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.

Long-Distance Anything, Unable to Sleep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"

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

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

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?