You, you, you

I still miss you. It's been five years since I last wrote about you.

And nothing has changed in how I idealize you, recreate my memories of you. I know, definitely know, that you've moved on, have your own life. That you don't miss me at all.

I do see your name on Facebook, when your name pops up, linked to a mutual friend. I don't want to be the first one to add you. You can add me, if you dare. We were friends, good friends, long ago. We're not friends anymore. I don't know how you've been or how you are. I don't know you anymore. A lifetime has passed since.

The funny thing is, when I remember our past, my heart still skips a beat and my eyes light up, staring into space, recreating every little detail in my head. We had a good time, good times. That is not a delusion.

There's very little chance I will meet you again. Least of all, become friends again.

Thank you for the memories, the broken promises, the intimacy, and the inspiration.

I realize now that I would have never been good for you. Would have broken your heart. I was not in a good place during the time we were together. I was too fucked up and didn't want to grow up, heal, or change.

It's ironic that by the time I was ready, I had already lost you.

Here's a tongue-in-cheek soundtrack to this. (I do remember you telling me that you discovered Alanis way before she became big. You have always been the cool one, who had made me feel cool by association.)

Kaki King, Musical Goddess and Queen Almighty

"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

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

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

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

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"

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

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

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.