Not Even Wensleydale?

Kaki King, Musical Goddess and Queen Almighty

2008-08-24T19:37:00.007+08:00

"Guess who I slept with?" - I wish I could say that about Kaki. She's lovely in these pictures.

My friend in Sydney saw Kaki King perform with the Foo Fighters. She sent me this video and this video. And then I saw this video:

I was totally blown away, totally, with her amazing guitar playing. Her hands and fingers are mesmerizing, making music with every slap and strum. Rolling Stone magazine named her as one (and the only woman) of the 20 "New Guitar Gods".

I've never dated a musician before, come to think of it. I wonder how it is.

Is she? Yes, she is!

In Love with Zooey Deschanel

2008-06-14T21:05:00.005+08:00

I am so in love with Zooey. I have the same (similar!) dress that she wore on Letterman. I've had a crush on her ever since I saw her on the movie, Almost Famous.

I also just found out that her sister is Emily - aka, Bones. I'm still trying to get a hold of her new CD. People first noticed her singing in the movie, Elf.

Here she is with her band She & Him, singing "Change is Hard."

Happy Birthday To Me

2007-11-25T13:14:00.000+08:00

Rain and wind lashed at my windows, calling me.

I feel so old and so alone. Living on these mountains, I feel like the rest of my life is downhill. Unless, I stop time and stay up here, in the mists and clouds.

I had never hoped to end up like this.

When I was a small girl, I spent many afternoons playing by myself in our backyard. I'd dig up dirt, mud and pebbles tomake small houses and streets and streams. I'd climb our trees, santol, mango, lanzones, and crawl under shrubbery. I'd run around the house, around and around. I'd turn on the hose and put my thumb in the nozzle to make a spray in the sunlight, creating a small rainbow. I was utterly happy by myself.

Only because I felt loved, because I had a home, because I had nothing to worry about. Because I had no sad memories.

I celebrated my birthday last week with some friends. We had a picnic on my friend's backyard, just outside the city. We had a nice view and agreeable weather. It was great of them to make the effort. I had hoped to let the day pass by unnoticed.

I got a text message saying that one of my grade school barkada died of a heart attack. So young! I thought. I then wondered why I felt so old, if I also felt it was too early to die at my age. (Am I making sense?)

Rain and wind was still calling, so I stepped out onto the deck, into the rough weather. I was immediately drenched. I stayed outside for an hour, looking straight into the storm, shivering, cold.

What do you want from me?

Holding Her Glass Near Her Lips

2007-11-02T20:39:00.000+08:00

She arrived with a bottle of Kahlua, as she had promised. We were going to have a Black Russian afternoon pajama party, just the two of us.

The day was nice and chilly, perfect for staying in. Skies were gray and rains came and went, whenever it felt like it. Even the weather was lazy. I had the radio on but at a low volume, just the right amount of background music.

"Pajamas?" I asked my young, new friend.

She smiled and raised her backpack. "Where can I change?"

I pointed to the guest bedroom.

She handed me the bottle. "Make the drinks."

I am still amazed at the efficiency of our conversation. We've been talking so much since we met, but I feel that we use so few words. At least, in general, in the sense that we don't chit-chat, don't waste words, don't fill the silence with chatter. We end up sharing so much more, stories, ideas, feelings, memories.

Great conversation is such a turn-on.

Later, we settled in the camel-back couch facing the bay window. She wore this big, big shirt and nothing much else. I told her that our conversations are so familiar, that it reminds me of my once-best-friend, the one I fell in love with long ago, when I was about her age.

"Are you falling for me?" she asked, holding her glass near her lips.

"That's what I mean," I said. "I love how we talk. I haven't had this in a long time. Too long."

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

"I know," I said and finished my drink. "Do you want another one?"

It was a lazy afternoon. She read my Calvin and Hobbes while massaging my feet, and I sketched her. I like drawing her cheeks, her delicate nose. It was a perfect afternoon.

News on the radio said that the weekend will bring more rain.

You're My Holiday

2007-10-25T03:50:00.000+08:00

What do I do next? This morning started out well. I woke up well and early, had a healthy breakfast of strawberries, and took a long, hot shower. I even came.

I also spent some time looking out the window, a pre-dawn glowing Baguio landscape. The glass panes are cold to the touch, telling me how it might be if I step outside. Looking, gazing, staring out.

I've been waking up early because I've never done it before. I'm hoping to find what I haven't found in the other times of the day. Not late at night, not under the glaring sun.

Awake before everyone. Anticipating the coming light. Hoping for an epiphany to strike me down.

It's been a tough year. No tougher than previous years, but I am getting older. I seem to have less tolerance for pain now. I avoid it, don't look for it. Even memories, I've been tucking away painful memories.

My birthday is coming up next month and death seems to be nearer, yet so far away.

I met a wonderful person the other day. She's about a decade younger than me, only a kid. She has that spark and optimism that I wish I had, that I wish to absorb.

I was having lunch by myself at Cafe by the Ruins, and she asked if she could share my table. I couldn't say no, despite my desire to stay quiet. But she was so nice, so earnest, and, dare I say, so innocent. My quick lunch extended into three hours.

She's in Baguio with her family and decided to explore by herself.

I found her attractive, of course, so I managed to slip in some stories about my previous girlfriends. I waited for that look, that pause, which I find amusing, from people who suddenly realize they're talking to a lez (or bi, to be exact). Instead, there was nothing. She didn't react, or she managed to hide her reaction. Either way, we ended well and exchanged phone numbers, email addresses.

When we stepped out of the cafe, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug. I like you, she said. You seem a bit sad, but I'd like to see you again.

We've been talking on the phone since then. But I wonder, what do I do next? I don't want to jump in again, but she is making it so easy. All I need is a friend right now, but I wouldn't mind kissing her all afternoon.

After years of seeking distractions, at this point in my life, I don't want anything to distract me. I'm trying, you see, to shake off all my burdens, to find a path, to find a life again.

"This is going to hurt like hell"

2007-09-26T04:51:00.000+08:00

Off and on, Sarah seems to be my only friend. That's so sad, making me doubly sad now. Hers songs are great and amazing, perfect for any moment. But when I feel really bad inside, her songs undeniably resonate.

When she whispers "good enough" and "hold on", she's cutting through all the layers and I believe her. She understands me, and I love her for that.

Perhaps all this is just conditioned reflex, associations established long ago, when she became the soundtrack to my depression years. I listened to her every night, crying and swaying in my dark studio apartment, in the middle of the city, six floors above the dirty streets, surrounded by much taller, ominous buildings. Through it all, she offered a metaphysical hug.

Each line she sings now reaches all the way back, a much-needed reminder that I can hope for better days.

In the back of my mind, I'm so thankful that she's still alive, which can only mean that all her words are still true. She's still making music, while living her own life, as wife, mother, and artist. I hope she lives a long, long life, as I'd rather die before she does.

For now, for this lonely moment, I cannot imagine a world without her.

Psychology of Defeat, Learned Helplessness

2007-08-27T10:09:00.000+08:00

I have a new word floating around my head, dislodged from somewhere: defeat.

It's such a strange word. I always assumed it belonged in another world, of military metaphors, in sports, in combat. It's strange that it feels so appropriate, so right, so me.

I feel defeated.

Beaten down by life, the world, all my traumas, broken relationships, broken promises, deaths in the family, death of friendships. I am absolutely exhausted from hoping and waking up everyday.

I realize that I am here only by sheer force of will. I have no reason to be here, no reason to move forward, no where to go.

I have given up on love.

In my pocket, my secret pocket, I keep a small, small dream of escape, to another life, another chance at life.

I suspect I am on the verge of another depression. Oh, such a tiresome prospect. Depression won't save me anymore.

This, of course, is one big secret. My latest, grand secret of secrets. If you met me, you will never know this. I never let on. I will tell you, "Life is good" and mean it.

And that's the thing: despite me, despite my will, prayers, belief, desire--despite it all, I come down to this.

A heavy arrow embedded in my shoulder, embedded into the wall behind me, trapping me. A hail of arrows follow.

Therapeutic Properties of Google

2007-05-09T09:00:00.000+08:00

My purging has come to an abrupt end, thanks to Google.

It turns out you fell in love with your best friend, like in the movies. I remember her, met her once when we were in a small cafe near her office, and she had something to give to you.

For the longest time, I didn't know with whom you ended up. I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.

You have been best friends since forever, I knew that. You've been through a lot together, know everything about each other, literally and absolutely soulmates, perfect in every and any way for each other.

How in hell can I compete with that?

But the whole idea overwhelms me, overpowers me. Really, it feels right, it feels greater than nearly a decade of unrequited love, visits to a shrink, 50-peso Prozac pills, cutting, tears, screams muffled by old pillows, nights upon nights being alone, touching myself, Sarah McLachlan singing, imagining you with me, all the times we were together, in the past.

I shouldn't have googled your name. Google obliged and spitted out all your old blogs, with her, letters to her, pictures of you.

She was so familiar! And I remembered, like a finger touching a live, open electrical wire. It was a mistake! I wish I could take it all back, erase the past hour, erase the logs, the blogs, and return to my well-loved misery, to my pining for you, to my missing you.

I still miss you, dear one, my chipmunk, my hamster. You with your sharp mind and beautiful wit, your lovely face, shoulders, lips, thighs. Your laugh and smile, your cute frown, cute butt.

I miss all out all-night coversations over wine, many times being shooed out by the waiter at closing time. I miss all our letters, our email, all erased and burned away years ago, in a fit, when I realized that I couldn't have you, that I couldn't make you love me.

And now, it's all over. Or, at least, the beginning of it being over. This novel has turned its last page, and your life is where it should be, never ever with me.

For the longest time, I didn't know with whom you ended up. I didn't want to know.

I fell in love with you, loved you, and will always love you, until my next lifetime.

Goodbye, and thanks for all the fish.

Long-Distance Anything, Unable to Sleep

2007-04-28T22:14:00.000+08:00

I can't sleep. I've been trying to sleep. I played with my clit a little, but it didn't help. Something's really bothering me, and I'm not sure what.

Earlier tonight, I had a long webcam conversation with my best friend. We had a thing before, but she's now in New York working as an interior designer. It's such a hot job, I envy her. But she really deserves it, because she's got an amazing talent. Recently, she was asked to submit designs for a range of houseware, throw pillows, table cloths, plates, vases, what not. She's hoping it gets approved. If it does, she promised to send me a set of everything.

She told me she missed me, so I told her I missed her.

We've talked almost every night this past week. For some reason, our schedules clicked, and she had time to burn.

Most nights she would be talking about her work, meeting with clients, her designs, her inspirations. It's an exciting life, something I would gladly have. But she told me that she feels her life is on hold, that she feels stuck.

I've heard this before.

It's not something she mentions a lot, but we talk about it at least every six months, almost on schedule. Again, I hold my sigh and ask the same question I always ask:

Is it because of us?

The same pause, then the same answer. Part of it, yes, she answers.

It ends there. Nothing much else to talk about. We had a thing years ago, but she had to leave for New York, to study, then stayed on to work. Her entire family is there.

I'm happy for her, and I'm happy we're best friends.

But it's such a burden to know that someone's life is on hold because of you. Because of me. It would have been easier if I didn't care. I do care, but please move on.

So, tonight, I told her that.

There were tears and silences, and lots of quotes from self-help books. The call ended well enough. For her.

For me, I did my part as a good friend. But I only realize now, in my lack of sleep, that this is another relationship that could have been more.

We were inseparable for a while, and even tried being together. She let me talk and blabber all day, everyday, and she always listened and looked at me googly-eyed. She matched my sexual appetite and we kissed and fondled each other almost everyday (I loved how she kissed my breasts) , whenever we were together. We always made love (fucked, she prefers) while listening to Mishka Adams. It was fun and easy , but I always felt she had more love for me, more need for me, than I could for her.

We never had to resolve that, because she had a plane to catch. No real ending, no good-bye, no drama. Just a promise to keep in touch, and to keep the love. As friends. That was over two years ago.

I don't like long-distance anything. That's my conclusion for now.

Let the Burning, Purging Begin

2007-04-27T12:36:00.000+08:00

When I first met you, I imagined you in black underwear.

We were Freshmen, we had common friends, and you were all talking about clothes. And underwear.

I was introduced to your group. "All poets," my friend said. The idea of poetry and lingerie quickly got me excited. You said your name and gave a little wave, then you went right back into your rousing discussions. You laughed, and it sounded so familiar. Your eyes twinkled in the afternoon light.

I had a crush on you right away.

A few weeks later, we met again. A bunch of friends were supposed to go to Club Dredd (in Timog, I'm so old!) to catch a poetry reading. Everyone backed out, and there were two.

Fate doth conspire!

We took a cab, had a great night, and fell in love—oh, if that were true. In fact, the opposite happened.

That night, while sipping San Miguel and popping calamares, I looked at you in the middle of this dark, cool room, in the middle of all these strange artists and musicians, and I realized that you were out of my league. You were a real poet and you knew where you were going.

In your presence, I truly felt like a Freshman.

Luckily, I had three more years to be in the same world as you.

Miss Nineteen Ninety-Seven

2007-04-25T17:56:00.000+08:00

I miss you. I've been trying to write but nothing arrives. I know, I know that I just have to give time for it, to sit there and open up. I know all that, but I'm searching for something. Maybe I'm searching for you, for those lost, long nights that we talked and drank wine outside a darkened chapel. That scene haunts me. Walking across the car park, hugging you on the front steps, our countless dinners, that off-shoulder shirt you wore, revealing your smooth shoulder and emphasizing your young, slender neck. I wanted you, I was crazy for you. I realized that our deep discussions was like foreplay for me. I could have made love to you so many times. I miss that depth of sharing, the ideas and feelings. I never had that since. I regret that we didn't end up together, and I regret that I deleted all our emails. I was angry with you for the longest time, because I couldn't love you.

And now, only now, I realize that I've been literally so lost without you. And that all is lost, it's too late for anything, even for dreams and hopes and second chances.

All I have are memories and remembered fantasies. I know the idealized you, the lost you, the never-to-be-recovered you. And it is you that intrudes my thoughts when I write.

When I write, when I try to stir up my imagination, when I try to dip into the pool of creativity, I am always reminded by the exhilaration I felt when we were together. Here's another cliche: I was so alive when I was with you.

You, you, you. It's always been about you.

Now, I'm just stuck with my self, my sorry self and my reliable self-pity. The first few years were really bad, which contributed to my clinical depression. Nowadays, it just comes as an incessant dissatisfaction. A blah-ness in my daily life.

I never thought I'd still be alive at this age. I never planned for this.

They say that some writers write about the same thing over and over again, in different ways, in different works, in different times. I just might be one of those writers.

And you, yes, you.

You will probably never know this, but you were the one.

I was in love with you, and I loved you. I was truly, madly, deeply in love with you. And what did you say?

You said that you will invite me to your wedding.

I Want to Do the Impossible

2005-10-27T12:36:00.000+08:00

I'm about to do something crazy. I'm not sure why. To fight against the meaninglessness of it all, some sort of existentialist gesture? Or, like I hope, to get something going, get the gears moving, get off the humdrum track and into the wilderness.

I want to fight bears and tigers. I want to jump on an eagle's back. I want to run across a lava field. I want to touch the floor of the abyss.

I want out, basically.

The great thing about being alone is that I can over dramatize my life and it'll seem real. There's no one to contradict me, or pull me back down to earth, or into the light.

I've had it, really, with all that surrounds me and fills me. I want a new hand of cards, a fresh plate. I want to be born in another place, another time.

What do I want to do? It's not just one thing anymore. Not a field, or career, or project. I want to change the assumptions, the premises, the foundations. I want to go deep down and decide for myself.

I don't want to end up as anything. I want to be there, in that place, as that person, in an instant. At the snap of my fingers, upon making a decision, I want my eyes and my world to change. I want my heart to turn inside out.

I don't want to have to justify or rationalize what I do anymore. I don't want to have to understand or explain myself anymore. I just want to know or not know and be okay with it all and move on anyway to do sure things, fantastic, unimaginable things. I just want to do and do and do, with no doubt or hesitation.

I am Afraid to Look Beyond the Lighted Room

2005-10-04T01:46:00.000+08:00

Someone told me yesterday that I will live a long time, until I'm in my 90s. I didn't believe her. There's no reason for me to stay alive for that long, unless God wants to play a joke on me.

I broke my hip last April 1.

Luckily, or not, I was in St. Luke's when I slipped and fell down the stairs. They whisked me away to the emergency room. During the whole time, I was wondering what if this happened at home? What if the phone was out of reach? Could I dial 911 and help would arrive?

I was in hospital for a week. My aunt took care of me and paid all the bills, which cost as much as a hefty downpayment for a new car. When I was released, she took me home back to the province. I wallowed in bed and was served my meals. After my wound healed, a physical therapist started visiting me twice a week.

I can walk now. A bit. With a cane. But not too much. "Recovery is on schedule," my doctor said.

During that whole time, I watched way too much TV and ate very little, resulting in my now trendy body type. (I should eat more now.) I filled three notebooks with all my self-pity. All without the Internet.

Just Read this, I Don't Know What to Call it

2005-03-04T16:54:00.000+08:00

It's such a stressful day for me. I'm fantasizing about that scene from the movie, The Hand That Rocks the Cradle: Rebecca De Mornay's character quietly goes to a public bathroom with a small shovel and, after gently closing the door, starts wildly hitting everything with the shovel.

A peek into the unimaginably wild beast beneath a calm skin.

And I thought everything was going along well.

I saw an old friend last night. Old, as in, we last saw each other in 1997. (She once promised she would invite me--if she ever gets married--to her small beach wedding.)

It was a small party in a small (but fairly new) Makati bar. I didn't think I would bump into her. But she was there. All smiles. We said our hello's and how-are-you's and performed our obligatory hug with matching beso. I didn't notice at first that she was with someone.

Half an hour later, she was across the room, posing for a photograph. And she was with someone. They held each other, just for a second, and it was all it needed for my world to turn upside down.

"Are they together?" my date asked me.

Isn't it freaking obvious?! "I'm not sure," I replied. "I think so. It seems like it. She hasn't said anything to me."

My old friend and her girlfriend.

How come she never told me? When did this start? My life started flashing before my eyes.

She was my secret love. That girl across the room. There was a time when I loved her, when love was able to make me vulnerable.

"It's weird," she said over the phone, a lifetime ago.

I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say. She continued, "You're a good friend, but I don't look at you that way. You're like a sister to me."

It was a hot summer afternoon. I had dropped off flowers and a do-or-die card at her house in Las Piñas. All the way across town. I was in Makati.

What could I say to that?

"Okay," I muttered. "I'm...I didn't..."

She added, "And I'm not into girls. I'm not gay."

End of flashback. The roar of the bar crowd comes back.

I wanted to call her a liar, to blame her for all the tear-soaked journal entries and the cuts on my arm, the pillows filled with muffled screams. For the pain of unrequited love.

I went to the bar--the open bar, thank God. "White Russian, please."

I was thirsty. "Another one please."

I found a bar stool and started a conversation in my head.

"I need a good fuck tonight."

"Oh, yes, you do."

"What's the worst quotable quote about love ever, in the history of freaking womankind?"

"What?"

"It's better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."

Another White Russian gone.

Weekends are Not Restful for Me Anymore

2005-02-14T17:10:00.000+08:00

I've been feeling weird this whole day. Under the weather, since last night.

The days seems to pass in and out while totally ignoring me. No hi, no hello. It's as if I'm sitting in the kitchen, staring at my now-cold tea, and time just barges in and grabs a can of Coke and leaves.

Hoy. Look at me. Or do I shuffle to the bathroom in my bathrobe and slippers, and take a hot shower? Or nevermind, and I'll just sleep again, under the sheets, hiding from the glaring sun.

In here, out of sight, I'd like to type or write and get lost in this world. I'd imagine a tree and a lake and no people. A giant, rocky mountain, casting a foreboding shadow. And an endless line of chocolate cakes. I will dip into the pond of nonsense.

What do I need?

The sun hangs like a 200-watt light bulb, too bright to stare at, washing away the landscape. In the horizon, I see Manila Bay, like gold, like glass, like it's on fire. Everything else is grey. The buildings, the sky, the sound.

I wish I could just stare at this, at nothing, until the sun disappears, and I have an excuse to leave the office, and disappear into the city.

All I Have to Do is Wait for the Next Leaf to Fall

2005-02-08T13:36:00.000+08:00

That green leaf over there, pretending to be growing. That green leaf over there, gathering enough guts to let go and jump off the branch. Leaves are lucky, it reminds itself, because they don't really fall down. Too light, too soft, they are caught by the wind, no matter how gentle or how still. A leaf will never fall straight down. Sideways, it will go, or even travel across the street. In a windy storm, it can even fly across town.

I wish I can watch that leaf fall. Any leaf, for that matter.

"Smart, emotive blog"

2005-01-13T01:27:00.000+08:00

Said Lauren Cerand of Cupcake Reading Series, one of my favorite literary blogs. Of course, she also labeled her October 28, 2004 entry as "Cheap Literary Thrills" and reposted an excerpt from my October 12, 2004 post. Please read it, I can't believe it myself.

This Google discovery came right in time.

I just came from a long holiday from Tagaytay, spending Christmas and New Year's away from everything and everyone. Despite all that, despite all the rest, I feel I came back to Makati all empty. I was supposed to recharge, but my internal Motolite needs changing.

For fun, for self-deprecation, self-immolation, let's dissect Lauren's remark.

Smart: I can put together coherent sentences, even entire paragraphs, with very few misspellings. Perhaps decent typist, with amateur editing skills. I have a wide enough vocabulary and attempts at some irony, along with other simple literary tricks. I claim to be bisexual, very cosmopolitan, contemporary. I also claim to be literary and design-sensitive.

Emotive: Not only good in the head, but also in the heart. As opposed to "emotional", which is a bad word that alludes to "hysterical"--a very bad word. Women can't call other women hysterical. Hysteria is a phallocentric concept, not for us babes. Therefore, "emotive"--a way to hint that I like to talk a lot about my feelings, that like to complain and be obtuse and difficult, that I curse, that I can let it all hang out. That I can ramble on and on without making sense--while being "smart".

I don't want to diss you, dear Lauren.

I want to put your remark in context. I am thrilled by your three small words and proudly claim it. It affirms my own ideal for this endeavor. A cheap thrill, as you would say.

At the end of it all, I left with myself, on the other side of the world, in the third world. Our tsunamis are nothing compared to your recent mudslides. We are a blip in your radar. The 12 people that died in California is bigger news than the hundreds of thousands that are dead and missing in our part of the world.

I am Makati, I am the Philippines, I am ravaged Asia.

I am at that time of the night where I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to wake up for. The days are all the same. This new year is the same as last.

At the end of it all, I left with myself and whatever energy is left for me to write in this goddam blog.

Pause with me.

Like this.

Sigh.

And nod.

I feel lost, as lost as when I started this blog months ago. But I say this with no sentimentality or nostalgia, with no emotion. This is a practical matter for me. What do I do with my time? How do I build my energy?

Sex can only go so far. And I don't want any commitment or any complicated relationship. I just want my space, my paper, and my pencil. A computer and Internet access, my occasional lover, a cat who feeds himself. I want a view of the beach. No TV. No radio. No watches or clocks. I want no world, except for mine. I am not a social worker, I am not selfless, I am not who you think I am.

I am not smart or emotive. I am angry and tired and frustrated, and so is this blog. I am seething. I am a fault line, ready to shift. God help me.

Sex and City and Me

2004-12-25T23:59:00.000+08:00

I was never a loyal fan of Sex and the City. I liked it when it came out and I never missed an episode. After the first few seasons, it started getting old. Sex, sex, sex. I only began watching it again on its last season.

During my disenchantment, friends would ask if I saw the latest episode. No, I wasn't able to. Then they'd tell me about it.

I liked the clothes, the shoes, the restaurants they went to. And New York City.

It was always my dream to end up in New York City. During college, I had this dream of studying in New York, maybe painting in the School for Visual Arts, or Journalism in Columbia, or Film in NYU. I did send in my applications, but was rejected in all of them. Sayang. I was planning to shave my head, the moment I stepped onto the streets of Manhattan.

Did you know that New York City is one of the few places where it is easy to shoot a movie? They actually set up a city agency that supports filmmakers who want to shoot scenes on the streets of New York.

I just caught the HBO special on the ending of Sex in the City, hyping up the last two episodes which will be shown on Tuesday, 8:00 PM.

One thing is true: they have been around for a while. Six years. Late nineties. That was a good time for me as well. I wasn't thirty then, and nowhere near it. I was young, with a Black Russian in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I had great friends, great time, and I was a complete mess inside.

Things were just starting then, it seemed. Like the Internet, which was a baby compared to what it is now.

And Sex in the City was just a show about women who talked about sex a lot. It was interesting and exciting, until the whining and the men began to repeat themselves. It was only later, in the last two seasons, when things began to end, that it became interesting again.

Forever is a fantasy. Endings, which can lead to beginnings, is the reality.

I am reminded again of this tonight.

As the old scenes from the TV show flashed, as the cast and crew gave their praises and goodbyes, it is only after so many years that the show has gathered its significance.

If it ended in a year or two, it would have meant absolutely nothing. That it lasted longer that it should have, in TV time, allowed it to transcend its origins. They believed, the actors, the writers, the crew, they are all convinced that they were part of something big.

And I envy them for that.

How do I become part of something big? Did they know this when they started? Perhaps not. It is only after, I remind myself.

Perhaps, years from now, I will realize that I was never part of anything outside of myself. Years and year from now. Only then.

Happy Christmas.

Remember What We Were Supposed To Be

2004-12-14T02:12:00.000+08:00

I fought with my best friend tonight.

Should I even write about this? A few paragraphs is better than finishing off a pack of Marlboro Lights. We were in this bar in Greenbelt and she started talking about this guy she's dating. That was fine, but the guy really rubs me the wrong way. I couldn't really sympathize with her giddiness.

If you read this--hey--then I'm sorry. God, this is so showbiz.

To make a long story short and bearable, we stopped talking, finished our smokes and drinks and said goodbye to each other. She had a car, and I had a taxi cab waiting for me.

I didn't want to go home yet so I told the driver to bring me to Rockwell. I went to a bar there and downed a White Russian and proceeded to Fully Booked. I had to take my mind off things. Afterwards I went out of the mall and walked to Starbucks.

My phone buzzed in my handbag. A text message:

M sori

It was so easy to reply then, but part of me didn't want to. There was so much I wanted to say and it won't fit in a text message or make sense through a phone call. I had to be face to face with her, my best friend, with my facial expression and my hand gestures and arm-waving.

And it's not just about the guy. It's not about the guy at all.

It's just that I want so much more from our friendship, like the way we used dream about when we were in high school. All those promises and dreams of being friends forever. I've seen it happen. One by one, our barkada disappeared behind a wall, getting married, getting pregnant, becoming super moms, with house loans and car payments and children's parties and family trips to Splash Island.

We used to dream about living in a big house somewhere, remember? An old house with a friendly ghost and a dozen rooms. And we would take in stray cats and stray dogs and friends who have nowhere else to stay. We would have our own business: a sari-sari store and cafe and bookstore downstairs, from a converted garage; our own fashion line, including accessories and shoes; art classes every weekend, for kids; a mushroom farm beneath our house. And more.

And you were supposed to be a photographer, remember? And not an account manager?

And our husbands would live with us and love us and our kids would grown up together in the same house. And we would be buried in our own backyard, beneath a big mango tree. As angels, we will watch our kids grow up, watch them make the same mistakes we did. Watch them get hurt and cry and laugh and be amazed at the world.

Remember all that?

Sunday Evening Walk with Slight Misadventure

2004-12-06T01:47:00.000+08:00

After the last mass at Greenbelt, I took a walk.

I had a small knapsack with me, swinging on my left shoulder. It was heavier than usual, because I bought some books at Powerbooks and I had the idea of bringing a flask of home-brewed coffee.

The priest discussed marriage for some reason. I listen to sermons indirectly, as if through a reflection. I zone out and focus on the general direction of the altar, and I let my mind wander. I justify this as divinely inspired daydreaming. I am in a holy place, after all, in a holy ceremony.

I don't like the idea of marriage anymore.

When I was young, I imagined I would be married with kids by the time I was 24, because it had seemed to be a very old age to be. Then by the time college came, marriage just seemed so crazy. There so much to do. I wanted a career. I wanted to have sex with boys. And girls. I wanted to travel. I wanted to shave my head. I wanted to screw up badly and redeem myself. I couldn't imagine taking care of anyone else.

My best friend in college had a solution: get married in Las Vegas and get divorced right after, just to get it over with.

This idea was recently made real by Britney Spears, but years ago, it was also (apparently) done by the parents in Family Ties. One episode showed how the kids discovered that the parent were previously married. It turns out that they were previously married to each other. They got married early, got divorced, then found each other again.

Well, our idea was to get married and get it over with, so that I can just say to everyone (Dad, Mom, everyone) that I tried it and it didn't work.

Another great way to get married then get widowed early. That is more tragic and would draw sympathy, unlike the reaction for a Las Vegas divorce. But wishing to be widowed was risky business.

I thought about these things during mass, all the way up to the end of mass, and up until my evening walk. When I stopped and looked around, I was by the Filipinas Heritage Library. How did I get here?

Oh, well, where do I go next? What's open on a Sunday night? Maybe Jupiter. How about Rockwell?

The evening was warm and clear. No chance of rain. And it was nice to have trees above me. I always wished that Makati would have a huge park, a real one, not the fake parks it has now. Parks with big open fields where I can lie down during cloudy days and listen to my iPod. Where I can play Frisbee with my gang.

When I reached the corner of Paseo and Buendia, I bumped (crashed) into someone.

Sorry! I said, holding my chest. Ow.

He was running. It was a guy I assumed. Or a big girl.

Tangna. I cursed. No one saw it. On the sidewalk, I noticed a small book. It looked like a Bible. I picked it up. It felt like one.

The guy must have dropped it.

I went and tried to follow the mystery man to return the book. He turned the corner into Dela Costa. When I got there, he was gone. Maybe he went to Ministop, so off I went. Not there. I peeked into Figaro. Nope. Oh, well.

I ordered some coffee jelly--hold the ice cream--and sat down. Hmm, I need a smoke, but no cigs.

I picked up and opened the book. It was in French. Something about Camus. Not a Bible after all. There was something scribbled on the inside of the front cover:

Et quand vous trouvez ceci, vous commencerez à vous trouver.

Back home, I translated it, and realized that I forgot to drink the coffee in the flask in my bag.

My Tank Top Girl

2004-11-29T01:05:00.000+08:00

There was this girl with long, wavy hair. Her face was kind and she wore a stunning, tight tank top, slightly see-through, revealing a dark bra. She was beautiful.

She had a booth at the Ateneo bazaar yesterday, selling shirts and handbags.

I couldn't resist seeing her up close, so I took a look at the stuff she was selling. I took my time, asking questions slowly, like dunking a tea bag into my cupful of hot water one lazy afternoon. Do you make these? Pause. Look at a bag. Do you have any other designs? Pause. Pretend to be mulling over something. How much if I buy five bags? Pause. Change topic. Do you have a store? Pause. Then I slip a personal question. Are you an Atenean? Pause. Do you have a mirror? I want to see how this bag looks. Pause. Can I see that bag down there, by the chair?

She turned around, looking for where I was pointing.

Her hair moved slowly, swinging like a mist of rain. Her body flexed and her shirt shifted, revealing the skin above the waist of her jeans.

You look familiar, she said to me, handing me the bag.

I know, I exclaimed. You remind me of a friend. You could be her sister.

At that moment, we were officially acquaintances. Her cell phone rang and she answered it. Excuse me, she said, turning her eyes away. I took her in, head to toe. Perfect. I wonder how it feels to be with her.

There you are!--a voice from behind me.

It was my date for the day. I was trying to shake him off, because I wanted to look around. So many pretty girls here.

I'm not yet done, I said in the girliest voice I can make. I gave him a peck and squeezed his hand. Can you please go around for a few more minutes while I shop?

He agreed and wandered off. I'm so mean. Poor boy. I needed a ride to Ateneo from Makati, and back, of course. I may have to kiss him tonight, maybe even wrestle a bit. Nothing more. He's a nice boy, but no tingles, you see.

Unlike now.

Sorry about that, she said. Oh, no problem, I said. Is your sister P---?

Yes, she is, she said. Her eyes lighted up, confirming a connection.

But usually, that's as far as it goes. We may become good friends, trading kwentos about boyfriends and dates and clothes and families and magazine articles. It's hard to find women who are looking for women.

I don't like hanging out in dyke clubs, because they're all so aggressive and smelly, with all that cigarette smoke and beer. I prefer bi groups. At least they're kinda normal.

This girl in front of me feels like a girl. I feel like a girl. Women are so lovely. This is what straight women will never understand. It is like returning to that mirror stage in our life, where the world is part and parcel of yourself. Being a bi, a lesbian, allows me to indulge that. As I touch a woman's body, it's as if I'm touching myself. And it all is like that.

Say hi to her for me, I said, nearing my closing statements. Then I took a dare--

Um, I'm going to look for something to eat. Do you want to join me?

For a moment, I saw that look in her eyes. That awkwardness of being surprised, hiya, and confusion. Then it changed quickly.

She turned to her partner--I'll just take a break, ok? Her partner nodded and smiled.

Ok, let's go, she said. Let's get a drink first.

Yes, yes, yes, I said inside. In my head, I imagined my date getting slightly pissed at having to look for me. Happily, my new friend and I joined the milling bazaar crowd. Damn the world--I smiled.

My First Digital Camera

2004-11-22T15:45:00.000+08:00

I decided on my first subject: feet.

Mainly people's feet. I've taken a dozen photos of my own feet, at various times of the day. I even have some close-ups of my toes. Then over the weekend, I started sneaking in shots of other people's feet.

I didn't want to be obvious, so I turned off the flash on my cute white Canon Ixus i and held it like a wallet or cigarette pack. Then I put my jacket on my arm, partially covering the camera.

After an hour at Glorietta, I concluded that it was easier to just sit down and let people pass and stop by, then click. Usual problems include: wrong focusing and moving subjects.

Getting There, To That Place

2004-11-21T02:51:00.000+08:00

It's like throwing away old food in the refrigerator, food that I saved and hoped to eat one night but never did. It's the space that appears and the air and light that circulates.

I feel I can breathe again, for some reason.

For the past few months, I resisted being neat and clean, because I was lazy and tired, but mainly because I was following a thread of hope: I had hoped I was being led to a realization, a rare insight.

Quietly, in bits, I have been getting my insight. A few key pieces in a giant jigsaw puzzle. I am so excited to see how it looks like.

Back in college, I nursed an ambition to become a writer. I rationalized that I had to be egotistic, to never doubt myself. It didn't work. It doesn't work that I forced the feeling, and the will, and the confidence. These things, I am slowly realizing, cannot be forced.

Everyday, you have to decide to be a writer. This is so far from true.

Nowadays, to get a glimpse of this new horizon before, I simply have to pause and listen to my thoughts. It's as simple as turning a street corner or reaching for a glass of water.

And it's not just in writing. It's also in everything else, especially errands and housework.

There it is. I am moving my hand. I am not judging myself, or forcing myself.

I am waiting for the moment where I can sit down and whip up a draft of a novel or short story. I look forward to letting my mind explore itself as I document the words that come out.

I still do want to be writer. An artist too, and everything creative. Maybe this is the time for me. Maybe this is the time. Maybe I am arriving to where I should be.

Like a Kitchen Knife

2004-11-13T03:38:00.000+08:00

How long can I pretend to be someone else? To keep on hiding like this.

It all depends on a red wheelbarrow, and white chickens. On James Bond and Vin Diesel and Julie Delpy. On the rain and garbage truck. On the cat crossing from building to building. On the piece of plastic surfing on the wind between buses.

All these words blanket me, like a nest, protecting me from the elements, from scrutiny, criticism, and intimacy. But I don't want to be known, to anyone nor to the world.

For the longest time, I've known I had the skill for words, writing. I was afraid to write because I had nothing to write about. These past few years, I was forced to use writing as therapy, as self-excavation, as exorcism. I learned I can wield writing, like a kitchen knife.

Cut, dig, carve, drop accidentally, throw: let me tell you stories unlike any other.

So there.

The Road is Quick

2004-11-13T03:14:00.000+08:00

And there it lies again, that weight in the air, blocking my view of myself. And the air calls, coldness, deep and desperate. Humid. From the street below my window, the heavy bass line streaming from a late-night bar.

I see them, in their tight jeans and short skirts, with their Nokias and Marbolo Lights, their expensive shoes floating on credit card debt. Their cars, bought by their fathers, lining up the dark street, protected by dark, shadowy, faceless men--for ten pesos.

And you, you.

We are all here, on this table, alone all at the same time. Wondering what and when magic will arise in front of us. Do I need beer? Or vodka? More lovers? More music? Do I need to come close to death?

I want to move time with my own hands, like pushing luggage in an airport. I want to feel its heaviness and my effort, all in one place. But no: I am a fish in an aquarium. I hear the hum of the light, the violence of the air machine, the twirling plastic windmill. There are no other fish here. The angel fish, the guppies, the mollies, have all keeled over, floated to the top.

There is a long way from here and back to here.

Leap: I was meant to do this. Or not meant to. This I will do. Keep on typing. Moving my fingers. The mind is such a hindrance, a weight, my mind at least, half the time.

There is another mind, one that powers and finds the groove. The mind that shoots adrenaline and loses itself, becomes unselfconscious. And mind that is self-effacing, like a magician disappearing inside the box or curtain. One, two, and three.

Like running, sprinting, I must pick up my legs and measure my breaths and give it all. No sideway glances, no looking back. Just watch where I'm stepping on, and pushing for that line on the road ahead. Up to that line, I have to push myself, until there, so I can catch my breath.

And there it is, a world full of roads to sprint on. Just pick a path and mark a line, then go.

A green, green grass like home. A blueness of shortness of breath. Your breast on my breast. The taste of barbecue. The road is quick and simple and straightforward, not rigid, rule-bound. The road is for me, and just me. Damn the cars, puddles, rain, and dogs. Damn all of you.

In between huffs and puffs, I would feel my entirety pulling together to throw everything I have and am, forward, into a future I staked out. It is this, and this, and this. Everything this.

My First Cuddle Party

2004-11-10T17:46:00.000+08:00

I went to a cuddle party last Sunday. The rules are simple: wear sleeping clothes, like pajamas, no sex, kissing allowed but no tongue, and cuddle all afternoon.

I was invited by a friend. She just came back from New York a few months ago, where she experienced her first cuddle party, which had the same rules. It's strictly by invitation and you pay 1,000 PHP to participate, which covers the food and facilities.

As far as she knows, this is the first cuddle party in Metro Manila. At least, of this kind anyway. She was holding in her Makati condo.

I didn't know what to expect. I had visions of my high school soiree, with boys on one side of the gym and us girls on the other, and this huge basketball court in between. When I got there at quarter to seven (it was scheduled to start at 7:00 AM), there were already a handful. About three girls and two boys, plus my friend and her boyfriend. They invited ten people, and all confirmed, just to see how it goes.

No one under twenty-five years old. This is their own rule, not a New York rule. They have this theory that being a quarter of a century old means something. They oldest person they invited was 39 years old.

I was introduced to the group. It wasn't so bad. They were already in their pajamas and everyone looked so comfy. They each gave me a hug, it was part of it, just to break the ice, so to speak. I went to a guest room to change clothes.

By 7:00 AM, we were nearly complete. One guy was missing. We were all told beforehand that late people will be turned away and invited to the next party. This will be strictly implemented: they had to build trust within the group, based on a strict agreement on the rules.

Again, they ran through the rules. Anyone who breaks any of the rules will be asked to leave and not be invited again. The goal is to establish boundaries and intimacy.

And then they told us to begin.

Go ahead, hold each other.

My friend and her boyfriend approached us and started steering us toward each other, guiding us to the floor of the living room, covered with rugs and pillows and sheets, like a giant, endless bed.

Instinctively, I approached the girl next to me, about my age. I opened my arms and looked at her eyes. She agreed, and we hugged. I didn't know what to feel. It was scary and comforting, painful even. We fell to the floor and never let go.

We chatted a little. Hi. What's your name. What do you do. Then we just hugged. Her breath smelled good, minty, like mine. You had to brush your teeth and use mouthwash: that was one of the smaller rules. Bad hygiene is disrespectful.

After a few minutes, we quieted down, and I closed my eyes.

Bit by bit. I remembered all hugs and touches and holds and nearness throughout my life. The good ones, the bad ones. I remembered the violence.

I felt a breath on me, then a voice: you're crying.

I opened my eyes. My hug-mate was looking straight into my eyes. Grabe ano? she said. Want a glass of water? I nodded.

We let go and she stood up to get water. I looked around and the room was littered with clumps of people. I was in the middle. We looked like a litter of new-born puppies. We were so cute. It must have been the soft morning light and the pastel colors of the room.

Only then did I realize there was music, softly playing in the background.

She came back with the water and I drank it gratefully. She wiped the tear lines on my face with her thumb, then she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Come, she said, let's join the others. And we did.

The cuddle party lasted all afternoon, until four o'clock. We were all shooed away, gently of course, even lovingly, to resume our regular lives. We were all invited to next month's party. Tell your close friends about it, they said.

When the Night Has Come

2004-10-20T15:08:00.000+08:00

I like this: sitting at the back of the room, watching people listen as someone talks in front of them, and I'm not expected to do anything, except observe.

Like an angel. Or a ghost.

How would it really feel like, to go through all these days without being seen or noticed, without going hungry or sleepy, without feeling anything, not even loneliness. Only a bemused detachment.

How would it feel to hear secrets all the time? To see people in unguarded moments, doing what they do when no one is looking. To be with a group but not be part of it. To be able to go anywhere, anytime. To lose the thrill of tresspass and the chance of being found out.

To be there, but not really.

It will be like a permanent Zen meditation, the longest prayer in the world. Watching people talk without listening. Watching a piece of paper as it lifts slowly from the corkboard, because of the airconditioning. Hearing the most distant sound of the world, as well as the unusual music of a dozen keyboards tapping. The rustle, the scratch, the moan, the ever-silent sigh.

I will be able to close my eyes for an entire day, feeling the wind on my skin, the sunlight on my eyelids, the tiny little creatures on my skin and hair, my clothes, my age-old pains hiding in my bones. The shifting earth, the long distant tremors from earthquakes on the other side of the world. The pea at the bottom of a pile of mattresses.

And the world will open up, with all its sights, sounds, and sensations. And it will be a million languages and experiences. And I will cry and begin talking to the world, instead of talking to myself.

Time will disappear and the world will become small like before. Life would become one big, endless journey: a pilgrimage, a long hike. And I will carry everything in my heart.

Get Go, Weirdo, Hairdo, Your Body

2004-10-13T13:23:00.000+08:00

I am distracted, and I can't hide it. I'm bored out of my mind and I really hate it.

The never-ending bullshit that swirls around me, like an ipo-ipo, a tiny twister, irritating me, trying to suck me into its skinny ass. My frustration and anger level is very high. I want to lash out and hit something, some living thing, a tree, a dog, some pork meat.

Buildings, light, walls, shadows, broken glass, asphalt road, pebbles, rubber shoes, rats, texture of the city. I am running like hell, away from myself.

I want it all to stop and leave me alone. I want to change my brain and mind and insides and be someone else. I want to be wherever I am not. Where I can see the horizon all around, the clear sky, and hear nothing but the breaking surf or a falling tree.

I really, really, really want something else for myself. Maybe a bookstore in Canada. Will I like it in Canada?

I made her cry the other day. I want to throw out so many things from my condo. I want to strangle my neighbor. I am holding on to and cursing a rope, slipping off my hand. I should let go and let the chip fall where it may.

A thud. I want a thud.

Kiss me. Kick me. Do something. I want to run around the city like a plane looking for parking. I want to ride the MRT at twice its speed. I want to swing from all the tall buildings. I want to step on all the heads of everone in the massive crowd. I want shotguns and pellets and high heels.

I want to throw a cat outside the window.

I want to break out, don't stop to ask. Try to make it last. I want to find a way down the alleys and byways and highways and the fields and cats and the antelopes. Where everything is made of leather and bones and decaying leaves.

I want to squish the fat, green caterpillar with my aching, bare foot.

Who should I blame? Who can I slap in the face? Kick in the groin? Whose head deserves a baseball bat? This damn country is falling apart and we are all frogs slowly boiling in this fucking cauldron.

You, you, you. I hate all your indifference. Let's all die, except for me. I am so damned angry. I don't care to make sense or make excuses. I am about to explode.

Hey, you, guy looking at me with your fucking eye. Don't wink, don't offer me a drink. I will connect my elbow to your chest, and slam it with all my might. Don't touch my breast. See this ring? With this ring I will scratch thine lovely, boy-toy face.

Do me, do me a big favor, and get out of my way. Get out of my hair. Let me enjoy my margarita in peace.

On Their Way Back From

2004-10-12T16:59:00.000+08:00

I have a headache. I am bothered. Wild boys. You never close your eyes.

The days are passing by so quickly, like letters and newspaper slipping under the door. Like cold cuts being sliced, accurately, consistently. Swish, swish, slash.

I was at Powerbooks the other night and I found myself watching people. Cute guys, cute girls, weaving through the fiction shelves. When I am stressed, I think of sex.

I haven't read any novels for quite some time. Back in college, I decided to spend a lot of time understanding the short story form. Mainly a practical decision: it was easier to read and store than novels. So I collected the annual Best American Short Stories. I wanted to collect the Philippine version, but the closest thing was the Palanca compilations--which was published erratically.

Now, there is a deluge of novels.

For a time, there was a lot of memoirs and confession novel. About rape, child abuse, violence, trauma, psychological problems. As a reaction, one guy came out with a novel about his tediously normal childhood.

If I had confidence (or talent) as writer back then, it would have been fashionable to write about my unhappy/happy childhood, the roots of my current distemper, distraction, distaste.

Luckily, with my limited budget (because of an overblown credit card debt), I enjoy reading the blurbs of novels. Pictures of the author is an extra thrill. If the book is interesting enough, I even try to read a few pages, always starting with the last page. And sometimes, while I kneel for the lower shelves, my eye goes of the page and catches a patch of skin, nape, elbow, thigh, of the girl across me.

I love browsing through books.

I've always complained to myself that I don't have anything to write about. Write what you know, they admonish, all these published authors teaching in the Ateneo. But I hate what I know, what I've been through. All I ever had was anger and confusion and denial. How can I write and go around the very core of what I'm looking for.

Myself, my heart, my next step.

I miss all the friends I've made, especially the ones I pushed away. In my mind, I decided that they all want to leave me alone, let me be. In my mind, at the very back, I wanted them to save me, pull me out. Time gave out, years ago. I am now on my own, avoiding self-destruction at every turn. I have friends, some good ones, but I am supremely afraid of hoping anymore. God will save me, if I am lucky.

Legs, Legs, Legs Mo Ay Nakakasilaw

2004-10-07T18:51:00.000+08:00

Zhang Ziyi's defiant lips, they burn a hole in the movie screen, in my mind. Those glassy eyes. I love her when she's angry. I love her, up there, on the screen.

After her fame from Crouching Tiger, she went on a rampage with those credit card commercials and that Jackie Chan movie. She is a tea cup, taking in whatever role she plays. She has no value for me outside those beautiful kung-fu movies.

In House of Flying Daggers (Shi mian mai fu), she finally completes the romantic destiny she started in Crouching Tiger. The romance there was just an anecdote, a piece of trivia, that we all wished could have been the central story. Everyone loves a love story.

As Mei, she had two men fighting for her. I would have fought for her too. Zhang Ziyi is so beautiful.

But I don't like her toothy smile.

Long ago, when I started working, I had this cute Chinese officemate. She wasn't a headturner but she was so nice, and she was beautiful when she smiled. We went shopping together a lot and became fast friends. We both loved movies.

One Saturday afternoon, after a coffee date, I invited her up to my condo. It was a great, cloudy, cool afternoon. It was unusually bright in my room that time. We sat in my queen-sized bed and I shared my drawings with her. We ended up lying beside each other. In the distance, from somewhere, the sound of a bird.

It was a romantic moment. She was my friend, perhaps even my best friend then, and I haven't told her that I was bi.

I was so scared to look at her eyes. Her chinky, honest eyes.

But I did and I didn't do anything. What happened next was totally unexpected--I suddenly felt extremely protected and comfortable. I held her hand and put my head on her arm. I closed my eyes.

I miss her so much: have a happy birthday, you.

Hopelessly Devoted To

2004-10-03T23:48:00.000+08:00

Displaced, lost, homeless, surviving. This is my latest realization about myself.

It all seems to be coming together. I have admitted on and off to feeling lost, and to having no home, and--more recently--to feeling like I'm just surviving. But tonight, I forced myself to admit that I am lost.

Lost is my theme, my pattern, my central metaphor. Lost is who I am. I am lost. I have no reference. I am here but I don't know where here is. It made sense, makes sense. But not just lost.

My eldest sister, my most favorite sister, left home when I was young. She moved to Manila for college, then worked as a programmer, and managed to get transferred to Singapore. She is now in the States, working for a pharmaceutical company.

Then in third year high school, my father sent me to Manila to live with my aunt. I finished my high school away from my parents.

A month before I graduated from college, my mother died.

Holding that fake diploma in my hand, standing before my batchmates, I squinted and looked into the crowd. My mother should have been here. Instead, I see my two sisters with their husbands. I didn't invite my father. I realized at that moment that I didn't have a home to go back to.

My eldest sister went back to the States and my other sister went back to their house in Laguna. I moved out of our house and stayed in a ladies dorm.

Nearly a decade later, I'm here in this Makati condo, with a view of the urban wasteland. A distant water tower is my constant moon.

All these years, I've dreamed of doing something else, of being something, of finding myself, my true calling. I've been looking for the secret of my life. Was I an artist? A painter? A scuptor? A writer? A filmmaker? Or am I nothing but another credit card holder, paying the monthly minimums?

I am a copywriter! A trying hard graphic designer!

When I was young, I read a lot: Nancy Drew, Alfred Hitchcock, Enid Blyton, 1970s issues of Seventeen, Collier's Encyclopedia, Liwayway, Hiwaga. Just like my mother. I also drew and painted. I played the electric organ (Yamaha) and the guitar--but sucked at both. I wrote for the school paper. I did a couple of school plays and one for the church. I wanted to be an architect.

Somewhere along the way, I lost it. I lost the drive, the sense, the purpose. And I got lost.

This is my truth.

I am here, lost here. I have no home to go back to, no home to hope for, wish for or remember. I have no family to care for me. I am never where I should be. And I am fighting for my life.

Lost. This is neither good nor bad. It's just how it is now. I can't change it or change how things have been. All I can do is accept it and embrace it. This is my mark, my difference, my uniqueness. This is my damn fucking world, how I see things--my vision.

The road, the dirt road. The shade. The rain. The strangers that pass me by. The unreliable memories. These are all I have. And my wits and guts and my instinct for survival. How will it turn out? What will I do?

Raider of the Lost Ark

2004-09-29T11:57:00.000+08:00

I didn't want to be a copywriter or graphic designer. I wanted to be Indiana Jones.

I remember when I was young, in the early 80s, before I hit my teens, my dad came home with our latest ration of movies: a box of ten Betamax video tapes. Raiders of the Lost Ark was among them.

Months before that, my sister in the States sent me a picture book of the movie. And I had been bugging my dad to find and borrow the movie. So when it was finally there, in my hands, just a few feet away from our Betamax player and TV set, I was deliriously happy.

I watched it just before lunch and I watched it again that same afternoon. By the end of the day, I had found a hat, a jacket, a pistol, and a bag full of tools. I was still missing a whip. I would stand in from of the electric fan, wind in my hair, and I would sing the movie soundtrack. Tan-ta-naan--

During weekends I would rummage through all the closets and climb over walls and explore every nook and cranny of our house. I wasn't allowed to play in the streets. My favorite places included an abandoned car owned by my lolo, my sister's old room, my clothes cabinet, the garage, and the attic.

The attic was the best because no one went up there--except for my mom who popped her head in to set up the rat traps. Most of the time, she would ask me to do it. During the day, some light would seep in and you could see the outlines of the attic.

There was no floor. It was not an attic per se, but a kisame--the space between the ceiling and the hot tin roof. You could see the grid layout of the wooden beams that held up our ceiling. You could see the wooden beams that held up the roof. But at night, this place was pitch black.

And full of monsters.

The monsters lived in the kisame at night. They were shapeless and totally black, like motor oil from an old truck. They had hands and teeth and bad breath. They were there to protect the Lost Ark.

The monsters come alive at sunset, but the Lost Ark only appears for one hour starting midnight. And you must have a courageous heart to see it.

I tried so many times to go up there at night, but the most I could do was poke my head inside and wave my flashlight. A cold breeze would always send me scampering down the ladder.

One night, my father came home drunk, and he was raving about something. I heard my sister's name, the one in the States. I don't like him when he's drunk: he's mean and angry when he's drunk.

Like many times before, my mom would cry and try to calm him down. Like many times before, he would hit my mom. Like many times before, I would hide in my room and watch from a crack in the door. No matter how much I covered my ears, I could hear each punch, each whimper.

But that night, there was a loud crash and I could not hear my mom's cry anymore. From the door, all I could see was my dad looking down, toward the floor. I was shaking when I stepped out to look.

My mom was sprawled out on the floor, not moving. I can't remember if there was blood. Then I was running down the hall, to go to my mom. I was screaming and I was terribly afraid. There indeed was some blood.

Wake up, mom! Are you okay? Wake up!

I felt a hand grab my arm and pull me away. My dad threw me across the floor and kicked me with his shoe. He knelt down beside my mom.

I screamed inside. Don't touch her! And I went for the tall electric fan, taller than me, and I toppled it on my dad. It hit him with a loud thud and crash. The cover came off and the blades hit his back.

He cursed and roared.

He started getting up and he was going to kill me. I ran behind the dining table. I did this so many times before, playing tag with my cousins. I can run like the wind and dodge anything that moved. We went around the table twice and that infuriated him more. He managed to grab my hair and he slapped me on the head.

I fell again, but I scrambled quickly. My ears were ringing and I couldn't hear anything. Then from somewhere, I could hear the soundtrack from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I ran up and made my way for the kisame. My dad was following me, removing his belt. I climbed up the ladder and he was already wrapping his thick leather belt around his fist.

I managed to go into the darkness. And he followed me. But he couldn't fit through the hole and I was nowhere to be seen.

He called my name, cursed me. Finally he went back down and closed the door to the kisame. I heard him remove the ladder.

I was in total darkness. I began to cry and sob. I was up there the entire night. I was so tired. Just before I fell asleep, I concluded that there were no monsters in the attic, no monsters in the darkness. Only dust and heat and rat traps. Midnight came and went, no Lost Ark.

The monster was down there, in the light.

Again, the soundtrack.

Out Of Nothing At All

2004-09-26T01:09:00.000+08:00

I miss making love.

It has been months since that last real one. He had this very small farm in Tagaytay, somewhere after the palengke. It had rows and rows of Italian eggplant which they supply to restaurants in Makati. We met exactly a year before.

After turning off the main highway, you have to pass through several subdivisions. The road gets smaller then bumpier, until you reach their gate. Once inside, if it was around five o'clock, you are greeted by a great red sky. The view of the sunset is breathtaking.

And infinitely romantic.

After you settle down in this small shed, you notice the cool breeze. From there, you can watch the farm slope down the side of the hill. And beyond that, the great land of Cavite and Laguna. I have always loved the feeling of the wind in between my legs. (I almost always wear a skirt.)

A chilled bottle of champange pops out of nowhere, and there is chitchat. I take out my Marlboro Lights and he offers a me a light. How obvious, and I enjoy it. We kiss, drink, puff, talk, and rub each other. Foreplay until the mosquitos start biting.

Down the slope, he says, we have a small house.

In the dying light, we tumble down the rows of eggplants. He is holding my hand. He is such a nice date, for a man. I remain surprised. I also date women, more often now, but some guys still catch me off-guard and I let myself go with the flow.

The small house is a rest house, with basic everything. It reminds me of the condo I had before at Citiland. Bed, kitchenette, bathroom, aircon. The bed has a thin styrofoam cushion. While naked, he recites a sonnet which he memorized. Cute. It is his first time to have sex.

I still remember the musty, dirty smell of the room fighting with the laundry soap smell of the new sheets. The hum of the aircon, the kuliglig, the distant bark of dogs. The musk of his sweaty, 23-year old body.

When we came out later, heady, rested, intimate, with slightly crumpled shirts, we were greeted by the full moon. We went up safely, guided by the unusual brightness.

He drove me home, the moon following us.

Watching Trains Go By

2004-09-24T13:04:00.000+08:00

I don't want to be like this. I don't to be angry, but there seems to be nothing else for me. Complacency and indifference is even worse. And giving up the the worst thing to do.

I'm in debt, and I've been in debt for a while. I've been living hand-to-mount, never being able to save anything, for anything. And all my sins are catching up with me.

Not sins, really, but plain ignorance. I never knew what to do with money except spend it. I never really had to worry about where it came from or whether there will be money tomorrow. I grew up thinking that I will never have to worry: my parents could always bail me out.

But now, they're gone. Dead since 1994.

All I have are two sisters in the US. They're married to Americans. I don't tell them anything about my life.

They used to write to me a lot. I had stacks of letters from them before, when I was still in high school. But I never wrote back. Then the letters stopped coming.

When I got my first email account years ago, maybe 1997, I tried to make them get email accounts too. They resisted for years. Now that they do, I feel like I have nothing to say to them.

Bahala na. Live your own lives.

This is the thing: my stress is making me doubly sad. It is so hard to smile nowadays. I don't want to see a psychiatrist again. This blog will have to do, for now.

Hot Summer Nights

2004-09-24T11:44:00.000+08:00

Jesusmaryjoseph--I am so bitchy today. I feeling like biting someone's head off. I couldn't sleep last night. Rather, I didn't want to sleep because I didn't want to wake up in the morning feeling bad.

Everything seems to be falling apart.

First it was the remote control, now the TV is freaking out. I was watching Jay Leno last night and the image disappeared. It had sound, but no pictures. I felt like i was in the Land of the Lost, living in a cave, running away from the Tyronnausarus Rex, and having no TV.

It's like a giant radio. Or a noisy neighbor.

Then this morning, I woke up to the rumbling of my ancient air conditioner. The sound was so scary, I had to turn it off. I dread that it's dying too. That everything around me will simply stop.

I have no money to fix anything. I wish all these things would just heal themselves, like wilting plants. No aircon: I want to cry.

Anal Fixation

2004-09-24T01:42:00.000+08:00

I have a light pinkish stain and not the "bright red stain" that all these medical articles speak of. It can be an anal fissure, instead of hemorrhoids. They're kind of similar, but not really.

Either way, the message is the same: I have to take care of my asshole.

Take fiber. No meat, oily food, and cheese. No caffeine. Avoid stress. Don't sit to much. Don't traumatize it; don't force the shit to come out. Wash it gently. And remember that you don't want it to get worse or to happen again: you don't want surgery.

Damn--I'm learning too much about my anus and rectum. I don't want to talk about it anymore. If you do, go visit the Anal Fissure Self Help Page.

Sigh. I don't a doctor spreading my butt cheeks and poking an anoscope inside me. God almighty.

Toilet Humor

2004-09-23T13:04:00.000+08:00

A couple of days ago, as I was wiping my myself after using the toilet, I looked at the toilet paper and saw a red stain. It wasn't my menstruation.

There was blood in my rectum.

It's hard enough to spell, it's even harder to admit that I might have hemorrhoids (don't foget the letter H). My rectum has been painful on and off for a month or so. I thought it would go away. I thought I just cut myself with the razor or something.

A quick google and there it is. I'm dreadfully right. I have it and the best treatment for now is fiber supplements and lots of water, for month, until symptoms disappear. And sit on the toilet for less than five minutes: don't strain it.

Why did it happen in the first place? I have two suspects, both leading to a strained asshole. First, I've had a lot of forced, weird, long bowel movements. I try to get everything out, and all these little bits come down. I try hard each time. Second, I read in the john. Newspapers, books, magazines, junkmail. I even write in my journal. If there was a TV around--I can't imagine.

"Taking a dump" should only take five minutes max. I average 15 minutes. When rushing, ten minutes. When playing with myself, a bit longer.

But the best part of now is this: I have a minor, low-quality, no-alarm hemorrhoids (one M, two Rs). I don't need to see a doctor yet or get an operation to cut up my butthole.

Cherry On Top

2004-09-21T10:12:00.000+08:00

I went to the Greenbelt chapel and sat in the back row for half an hour. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I told God to absorb all the fucking stress in my body. I imagined it lifting up into the sunlit air, like vapor, like the Holy Spirit. I imagined Joan of Arc.

Behind my eyes, in my small mind, I entertained the sounds of distant cars varooming, the chatter of mallrats, the hum of the evil CBD. I thanked God for letting me go on this far. I thanked God for whatever kindnesses I have received. I thanked God for helping me survive an abortion and an abusive relationship. God, a chance, a break.

Pretty please.

When I opened my eyes, the world looked the same. The stress was still there. Perhaps I'm praying for the wrong things.

Night Falls in Makati

2004-09-20T21:32:00.000+08:00

Years and years ago, during my worst and harrowing relationship, I actually split into two separate selves. The pathetic, self-pitying one, and the angry, frustrated one. I had long arguments with myself, playing both personalities. And then one day, I realized there was a third self, listening and watching the other two selves go at each other. I was mediating between me and myself.

I got out of that relationship and let my festering sores heal under the midday sun.

But now, this blog, I am splitting again, like a cat caught under the thick, evil tires of a speeding dump truck. I don't want to have to write here, secretly, separately, hoping for a different witness. People whom I do not know and who do not know me. Like too much blood in the brain, this is trephination.

I wish a could go to a beach, be naked, and let the salt water wash over me. What am I looking for? A saviour? A hidden door? Night falls in Makati.

Save Our Souls

2004-09-20T16:57:00.000+08:00

My third post for the day. This is a bad sign.

Here's what you could do. Sit beside me and let's be quiet for a couple of hours. Let the afternoon join us and siya na ang magsalita.

Back in college, during Sundays, I would walk around the grassy fields of the Ateneo. My long, white skirt would fly up. No one would see me, in the middle of that field. I would feel the wind between my legs, the sharp grass and dry soil under my bare feet. My flats in my hands. When clouds would pass, I would lie down and disappear. Bugs would find me and think I am part of the landscape. I would write poetry in the sky.

I would be the luckiest girl in the world if rains fell.

Sometime this week, after work, I'll be taking the MRT to QC, carrying lots of cash. Pray that I don't get robbed. I hate this damned metropolis. Sana makasabay ko si Clark Kent.

You Are Watching HBO

2004-09-20T14:51:00.000+08:00

I'm at work and I'm surfing for apartments in Canada. I wish I can move there. Maybe I can apply as a skilled immigrant. Will I be able to leave everything behind?

It would be a good escape to just cut off all ties to the Philippines, start over, and disappear, only to reappear as someone else. Right now, I am at work, but my mind is somewhere else.

I am still stressed about money. I borrowed some money from a friend and I'm paying her back today. I have to withdraw 13,000 pesos from my measly savings and give it to her. When will I give it? Sana next month na lang. After payday. When I can breathe.

I'm trying to do my work, but money bugs me, and I try to ignore it. I end up flying in the clouds. Often, when I am at home, alone in my room, I touched myself under the glow of HBO. An orgasm is like free, instant massage.

Last Night, San Pedro

2004-09-20T09:29:00.000+08:00

I worked well into the night, last night, fixing our messy apartment. My shoulders have been stiff these past few weeks, and my lower back aches from the burden of tight budgets. So many bills to pay. I feel like I'm the Philippines, suffering from heavy debt payments.

Therefore, this blog.

As I steer my course and balance my budget, I feel I have little time for expressing doubt or anger. If you happen to find this blog and read it from time to time, then welcome to the world that I will rarely admit to, even to my closest friends, even to my lover.