was just scared. Scared that leaving would be hard, scared that he didn’t really love me and that he’d leave me once he realizes it too. For whatever it’s worth, I really did love him.

Did? Sometimes, I feel like I never really stopped. Was it too late? I wondered as I packed the last of my underwear. I made a mental note to call him up the second I leave.

Apparently, it wasn’t too late. Thirty minutes later, I was in a part of Makati I didn’t know existed until moments before. To call his apartment-slash-room small would be an understatement. Still, it was better than being homeless. Hours and hours and calories (burned, mostly*) later, he rolled over to his side of the bed, lit a cigarette and broke my heart.

I’m glad you’re here, he said. I guess I always knew that our story hasn’t ended. At least not yet. I didn’t really know what to say. There was something so endearing about how he said it. Perhaps it was how he tried to mask it with braveness or how he thought I couldn’t tell he was crying. I suppose it was in the way the sweat on his shoulder quivered when he spoke or how his toes were curled in such tension. He wasn’t alright. Sana dito ka nalang forever, he said as he stubbed out his cigarette.

Oo nga, I replied and for both our sakes, I wished I could mean it.

Liner Notes: When you spend too much time with your friends, you start to wonder what it would be like to take control of their lives. Fresh off the screening of Here Comes The Bride*, YJ (who took the picture above), Victor and I decided to swap lives.

	Kelly Clarkson Breakaway (Acoustic) Breakaway

fix me

2010-05-24T14:08:00.001+08:00

Growing up, my mother told me that men are more logical than women. They cannot be bothered with trivial things like emotions or tears. If it’s broken, a man would know what to do. Sometimes I wish I had a motor. That way, if anything didn’t feel right, I would know what to do.

If a car won’t start, you check the battery, the starter, the engine, the tubes and whatnot. Once you locate the problem, you isolate it. Once that’s done, you determine if you can fix it on your own or if you need a mechanic. Then you start the car again and see if it’s better. If it’s not, go back to step one. Point is, there’s always a solution even if in the end, you would have to scrap the whole thing.

But I don’t have a motor and so while I feel like there’s something wrong with me, I don’t quite know how to fix it. My days are filled with dark clouds. In your arms, you have but one question. Are you okay? Mostly, I am but how do I even begin to explain that sometimes, I am just unhappy? Sometimes, I just want to be left alone. I am, I would lie unconvincingly and that was that. You knew not to press my buttons too much lest I get too annoyed and stop talking altogether.

And it’s not like I can just scrap the whole thing. My heart pumps blood to all my other organs. So while I seem to be walking around without a heart, it’s still there. It’s slower and there’s a funny ticking sound inside. Tic toc tic-tic toc, it says instead of tic toc tic toc. It tells the whole world that I’m broken.

Sometimes I wish I really had a motor. I would fix it, make the parts shine then I’d call you up so I can give you the kind of love you truly deserve. I’m sorry my heart is not an engine and with all the will this little ticking thing can muster, I wish you’d stay right where you are.

Photo Credit: Man Fixing Car

	Coldplay Fix You X&Y

mississippi

2010-05-09T04:35:00.002+08:00

I was just about to fall asleep when my phone started ringing. It was an unknown number. I was going to ignore it but then my curiosity became too heavy to hold. On the last ring, I finally picked up.

The line was quiet at first but then I could hear someone breathing in the background. I was about to end the call when I heard a voice I thought I had learned to forget.

“Did I wake you?” he asked. His voice still made me weak even after all these years.

“No. I was still up anyway.” I lied. “What’s up?” I wanted to sound calm and casual but deep inside, I was shaking.

“Can you meet me? I need someone to talk to.” I couldn’t answer right away. This was the man whose absence hurt me so deeply, I didn’t think I would make it. Without him, I learned to walk, breathe and live again. My life’s been quiet for a while now. Why did he have to come back?

“I understand. Alam ko naman na nasaktan kita noon eh. I just really need to see you. I can pick you up if you want me to.”

Honestly, I was afraid he would rob me of my peace again. It was something I moved mountains to get back. After what felt like a lifetime but in reality was just ten seconds, I lied about an early meeting in the morning. I knew he knew I was lying. He was always good at spotting that. I suppose he understood why I wasn’t jumping out of bed at his invitation as he didn’t push the topic any further.

When the call ended, I felt the room blur away. Damn how he still had so much power over me, after I thought I was finally strong again. After I thought I was over everything that happened between us.

He was my one great love. When no one else understood me, he was busy writing my instruction manual. I felt like nothing could shake us. I was wrong. I didn’t believe it was possible to wake up one day and not be in love anymore but it happened to us, or rather to him and I was forced to live the rest of my life without the one man I had leaned on for so long.

The next night, he called from another unknown number. This time, he said he was in the area and offered to drop by for a quick talk. He seemed adamant to see me in the way he spoke. I was just about to give in when my logical side prevailed.

“I don’t want to see you.” I said as I put the phone down.

On the third night, he contacted me from yet another unknown number. This time, it was a text message. Car broke down. Few blocks from ur place. Jumpstart? I ignored it and five minutes later, he called.

“Please,” he begged. “I just really need to see you. Just give me five minutes. Five minutes of your time. I promise I won’t try anything funny.” Truth is, I had been weakened by his persistence. The offer was very tempting. If it was just a booty call, I really had nothing to lose. This man knows my entire body. He knows where to touch me. Whenever we did it, I felt like a dummy and he, my very willing puppet master. I was just about to say yes when he broke the silence.

“I’m sorry I even asked,” he said, with goodbye in his tone. “‘Tang ina naman, minsan ang kitid talaga ng utak mo. I won’t bother you again.” The line clicked, the call ended and my tears fell like curtains closing on the final act.

On the fourth night, on what would’ve been our sixth anniversary had he not left, he called again. He sounded drunk, high or possibly both.

“I’m sorry about everything. I know you never want to see me again but I just need to tell you something. Something important.” He was sobbing and soon, it became pretty hard to understand him. “I’m in my car now. Please, just meet me outside your house. Please.”

He was driving. I could hear buses and other city sounds whenever he paused. I feared for his life. He shouldn’t have been driving in such a drunken state.

“Sure.” I said meekly, my voice too weak for its own good.

Ten minutes later, he was knocking on my door. When I opened it, he pushed me against the wall and kissed me ferociously. His lips tasted like brandy and saline. Damn it, he still knew how to touch me. He traveled from my lips to my neck until he reached my chest. He clumsily unbuttoned my shirt, all the while kissing me all over. I could feel him getting hard as he pushed me harder against the wall. Like a whirlwind of things unsaid, of feelings pushed under the rug, we made our way to the bedroom. In our wake, we left vases and plates smashed to pieces on the ground.

We fucked with a passion I didn’t know we could have. I was sore in seven different places but it was all worth it. As we retired to sleep, I crept up to his side of the bed.

“I have loved you for years, here in the dark where no one can call it wrong. Thank you for finding me again.” I whispered in his ear.

He turned around and looked me in the eye. His expression was vacant but I could tell his thoughts had become pregnant.

“I wish I could still tell you I feel the same way but I can’t.” Each word he said crushed me into pieces too small to see with the human eye. Tears started welling up and before the first one could fall, I turned around and wept in silence.

In the morning, the space beside me was empty. I checked my phone. It had fourteen new messages. Must’ve been a hell of a night. I scrolled down until I saw his name.

Thank you for everything. Four very simple words. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always had a way with economizing emotions, distilling them so that I only got the simplest form. In my head, I was drafting a reply. Should I be equally nonchalant or should I be honest? Would either one bring him back?

Just then, the front door opened and I realized I let my mind run wild again. “Good morning,” he said, reeking of cigarettes and with sleep in his eyes. I felt stupid for all the things I thought about just moments ago. I walked over to him and kissed him softly.

“Do you want coffee?” I asked.

“Yes, please.” he said as he went back to the bedroom. I hurried to the kitchen and pulled the good china out of the cupboard. My hands shook as I boiled some water and readied the sugar and milk. I couldn’t wait to see him again, couldn’t bear another second without him right there. I clumsily stirred instant coffee into the cup and set everything on a tray. My feet paced quickly back to the bedroom, drops of coffee and water marking my sudden path.

The room was as cold as ice despite the warm sunshine illuminating every inch of space. The bed was made and he was gone. Somehow, I knew I would never see him again. The phone rang but I let the machine get it. My mind was busy preserving details of our last night together.

“It’s X,” the woman on the phone began. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

One by one, the objects in the room faded away. Dizzy, I sat quietly on the bed. I could still smell his perfume on my sheets. Maybe if I blocked out the sound of the machine, the woman’s words would be untrue. Surely, he was here. He was in my bed last night and in the living room this morning. In my mind, I could still hear what he said to me before we went to sleep.

“I wish I could still tell you I feel the same way but I can’t.”

It was only then that I fully understood what he meant to say. I stared blankly at the two cups sitting quietly on the tray. One had coffee that seemed too dark, the center still swirling to an unknown beat. The other just had water, like an unfinished story with nobody left to write it. From inside the kitchen, the radio began to play.

Though I’m baptized by your touch, I am no worse at most. I’m in love with your ghost.

Co-conspirator: victor
Photo Credit: rockstarxqtr2

	Indigo Girls Ghost (Demo Version) Rarities

detachment

2010-05-02T20:20:00.003+08:00

Dear A,

It’s funny how I should find myself writing you this letter. I guess you affected me more than I’m willing to accept. I don’t really know what I want to say. All I know is there are so many things in my heart that I need to say and if I don’t do it now, the weight of it all could crush me to bits.

Perhaps I should start from the beginning. Do you remember your first day in class? You were wearing that green shirt- the one that looks like moss and I remember how refreshing it was to see such a strange color. I introduced myself to you and your classmates, all the while noticing how you had your eyes glued on me.

This was about a month and a half after my last relationship ended so I guess I was a little lonely. I think that’s how you got to affect me in such a short period of time. You were never shy about your feelings for me. I think you told me on our third meeting. I reminded you about the rules of professionalism and how I had no plans of breaking them but I suppose you heard nothing. You interpreted it as “I like you too. I just can’t do anything because you’re in my class.” That wasn’t what I meant. Not that I didn’t want to date you. I just didn’t think it was such a good idea at that time.

And so the weeks flew by. We had a lot of fun in class. Your classmates teased us all the time. I used it to my advantage. I knew that it somehow made me more relatable, more in tune with your people. If I were to be honest, I liked the attention. I liked how your face lit up when I went in the room. I liked how pregnant your greetings were whenever we passed each other in the hallway. But if I were to be honest still, I knew I didn’t desire you. At least not in the way you needed me to. It was just something I enjoyed, something to look forward to when the day began.

Do you remember your last day? You were so happy you finally passed. You surprised me when you kissed me. I had half the mind to reprimand you for being so unprofessional. And since the point of this letter is I want to be very honest, I think it’s time you knew I kinda liked it. I liked the feeling of breaking the rules. It was so new to me. I’ve always been very obedient. I guess the fact that you initiated everything made me technically blameless so I thank you for that. I guess until that moment, I never saw a future with you. But with that few seconds, your tender lips on mine, I felt like I could, you know… I could maybe love you too.

I held back because I was afraid that your feelings for me were only temporary. That you would forget me as soon as you left my class. You once assured me it wasn’t true but I guess I know how these things work more than you do. I never saw you again. You never even came back for your certificate. For days, I questioned that brief moment when our lips locked. Should I have kissed you back? Was there something wrong in the way our lips moved? Did my breath smell like cigarettes?

But then I remembered. It was the phenomenon- the illusion that I project and sell in class. You only liked me because I had power over you. You were mesmerized at how I spoke because you knew you had to be a little more like me if you were to have any chance at getting employed. You fell in love with the image I sold, not the person I really am inside. When you didn’t need me anymore, it’s like I lost the thing that made me all shiny and sparkly. You forgot all about me.

Too many and too late were the realizations that came after you were gone. I didn’t know I liked you too. I felt bad I didn’t feel it sooner. I regretted all the time we wasted without each other. I would’ve wanted to tell you all this but I couldn’t find my voice. You took the one thing I could not live without- my ability to express myself.

I don’t blame you. It’s happened to me way too many times. I guess the purpose of this letter is to formally end whatever it was we had. I’ll miss your smile and how you always asked such interesting questions in class. I’ll miss your bubbly personality and how you always made everyone laugh when you told jokes. Oh, there’s also this other thing. I should probably tell you about someone new in my life. They say history repeats itself until we learn from it. That’s probably why C is in my life right now.

C is just like you in so many different ways although I doubt if anyone could be as forward as you. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. There is some beauty in the covert and how C leaves me with questions instead of loud statements. Be that as it may, I don’t think I can give C the same attention I gave you. I don’t want to be a victim of my illusion yet again.

I know now that the lesson I should’ve learned from you is that of detachment. I should’ve never allowed you to fill the void of my loneliness. I think Janet Fitch said it best*. “Don't attach yourself to anyone who shows you the least bit of attention because you're lonely. Loneliness is the human condition. No one is ever going to fill that space.” I realize now that I was unfair, that I asked too much of you without you even knowing. I don’t think I’ll worry too much about C. I’ll just watch as life unfolds its plans for us. I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show. No expectations, no promises, no feelings, no problems.

So that’s all I want to say. I heard they kicked you out two days ago because you talked back to one of your supervisors. Though it seems we wasted our time on you, I refuse to think so. I hope wherever you go, you’ll remember the things we taught you. Take care always, A. Remember that life is too short to have regrets.

Yours,
N.

	Lenka The Show Lenka

interlude: on houses and homes

2010-04-30T03:52:00.002+08:00

Now and then I call your name and suddenly your face appears.
But it's just a crazy game and when it ends, it ends in tears.

I think Podi said it best. After listening to Kurt Hummel sing A House Is Not A Home, I felt like someone just stabbed me right in the chest and pushed down real hard*.

And just like that, I remembered someone I had to say goodbye to.

	Chris Colfer and Cory Monteith A House Is Not A Home Home

crazy cat person

2010-04-26T03:43:00.054+08:00

My cat Sophie and I have been together for almost a year now*. Mostly, our relationship’s been good. I started feeding her regular cat food after her seventh rat slaying. Since then, she’s put on a little weight and her fur has become exceptionally soft to the touch. She also gave birth to three wonderful bundles of joy* which not only means three more mouths to feed but also three more fluffies to love.

I kinda miss her. You see, Sophie and I had a little argument and it’s been a while since I last played with her. It started innocently enough. It was the weekend and I was in the driveway playing with her and the kittens. After rubbing her chin, I picked up her babies one by one to play with them. It wasn’t obvious at first but moments later, I could tell she was getting a little jealous. She looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, you used to hold me like that. You don’t hold me like that anymore.

But then I couldn’t help it. The kittens were just too cute. I could tell Sophie was starting to get really annoyed. She sat on my lap and started licking herself clean, rendering me unable to reach for the other kittens. I told myself I needed to pay equal attention to all four cats if I wanted them to live in a house full of love and care.

A few weeks ago, I took all that back. Sophie started getting a little frisky and I had a strange feeling our relationship was starting to become a little… well, inappropriate. I had just finished feeding them so they were sort of just lounging in the summer sun when Sophie started rubbing herself on my thigh. She was rubbing her scent on me as though she was marking her territory. I started scratching her forehead and the spot behind her ears that I know she likes. Then things got a little weird. Her tail flirtatiously grazed my leg and then she started rubbing her hoohoo on my leg. At first, I thought it was a mistake but when she did it again, I stood up and brushed her off. Uh-uh, kitty. That just ain’t happening. *snap snap snap*

She looked at me with a rejected expression. She meowed a few times, perhaps beckoning me to come back and play with her but I went inside the house and shut the door. In my head, all I could think of was how weird this whole thing was. I should either find a way to tell her that I couldn’t give her what she wanted or I should start making more non-feline friends.

The next day, I went outside to feed her but she wasn’t there. I looked for her in all the usual places but she was nowhere to be found. I decided to go around the block a few times to see if she was hiding or stuck somewhere. Sophie!!! I called. In my head, I could see polaroids of road kill like in this weird art exhibit I saw back in college. Please let her be okay, I prayed. Sophie, please be alive.

Back at home, her three kittens were busy eating. Times like that, I wish I was a cat whisperer or something. I wanted to ask them where their mother was but they just looked at me with their innocent kitty eyes and went back to their bowl of cat kibble. I thought of all the times we shared together, all the times that I played with her when I was feeling sad. I felt so stupid for ignoring her all this time. I should’ve paid her more attention. All she wanted was my love and I practically ignored her.

Suddenly, the neighbor’s door opened and out came Sophie. She walked over to where her kittens and I were in what seemed like slow motion, strutting like she had all the time in the world.

So that’s where you’ve been, I said when she came closer. I could feel my blood rushing to my cheeks. I was embarrassed that I went up and down the block meowing, looking for her but mostly I was angry that she was in someone else’s home- the same person who adopted and neglected her over a year ago. So now that I’ve fed you, now that I’ve given you a home, after I took care of your three kittens, now you’re telling me you’re coming back to… her? I was seething with anger. You started it, she replied. I went in the house, slamming the door shut to make sure she knew I was cross with her.

I was telling all this to a friend over coffee and he just looked at me with a strange expression. You need to get out more, he not-so-politely suggested. Your cats have become such a large part of your life. I must admit, I got a little embarrassed. After all, it was true. I had become that annoying cat person which, in the scale of record-breaking crazies, is only a few rungs lower than the bag lady, the flasher and the anonymous stalker. My friend had a very valid point. I haven’t been seriously seeing anyone since my last relationship ended and that was months ago. With my blog hiatus, I had no one to tell my stories to. My only constant relationships as of late have been with coffee, my job and my cats. If that’s all I’m living for, there must be something wrong with me.

That night, for the first time in weeks, I went outside to feed the cats. Ever since that time I saw Sophie come out of the neighbor’s house, I told the maid she had to feed them because I sure as hell wouldn’t. I started ignoring their meows whenever they see me, making such a big show of how I didn’t need them in my life. Seriously, how screwed up is that? I realized I shouldn’t have taken this whole thing so seriously. These were, after all, just animals with no concept of jealousy or ownership. One by one, the cats came to me. It was the little ones who approached me first and when all three were with me, Sophie came out from the darkness. I was expecting her to still be angry with me but in her eyes, I could’ve sworn she looked sorry. It’s okay, I told her as I rubbed her chin. I missed you too.

	Rihanna Unfaithful A Girl Like Me

epilogue

2010-04-14T03:30:00.007+08:00

Three weeks ago, an odd thing happened. There was a massive traffic jam about three blocks deep. The streets were lined with cars and people with nothing better to do. Word on the street was a man died. An accidental drowning or something. The whole street was covered in water coming from a clogged manhole. The usi in me decided to stick around as they pulled him out from inside the hole.

In the crowd, I saw my mom standing beside a neighbor. They were both in their house dresses looking sleepy and curious. I smiled at her but she must not have seen me for she kept talking to Malou as though two weeks ago, they did not fight over a dying orchid.

It took an awful lot of pulling but soon, a man wearing goggles and a flashlight on his head emerged from the hole. The rope was fastened to his waist but his hands were anything but free. He carried a young man in an odd angle and I remember thinking if he were still alive, he’d probably have a lot of broken bones. His shirt was a little tattered and his pants looked really dirty. I zeroed in on the boy’s face and I felt a million thunderbolts rushing through my body.

He held my lifeless body. My arms sagged to the earth, my clothing ripped into pieces. My mother called my name in a voice I had never heard her use before. It sounded like sorrow, regret and shame all rolled into one. People were shaking their heads. Some remarked on how I was too young to die. Some wondered how I got down there in the first place. A couple of people looked disappointed as though they expected somebody more important to come out of the hole. Most were pleased it was someone they didn’t know. Something like that should never hit close to home.

I drowned in the city I called home. My precious buoys did not or could not save me. I allowed the lights and sounds to take me over until I was left with no voice, no will, nothing to keep me sane. My mother’s cries grew louder. Soon, my father and sisters arrived. Some men were blocking the way and my father bellowed and cursed them into letting him through. At a distance, I could hear sirens. Everything was so noisy. I covered my ears to block the sound. I stood there looking at a couple of rescue workers attempting CPR. My sister was on her knees beside me, willing me back to life, praying for a miracle.

Three weeks ago, I died. But I learned that I am far bigger than the city or anything it can throw my way. It cannot swallow me whole. May pulso, called out the man. A slow one. A weak one, but a pulse nonetheless.

Photo Credit: Drowning Man

	Aimee Mann Save Me Bachelor No. 2 or, the Last Remains of the Dodo

AFK. Just to make things clear, I’m still on hiatus. There are a few things I still need to finish before I can fully commit to this page again. I realize that my last post, if anything, was a bit vague on the issue and so I wanted to write a quasi-epilogue to explain. In the meantime, I hope you guys like the spanking new layout. I had a blast making it.

the taylor swift formula for love

2010-03-25T03:44:00.032+08:00

It seems despite our best efforts, no one has found a solid formula for love. It’s like love is a destination that everyone tries to go to. Those who are there are either too busy being in love or too unsure if they’re in the right place to give directions to the rest of us. Another thing is we all fall differently, for different reasons and with different types of people. With so many variables, doesn’t it seem logical that we determine them all, figure ‘em out and get on with the loving? I was thinking about this as my iPod shuffled in an unfamiliar Taylor Swift song. Why can’t we create a decent love formula?

And then it hit me. Deiiimn, did it hit me. Taylor Swift should’ve been a teacher. Her subject? Why love, of course! Presenting, the soon-to-be-patented Taylor Swift Formula for Love.

Step 1: Find A Guy. Arguably the most awkward stage, it is also the most exciting. In You Belong With Me, Taylor seemingly sings about a guy she likes. Truth is, she’s exposing the things we need to form a healthy relationship. (1) You have to be attracted enough to want him. You’ve got a smile that could light up this whole town. (2) You have to be interested enough to care about the things he likes. Can’t you see that I’m the one who understands you? (3) A little competition wouldn’t hurt. She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts. She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers. (4) But you have to blow her away. She’ll never get your humor like I do. (5) You have to imagine a future with him. Have you ever thought just maybe you belong with me? (6) And a little stalking wouldn’t hurt. A girl’s gotta do her research right? Standing by and waiting at your back door. All this time, how could you not know? Err, that was a little creepy. On second thought, perhaps we should leave the stalking to Google*.

Step 2: Fall In Love. Easier said than done, I know but that’s what you have to do. In Love Story, Taylor borrows a few Shakespearean plot lines and goes crazy. Love is never easy and this song tells us all about the things you can expect for this tedious stage. (1) Once you have him wrapped around your fingers, you’ll find that love is a two way street. Sometimes, you reach out to him but (here’s the fun part), he’ll come to you too. I see you make your way through the crowd and say hello. (2) It’s never without its conflicts but you can count on the fact that unlike the first step, you will not be alone. Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. I’ll be waiting. All there’s left to do is run. (3) Just when you feel ready to give up, you get a reminder that though love is hard, it’s worth it. This love is difficult, but it’s real. (4) But then it gets confusing and you have to be strong enough to make sure you don’t break up. I’ve been feeling so alone. I keep waiting for you but you never come. If you let that last one get to you too much, you could just find yourself in Step 3.

Step 3: Say Goodbye. I guess it’s all a part of growing up. We all have that one great love that we can’t seem to forget and Taylor pays tribute to that with White Horse. I suppose the entire premise of the second step often gets out of hand. We fall rapidly and with so much gusto that you start to feel like you’re really special. Honey, you’re not. You’re just one of six billion people in the world rallying for the same thing. Step 3 often begins with that realization. (1) Honey, you’re not special. I’m not a princess, this ain’t a fairy tale… This ain’t Hollywood. This is a small town. (2) It helps to focus on tangible things like pursuing your dreams… This is a big world. That was a small town there in the rear view mirror disappearing now. (3) …or you could always take the bitter route. I had so many dreams about you and me. Happy endings. Now I know. (4) But the sooner you move on, the better. You’ll see. Nothing says I’m soooo over this than the wind that comes from your big poofy gown as you walk away. Try and catch me now.

Repeat steps 1 to 3 until you find that heart you can call your home. It will hurt, we all know that but these are just things you have to accept. It’s part of life, part of growing up and don’t worry because it’ll all be worth it in the end. If you meet someone and find that somehow, there is no step three, well teh, kungrrrrrrrrrrrachuleyshuns because…

Ending: Happy? Taylor’s quintessential love song has got to be Valentine’s Day’s Today Was A Fairy Tale. With lines like Can you feel the magic in the air? and Nothing made sense until the time I saw your face, I swear that whole song must’ve been written on some demented form of a sugar rush. How do you know you’re really in love? Well, Ms. Swift gives us these helpful signs. (1) He likes you even when you look fugly. (Usually when you just woke up and you’ve got dried up saliva on your pillow and your breath stinks like anything.) You told me I was pretty when I looked like a mess. (2) He can do no wrong. Every move you make, everything you say is right. (3) The world gets blurry when you’re together. Time slows down whenever you’re around. (4) You can’t seem to put your finger on what it is that makes you love him and then he kisses you and it’s so clear. Can you feel the magic in the air? It must’ve been the way you kissed me.

Have I convinced you? Nope. Didn’t think so. I suppose we were never really Taylor’s target audience. If you’re looking for the perfect definition of love, you’d have to search a little further than that. More than a decade, to be specific. It’s a little song that in the early nineties, took a Canadian Kylie Minogue-ish singer* into an international superstar.

How curious that in a record known for jaded break-up songs, a gem like Head Over Feet can be found. In the song, Alanis Morissette talks about trying to fight that all too familiar feeling but giving up in the end. It consumes you and once you let it, your old life as you know it will be over. The video is also very telling. It shows her singing directly into the camera in an almost awkward extreme close-up. Unlike her other videos, this one had no plot, no fancy editing and no shiny gimmicks. This was just Alanis, the song and her infamous harmonica. I’d like to think they made it that way so that we would be left alone with the ingenious lyrics and so imma shut up now and let you read ‘em.

I had no choice but to hear you / You stated your case time and again / I thought about it // You treat me like I'm a princess / I'm not used to liking that / You ask how my day was // You've already won me over in spite of me / And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet / Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are / I couldn't help it / It's all your fault // Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole / You're so much braver than I gave you credit for / That's not lip service // You are the bearer of unconditional things / You held your breath and the door for me / Thanks for your patience // You're the best listener that I've ever met / You're my best friend / Best friend with benefits / What took me so long? // I've never felt this healthy before / I've never wanted something rational / I am aware now / I am aware now//

That’s love, or at least that’s how it’s supposed to be. How sad that many of us have been misled. If you’re single and you’re reading this, don’t worry. It’ll come. And when it does, you’ll see it was worth all the wait. I’ve said it before* and I’ll say it again, anything that is worth pursuing has a possibility to hurt you. Why else would anyone want it? Until that time I can sing Head Over Feet and actually mean it, I’ll be waiting patiently with my heart on my sleeve.

	Alanis Morissette Head Over Feet Jagged Little Pill

BYE FOR NOW!!! I’ve come to the conclusion that I need a little break from blogging to focus on other stuff. My life is a mess right now and I think I need all the epiphanies I can get for myself. I won’t be closing this blog. It’s become such a big part of me that to shut it down would be like cutting off an appendage. Anyway, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Maybe it’ll take a day, maybe a few weeks or maybe a year. I don’t really know. One thing’s for sure, I will be back and I’ll have a lot more buoys to share with you then.

In the meantime, there are so many awesome blogs out there. It’s no secret that the blogosphere is filled to the brim with talent and wit. I started my own hashtag (I can’t seem to make it work but I’m keeping my fingers crossed) on Twitter for blog posts I find interesting. I’ll be updating it daily so I hope you guys check it out here.

a letter from the future

2010-03-22T02:29:00.008+08:00

This morning, I found my first gray hair. If I were in my twenties, I’d probably be freaking out but as it is, I am well of age and thus aware of the changes a human body makes. Truth is, I’ve been expecting it a little. Most people my age already have it and I was actually surprised it didn’t arrive sooner. There’s a part of me that feels proud to have it. It’s not so noticeable that people will stop or anything but I know it’s there- like that small bottle of whiskey you would normally keep in your nightstand for little emergencies or a piece of cake at the very back of a diabetic’s refrigerator. It made me feel a little more human, I guess and for that simple fact, I decided not to pull it out.

I went back to our room and saw you sleeping. You have quite a few gray hairs yourself. I wonder how long it would take to count them all. Would they be equal to the number of years we’ve been together ergo the number of years I’ve been stressing you out? Would it be equal to all the times we fought and made up? Or would it equate to the number of things that made me love you? Nah, I’d have to bleach your whole head for that.

It’s funny how when I was younger, I never thought I would find you. I can’t recall how many times I told my friends I didn’t believe in love anymore because I was lonely. Or how many times I would meet someone and pray so hard that they would be the one. But they never were for they weren’t you. If I had known that all that would eventually lead me here, I wouldn’t have been such a sad kid.

They say the most jaded people are also the most romantic. It’s not that they woke up one day and stopped believing in love. No, it takes more than that. I’d like to think that they were once true believers. But love doesn’t come easy for anyone and all those years spent searching for it has a way of taking its toll on you. They didn’t stop believing in love. No one ever does. I think they just stopped believing it could happen to them. I should know. I felt that way for many years.

Thank you for changing my mind. In a world where it seems everyone is out to get me, you are the only exception. One day, I’ll have not a single black hair left. I can’t wait for that day to come. When it finally hits me that I’m old and rusty, I know you’ll be there with me, hand firmly placed in mine as I watch it go down the drain.

---

There are three types of people in the world. Some people want to turn back the hands of time. They want to go back to the time when they were happy or when things were simpler. Some people are so happy, they wish they could pause time. Who wouldn’t want to linger in the climax of your life? Myself, I wish I could sleep and wake up in the future. I spend my waking hours pushing the clock’s different hands. My remaining comfort, if anything is the thought that this part of my life is only temporary. One day, I’ll be happy too.

	Paramore The Only Exception Brand New Eyes

interlude: soundtrack

2010-03-19T04:01:00.014+08:00

scribbled on the back of a provincial bus ticket:

funny how when i think bout u, a million songs play in my head.,
and then u look at me and i just kno.
u prolly hear crickts when u thnk of me.

Photo Credit: Doll Face

	New Radicals Crying Like A Church On Monday Maybe You've Been Brainwashed Too

if death were good

2010-03-15T14:24:00.012+08:00

Have you ever thought about how you would die? I try not to as much as possible but these past few days, the thought seems to be following me around. It was beside me in the movie theater. It was swimming in my morning coffee. I tried to ignore it but it wouldn’t let me.

It started when a friend of mine called me up. He said he was watching the news and he wanted to get tested for HIV. It’s funny how these newscasters often lace the truth with their own opinions. The thought that this disease has become endemic to us night crawlers is hardly fair. Now everyone everywhere is scared. My own mother told me I should leave soon if I wanna make it out alive. I would’ve chosen awareness over fear when it comes to educating the public but if my friend is any indication, the latter is often faster and more effective.

I’m not scared of it. I don’t know why but I’m not. I can understand why some people would be though. After all, our society is not exactly that welcoming to people living with HIV. He wanted me to hold his hand metaphorically and physically as he got himself tested. Suddenly, I envisioned my friend and me in a scene ala The Hours. I was Meryl Streep visiting Ed Harris, trying to be hopeful but gently succumbing to the hopelessness of the situation.

“If you think about it, we’re all dying anyway. In one way or another, we’re all going to bite the dust. Do you really need a bunch of doctors telling you when?”

“But wouldn’t you want to know?” he asked. “I saw this thing on When Harry Met Sally. Billy Crystal said that when he buys a new book, he always reads the last page first. That way, if he should die, he would always know how the book ends.”

“That’s silly. That’s like saying everything prior to the end is unimportant. The ending is just one part of the story.”

“Wouldn’t you want to read your last page?” he asked.

“Are you saying you want to read your last page?” This conversation was starting to confuse me.

“If I have it then yes, that would be my last page. I wanna be sure my book is as thick as possible. I’d start living healthy. Stop drinking, smoking, maybe start eating more vegetables. I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you start now? I mean, today’s as good a day as any. Why do you need a deadly disease to tell you to start making better choices?” He was quiet after that. My neck started to hurt from holding the phone against my left shoulder too long. My fingers held the page in the book* I was reading. I should really buy a bookmark.

“I think you’re scared,” he said. I thought the line had gone dead. Good thing he finally said something. “Your mind is telling you to fight it and that’s not a bad thing. I mean, I’m scared too. That’s why we should do it together.”

I told him I’d think about it. That’s when the signs started coming. I started becoming more aware of my mortality with each movie I see*, each song I hear or even with certain blog posts I read*. It took me some time to realize it but yes, I guess I was a little scared of my future. Did I have a reason to?

I was cleaning my room when I saw the book I was reading the day my friend called. It was under my bed. I must’ve dropped it one night when I fell asleep. I dusted the cover a little and tried to find the last part I got to read.

I don’t know what got into me but I suddenly flipped to the last page.

She was here because he said he’d run away with her, and she believed him- believed, for a few brief, intensely sweet moments, that she was something special, one of the lucky ones, a character in a love story with a happy ending.

Would I have a happy ending? As they say, there’s only one way to find out. I picked up my phone and called my friend.

“Let’s do it.” I said when he finally answered.

“Do what?” He sounded like he just woke up.

“Let’s get tested.” Though I could not see him and we were miles apart, I knew he was smiling. Would we still be smiling after everything is through?

Photo Credit: positivism.ph

	Ra Ra Riot Dying Is Fine The Rhumb Line