Bless me Lord for

I've just come out of a Grey's Anatomy Season 2 marathon and I'm weepy. Or more like tired of being weepy. I swear: every single episode, every single sub-story, all minor characters. Kahit hindi ako mashado ka-relate, go iyak. Kapagod. Sobrang nakakapagod, nakakatawa na. The whole issue of adultery of course gets to me. In a bad way. Pagmay adultery na kasi ang isang tv show, or isang movie di ko na kayang panoorin. So you can imagine that this was bordering on EXTRA CHALLENGE na.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to the time when things were black and white. Certainty, even blind certainty, is powerful. And safe. And powerful because safe. Is a non-smoker's smirk towards the smoker's section. Is an old maid's snide remark to a kabit. Is a middle-aged guy's nostalgia for childhood. It's productive, and efficient but inauthentic. It's correct but not right. It's irony that's repetitive, and fixed, and uselessly explanatory, and futile. It's un-creative. It's what is ushered in by "back then", or "i once knew" or "when I was..."

When I was about seven years old, I tricked a neighbor into kissing me. The kid of a neighbor's maid. We were in my brother's room and lying on an upturned rocking chair-cum-bed I asked him to kiss me in the cheek. And he did. And we ran to the garden after that as if nothing had happened. And I don't think he remembers it. I hope he doesn't. Becuase It was sick and manipulative and evil and pathetic and sad and sad and sad and the world then was entering me. It was vicious. It was weak. It was smoke entering the room of my mouth. The broken toy that you return to your friend's cabinet without saying that it was you who did it: who threw it down the stairs, stepped on it, hidden it in the plant plot for weeks, pretended you had not seen it. It was the wrong kind of dress you really really wanted to touch. It was enough reason for apology. it was worthy of sorry. So there. So I'm so so so sorry.

Bless me Lord for

I've just come out of a Grey's Anatomy Season 2 marathon and I'm weepy. Or more like tired of being weepy. I swear: every single episode, every single sub-story, all minor characters. Kahit hindi ako mashado ka-relate, go iyak. Kapagod. Sobrang nakakapagod, nakakatawa na. The whole issue of adultery of course gets to me. In a bad way. Pagmay adultery na kasi ang isang tv show, or isang movie di ko na kayang panoorin. So you can imagine that this was bordering on EXTRA CHALLENGE na.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to the time when things were black and white. Certainty, even blind certainty, is powerful. And safe. And powerful because safe. Is a non-smoker's smirk towards the smoker's section. Is an old maid's snide remark to a kabit. Is a middle-aged guy's nostalgia for childhood. It's productive, and efficient but inauthentic. It's correct but not right. It's irony that's repetitive, and fixed, and uselessly explanatory, and futile. It's un-creative. It's what is ushered in by "back then", or "i once knew" or "when I was..."

When I was about seven years old, I tricked a neighbor into kissing me. The kid of a neighbor's maid. We were in my brother's room and lying on an upturned rocking chair-cum-bed I asked him to kiss me in the cheek. And he did. And we ran to the garden after that as if nothing had happened. And I don't think he remembers it. I hope he doesn't. Becuase It was sick and manipulative and evil and pathetic and sad and sad and sad and the world then was entering me. It was vicious. It was weak. It was smoke entering the room of my mouth. The broken toy that you return to your friend's cabinet without saying that it was you who did it: who threw it down the stairs, stepped on it, hidden it in the plant plot for weeks, pretended you had not seen it. It was the wrong kind of dress you really really wanted to touch. It was enough reason for apology. it was worthy of sorry. So there. So I'm so so so sorry.

When will people stop thinking that their lives are stories? That the car crash, and the stray cat, and the window that won't open when it's raining make up the parts some meaningful story-line? The real argument of art is an argument of form. That there is a voice-over talking above the trees when we are sleeping?  Someone throw the ice tray into the black garbage bag. The mail never arrives. Letters get lost. Or they don't get written. Nobody writes. I'm sick of ice cubes. Of interviews on tv. Of all cliche. Pisting yawa. I want to wake up and fix the bathroom counter, because I have the suspicion that in it lies the pattern of days.    

Bad Wednesday for the World

Prayers for the dead and wounded in the recent Indonesia earthquake.

Prayers also especially for the Lebanese civilians who are caught in the senseless whims of institutionalized violence. I know the situation is far from being black and white, but between the strong and the weak, count me always on the weak. Tama na. Punyeta.

People are so clear about what they want to do with ethnic groups, religious sects, and political factions. We don't know the first thing about being kind to each other.

hay. good night.

Hay salamat! The sun's finally out, the kids from the opposite building are finally screaming at each other again, and the world, yes the world, finally, finally! seems like it's decided to get out of bed, cook breakfast, and walk around the neighborhood! I can't hide the fact that I'm totally totally! glad the weather's great today. 

Sunday. Naya's friendships day. And I can't wait to surround myself with books books books. 

Today, I remember just how much my religion matters to me. Went to mass after such a long time and I swear I was smiling the whole time. Of course, the cataclysmic images of revelation aren't exactly the best jokes to give, but they are certainly imaginative and therefore authentic. The mass is certainly a celebration. (O tama na to! Baka ma-tense pa kayo lalo! Kayong hindi sanay sa side ko na toh! hahaha Yes, madre (o pari) ata ako sa past life ko. :) ) 

I'm back to smoking and it sucks. I don't like my smoker-self much. 

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Typhoon gets everyone writing. Pending all the landslides and flooded streets, staying indoors can be real good. 

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I feel humorless these days. Entirely humorless. The dust monsters have more laughs than I do. 

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I want to go to Cebu. 

I have suddenly come to the realization that I cannot, for the life of me, write fluff. This sucks. 

Nothing like an unfinished novel that's gone stale by the bed. So so sorry umberto! Slow reader me just couldn't keep up. Here's hoping Kundera's going to be better. 

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Dreamt a friend of mine was cross-eyed and already I smell a nice tragedy coming (or going? away?) ... Why is the wise man old? The psychic toothless? Why does the military man always have a gay son? 
 
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I want to be that kid dragging by twine (ala toy car/can) that missing shoe through the night.

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When what doesn't have wheels runs, Run. 
  

Andre Agassi says goodbye to Wimbledon and the rest of the tennis world and all I can think about is.... oh my god, ex nya si Barbra Streisand. 

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Found the perfect bar last night: mid90's music, open air, and yes the semblance of a decent crowd. It dragged time backwards: I suddenly felt young and with a full head of hair! Go. Cranberries! haha 

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To trust in images is to trust in the undeniable kindness of the world (and on bad days,  its rotten muck!) Who knows. Who knows. The road to san jose.