"Associative Looseness"

June 12, 2008 11:30PM

Singing show tunes and alongside Jason Mraz without really knowing what was the lyrics and just going along with the melody and anything that rhymes gives me a natural high. Takes me away from what’s bothering me, which at this point, I don’t really know. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am again, taking my favorite steroid vitamins and earlier tonight had devised my own version of a long island iced-tea. I am a bit high, literally, drunk high if that’s what you call it.
I can’t believe I am actually writing right now. Mind you my spelling and grammar still kicks in. still can’t see any red lines or green ones at that.
I have thought about killing myself again today. Don’t take me wrong! I am not suicidal. I never was… and hope never will be. It’s just that, these kinds of thoughts amuses me and gives me a temporary escape route. Giggling at how I am going to do it without pain of course! Who would want to die in pain? Not me.
So, I figured sleeping pills… or maybe steroid overdose? Or perhaps drown myself in 20 capsules of Demerol or Valium or Stillnox; wherein I need to get a prescription to be able to purchase that stuff.
As you can see, I live alone so the success rate of my plan would be 100 percent. Since no one would check up on me in the morning or if I went out of my room or not…or if I even wake up. My body would only be discovered after a week or so, already stiff and in the process of decomposition.
Not a nice sight.
It would be the easiest way out. It would be the end of everything. It would grant me freedom, freedom from everything.
I feel that I have already captured the essence of what the world has to offer and comfortably accepted my fate that I will never get to experience those things I see on the television or go to places and hop on a train and go from one country to another.
Again, don’t take me wrong. I have a wonderful family and a wonderful lover. I am blessed enormously with them, that I feel I don’t deserve them. Maybe it has something to do with my being ***. I feel that no matter what I do, they will never accept me. And no matter what I do I will never be able to accept myself if the people around me are not happy with me.
i am giving up… on me.
I have thought of going away, to a place where nobody would know me. A place where I can work menial jobs and earn my keep and not be totally dependent on my family, or to someone… my meager earnings from writing can not sufficiently cover my stay in the city. And what am I doing in the city? NOTHING.
No job. No penny. And with a disfigured face.
But the thing is, where am I to go? Where am I going to stay? How can I leave when I don’t even have enough to cover for whatever?
One thing left to do… total isolation and seclusion. I have thought of going home to the province. Perhaps if I try to kill myself there someone would find me soon enough. But if you want to kill yourself, you don’t want to be found when you’re not yet dead. Right?
I sit here writing while listening to some songs. I feel contented. I don’t need anyone. I don’t need anything. I am happy with my misery. My masked depression, where more often than not, I cry at no reason at all.

I have love.

But I am choosing to leave it behind for a peaceful non-existence in this world. Selfish… yes, but I guess it’s about time.

My eyes are hot right now and suddenly my nostrils seemed filled-up. As I write these things, perhaps this feeling of hopelessness and loneliness would go away. As it always does. I pray to have the strength to take on another fruitless day. Another senseless existence; another day waiting… just waiting…

I am 26 years old and I have nothing to prove to myself. Sure, I came from a prestigious university, got an 84 percent in the national examinations and graduated first honors in grade school… so what? It does not mean anything now. All of that were just fruitless and senseless accomplishments that would not in any way help me in my endeavors in the real world.

The trip to Corregidor was long overdue. Ever since I can remember I've always planned to go there and experience the adventure the island offers. The nostalgia of going through the dark barracks and the old-feeling of the big guns and canons scattered all over the island.

The ruins that looked so very post-card-ish were actually only picture perfect. It was not as breath taking as I expected. Well, in part I was expecting brick ruins and huge columns with moss-covered walls -- but I was taken aback. What was there was an exquisite arrangement of rubbles, and very clean, indeed. Huge blocks of cement and large iron bars sticking out was the only thing there. It wasn't as nostalgic as I expected.

The Tramvia ride was a revealing experience. The smell of the freshly-cut grass brings memories of my childhood as I sit underneath the mango tree and create doodles in my notebook and write never ending stories of epic proportions. It was so cool and refreshing...

The big guns were freshly painted with green and were positioned in a funny way (see picture) upright, very upright haha!

That was me in the yellow shirt in my favorite pose, like a signorina surveying her lands hehe

This is the mile long barracks. It has three floors and the whole stretch is 1/3 of a mile so it was called "Mile Long Barracks" because you multiply the floors in three and you get one mile. Capiche?

My friend wanted to climb it but I stopped her knowing the fragility of the structure and since it looked like its going to collapse anytime. Better to stay away and be safe rather than risk getting injured. We are 1 and a half hour away from a good hospital... not worth the pain.

I have this thing with lighthouses. I haven't been inside one and I've always wanted to experience going in there but fate was toying with me. I was excited to see the Spanish Lighthouse in Corregidor and was even ecstatic when in Susan Carlo Medina's Travel Time, they were able to climb up and survey the whole island. Which means we can also do the same thing. However, our tour guide just made a quick stop and didn't let us off the Tramvia. This shot here was taken as we are driving away from the site. It's still magnificent though.

To sum it up, the Php 1,800 that I paid for the trip was actually worth it. We had the ferry ride, transfers and the tour plus a buffet lunch and a ferry back to Manila. It was a notable experience one must take to familiarize herself with history. Kudos to the tour guides who knew everything there is to know about the wars and even the trivial statistics like how many American soldiers were killed versus how many Japanese soldiers were killed. It was actually surprising to find out that Corregidor, although geographically near Bataan, is declared a territory of Dasmarinas, Cavite.

There was once a young girl who wanted to become a doctor. Because she thought that it would make her parents proud of her, and that she could earn lots and lots of money, by being a doctor. The prestige that comes with the white uniform, and the respect that they get from all the townspeople -- she thought she could have it too, once she becomes one.
Then she grew up, added four or five years to her age. Got a little understanding of the world; how it works and what’s really important -- at that time. So she wanted to become a lawyer. How their signatures can cost a whooping five thousand pesos, and how they can get people off from things that they did, or were accused of doing. They save lives, families, and they are very wise.

Then she had some experience with public talking and competition in grade school. She was awed by the information thrown at her, and her teachers expectations that she wanted to become a journalist. Full of ideas, general information and…

She grew up, then she wanted to become an actress, a supermodel, a PMA Officer, then she met someone then she wanted to become a doctor again, then a journalist again, then she got a course in the Arts. Which made her heart very happy because that’s what she really wanted to do, but since it’s not a land of gold, she forego that dream and thought that she could take up law. But then was not given a chance or she didn’t really try her hardest. Then she needed money, her family said--- go take up nursing and we’ll support you. Go abroad and support us afterwards. Give it all back. Everything that we spent on you, every cent.

The thing is, this girl’s lost. She doesn’t know what she wants and she’s lost herself in the process of finding out. How could she not know what she wants when the people around her knows what she wants better than her?

And she’s crying… hopelessness emitted from the stale odor of this old apartment she’s been imprisoned in for how many months now. She wanted to go out but something of divine intervention is preventing her to do so. She’s already lost but the worst thing is she’s lost with a plague stuck on her face.

I have come across the same terrains again. Familiar dirt road and recognizable lamp posts; all reminiscent of the things that happen over and over and over again.

Yet I still tread it every time. Unfaltering. Unwavering.

I clutch my heart at my sleeve; afraid it might eventually fall off. I scurry at the slightest bit of apprehension. I look around for some additional information that might help my journey less miserable. Shorter and fruitful even, a fool’s hope. At times I soar like an eagle, optimistic the whole way through. Unstoppable, aggressive, risky to the point of stupidity.

I held my breath and pretended to die. I lifted up my hands and imagined I could fly. I immortalize my pain through my writings; the never-ending memento mori I am preparing. Perhaps, like some best-regarded poets and writers, whose works were only recognized after their deaths; mine wouldn’t be any difference. More so, maybe my seemingly insignificant existence could be used as an excuse for something bigger than life. Then I… matter, eventually.

I cry at the top of my lungs. I tried to pull my eyes from its socket but could not. So, I sat there whimpering like a beaten, wet dog. Triumphant in my agony. Then the sun came and shined upon me again.

But then, tell me… how come I’m passing the same terrains, again?

The uphill and downhill slopes; the dust welcoming me at every turn; the smoke coming from the chimney of my broken self; how long will the wings on my feet last? How much more can the rope attaching my veins to reality endure?

And if I come to cross the same terrains again, I pray to God, help me.

I saw a man flying in EDSA today. I thought there was a parade of some sort or the taxi cab hit a garbage bin; for a lot of chicharon flew off into the air-- then a man in a somersault somehow joined the charade. Then I blinked.

Moment seemed to freeze as we pass by slowly to take a look at the unconscious vendor on the middle of the road. Cars honking and everybody seems to be in a slow motion. Thick, dark red blood oozes out from his nose and was shining against the light of the sun. He was still. Unmoving. And so are we.

I felt guilty. I am a Nurse. What would you do in a situation like that? I was on my way to the hospital for a job interview with my friend, who was driving, and who owns the car. A 2-door car, which makes it difficult for us to stop and take the man in and rush him to the hospital. First, in a vehicular accident you should not move the victim for the risk of doing more damage in the spinal cord or anywhere, wait for the proper authorities to move him. Second, we are both women and for God's sake we can not fit him in the backseat lest we removed ourselves from the car first! And also, we can not carry him.

So we sped away, hoping to see MMDA in the road to report the accident (where were they when you needed them the most?). We passed by the yellow taxi who hit the vendor being flagged down by a black Ford. Then a passenger, a woman, came out. What a nerve! She doesn't even have the decency to stop the driver and tell him to take the victim to the hospital. She just went along for the ride. Good thing somebody flagged them or the driver would have gone away with reckless driving resulting to homicide?

This is the second time actually that I saw a man fly. It gives you the creeps and the image, amidst the noise of EDSA seemed to take a recording of it's own. It's like a THUG! Screeechhhh!!! Except that the screeching sound was not from the Taxi that hit him. It was from the passersby who had it in them to stop and be awed by the raw action laid in front of them.

However, you can not really blame the taxi driver for the vendor was not within his legal rights to be in the middle of EDSA. It's a no-passing zone. As the famous pink billboard says “Bawal Tumawid, Nakamamatay!” But as a human being, it is the responsibility of the driver to be concern and bring the victim to the hospital. Hoping it's not too late. I hope that vendor would be okay. Risking your life for how many cents in every cigarette bought; for how many peso in every chicharon bought, or mineral water, or just about anything.

It was just shocking I guess. I'm hoping i won't see one anymore again.

I went out last night, my first time in a long time with my old good friend Rica. We’re supposed to hang out at her cousin’s bar but she had invites to this Girl’s Pre-White Party at a friend’s bar in Malate. So off we went.

I met interesting characters before we went there; Rica’s workmates from Sykes, First up is Lyle and then G (which I later found out it’s Chie pala). They are very nice lively people. We immediately had it going and all of us fooled around, along with Irish and Jaye.

We boarded a taxi – the six of us -- parang yung commercial about 6-sik in the taxi. It’s a good thing the driver tolerated it.

At the bar, mysterious characters floated around. We got free tickets (c/o of Chez. Thanks very much!) and ordered the night out –- though I didn’t remember who paid for my drinks, I think it was Rica so I just bought them breakfast at a bulalo place somewhere in Manila.

There were dancers on the ledge, pole dancing and stuff. One particular girl, in an all-white garb caught my attention, I was not really sure if she’s a girl or something else. I brought up my concern to the owner and she just said she doesn’t know her; maybe she is because I think she looks like it. Then they laughed at me. Man, I wasn’t drunk yet.

The party was okay, rowdy and loud and full of people. I met some old friends and patched things up with one. Some I don’t even remember anymore, some I did. Some introduced themselves, and hoping I won’t forget in the morning.

There’s these two (2) people constantly haggling us and they were after Chie; who got scared and moved away. Pretending to be hooking up with another friend just so they would stop bugging her.

At my third beer, I was oblivious with things around me, I was hugging everyone, dancing with them and really lost my inhibitions. I was having fun, but my company was thinking otherwise, that I was not my usual self, that I was dead drunk to be doing those stuff – but they’re wrong, I am completely in control of my actions; the difference was just that hindi na ako kasi nahihiya.

So what people are saying about not remembering anything after a night of heavy drinking is not true. You are completely aware of what you’re doing; it’s just that you can’t stop yourself because it is that inner desire that works on you. Alcohol brings out the wild side in you; the hidden desires in your subconscious will be acted upon by your ego. The ID is working its way out. And you will remember everything in the morning, and try to get away from responsibility by saying you don’t remember. Denial is always the best recourse.

So at my fourth beer, friends were concerned about my well being, one even took me outside to have a breath of fresh air. Then we had a conversation. This certain friend had been a good buddy of mine almost 5 years back; but due to some circumstances I cleared away from them. They were my party friends, and I simply just refused to go out, I got tired partyin’ and settled in my nice little cocoon with my beloved. Every time they would invite me out, I would say yes and then would not show up. I guess they got tired inviting me. Until last week, hence last night.

I mentioned about patching things up with a friend. The reasons are blurred now and honestly, now, it doesn’t even matter. I don’t care anymore. That kind of attitude gets to you when you grow up and you mature and realize that the things you think were so serious before seems very silly now. As you move on you are heading towards a goal and childish rifts are considered nonsense.

As for me, I just want to have a good time and everybody around me to have a good time, too with me.

This revelation will always be reminded by a scar below my left breast from a cigarette when they hugged me. Oh, well. That’s life. You learn something then you get scarred for life.

So the thesis statement of this wondrous parable is that: Just have fun, don’t take things so seriously. Go out and party!

Bow.

Today is my last day at my temporaray job. I have to get the clearance form from the outsourcing company I was referred to, which was in Ayala Avenue. I would be coming from the Fort, Global City.

On my way back, I promised to myself I would stop by Santuario de San Antonio in Forbes Park. Which I did. I boarded the bus and got off at the church. To my surprise, there were a lot of policemen and PSG guarding the place. There were also a lot of red-plate cars parked in front of the church. As I was about to go in, a PSG in a barong uniform asked me where I’m going.

HELLO? I’m going to the church -- maybe I’ll play pingpong with the priest.

He said I can’t go in because there’s a wedding ceremony inside. So what? It would only take me a few minutes to ask for forgiveness for silently cursing them PSGs… and that oh, so important person getting married inside. I bet, the girl just wed him for his money. Hehehe.

I asked who was getting married, he said the DOH Secretary. So? Do you need all these bodyguards around? I inched my way closer to the door, eventually I sneaked in.

It was an ordinary wedding. Just that the church was full, and it was first time to see a wedding sitter, errr…planner, fixing the sitting arrangement. (He) was holding a list and he was directing the latecomers to their proper places. Plus, all the attedees were wearing dress to kill dresses. Meaning, the women were wearing saya and white galas and silky dresses and stuff. While the men are dressed in barongs and americanas. When I say men and women, all the attendees, as in, all!

Nice to look at. It would be better if I saw the face of the bride and groom. Nice to look at din kaya? Hehehe

Anyways, I was waiting for the bus outside the church. It came to me, that maybe they were not really guarding important personalities who attended the wedding. Maybe they were really guarding the groom from scandal --- you know he got someone knocked up and that girl would go inside and shout, “STOP! Hindi kayo pwedeng magpakasal!” Then the priest would ask why, then the girl would say, “dahil ako ang mahal niya!”. So everybody would be looking at the groom, but the weird thing is, the groom was baffled, flushed in disbelief even. The groom’s father would then look at his son with glaring eyes as if saying, “what the hell are you thinking?”

To which the groom would answer, “I don’t know this woman.” Then the woman would answer, “I wasn’t talking about you, dummy. I was referring to HER!”

Hehhehe haahahah!

I was actually laughing at the sidewalk, by myself. Maybe people passing by in their cars think I’m a little cuckoo for giggling but I didn’t care. I was amused.

It helps to think about funny scenarios and other things to pass the time. It’s very refreshing and time flies by so fast.

I didn’t even notice that the bus refused to stop when I waved. The driver waved at me too when I waved… was he meaning to say Mabuhay?

Hahahah!See, i wasn't even pissed. It helps when you imagine your way out of things. It makes everything light.

Anyways, it was really hot so I decided to take the quickest ride to the office. Habal-habal 2007!

I saw a recap episode of Oprah talking about women and their anti-aging secrets. Nora Ephron was there. I’ve known Nora Ephron only through her works, which are my favorites: Sleelpless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail and Michael. The first three were all starring Meg Ryan, who was one of my favorite actresses, because in her movies you see this perkiness and in-control sort of like a kid kind of way and it gets into you that you want to be around her all the time; that you begin to like her without knowing it, adorable even--that kind of stuff.

Anyways, watching Nora on TV for the first time, how she talked, her head movements, her eyebrow movements, even the movement of her mouth when she speaks -- so Meg Ryan! No, I didn’t mean that they look similar because Meg is by far prettier (of course) but their antics, weirdly the same. Well, at least in my observation. Then I got into thinking, maybe it was not really coincidental at all. Maybe the Meg Ryan that I see in Nora Ephron’s movies was really Nora Ephron personified by Meg Ryan’s characters. So you see, Meg Ryan was a very good in imitating other people. Then making it cute and adorable -- but if it would be Nora Ephron, it becomes funny not adorable anymore.

Then here comes Nora’s answers to Oprah’s questions, which were totally hilarious. A mark of a great writer I must say.

Oprah: Some women admit that the sex is better when they get older. What do you think of that?
Nora: Ahh…You could only have the best sex at 71 when you never had sex before that.
(Conversation from The OprahWinfrey Show 2006)


Heheh outrageously funny.

Oprah: What is your anti-aging secret?
Nora: This! (pointing to her hair), hair dye. You can not see people with grey hair anymore. It’s the only thing that separates me from my mother. Back in their time you could only see pink and blue hair dyes and before they call it strawberry blonde; but now there are a lot of black dyes and…


Nora’s lines has always amused me in the past, and until now. Remember that scene in the restaurant where Meg Ryan had a fake orgasm? Then an old woman saying, “I’ll have what she’s having”, after seeing what Meg did. Her lines are always witty and with cute bluntness that gets you unprepared ‘til you erupt in a smart laughter. Her lines were not really targeted to be comedic but how she delivers it, how Meg Ryan delivered it -- it's outright genius.

I stumbled upon transcribed lines from her movie “Michael” starring John Travolta. The overbearing archangel Michael who was living with an old woman. Some people didn’t like this movie for it’s absurd idea of an angel living life here on earth and enjoying life’s abundancy. Here are some of them.

Michael: You can *never* have too much sugar!
________________________________________
Michael: You know, I invented marriage
Pansy Milbank: Oh really?
Michael: Yep. All these people were milling around, trying to get together, everything was in chaos so I told 'em, "Have a ceremony".
________________________________________
Michael: Remember what John and Paul said.
Frank Quinlan: The apostles?
Michael: No, the Beatles. All you need is love.
________________________________________
Huey Driscoll: Can I just pull on your wings to see how they're attached?
Michael: Why don't you pull on your pecker to see how it's attached?
Pansy Milbank: Hey. Language.
Frank Quinlan: An angel that says "pecker."
Pansy Milbank: Language.
________________________________________
Michael: Whatever they say, you can never have too much of earth.
________________________________________
Michael: You gotta learn to laugh, it's the way to true love.
________________________________________
Michael: The miles will fly and your children won't cry, if you play car bingo.
________________________________________
Huey Driscoll: My wife has lips like a blowfish.
________________________________________
Michael: I'm not that kind of angel.
________________________________________
Frank Quinlan: Bring him back.
Michael: That's not my area.
Frank Quinlan: Would someone please tell me what his area is? Don't give me that "that's not my area" stuff. BRING HIM BACK.
________________________________________
Michael: Battle!
________________________________________
Dorothy Winters: It's cookies, he smells like cookies, and the smell gets stronger when he's in heat.
________________________________________
[repeated line, while cooking breakfast]
Pansy Milbank: Over easy!
________________________________________
Michael: Hey, what's the opposite of white?
Frank Quinlan: Black.
Michael: No. Yolk.

For more click here.

This is just an example of a character embodying the author’s personality (as it not always the case, though) but somehow it is.

Looking for an online job is the same as looking for a real-time job in person. I have probably searched all job engines looking for part-time, internet, writing, blogging, tutorial, english-online instructor, research jobs!

Whew!

I am most keen in applying for writing jobs because I thought that it would only be per article per submission basis. Which would be very comfortable with my schedule since I am going to work in a hospital (very soon!) Also that I love writing and I could go the whole day in front of a computer and just write away with basically anything. The Company where I applied the position of Creative Writing actually invited me for an interview, and when I went to search online the company’s credentials – I discovered it is an outsourcing company that caters to basically anything. It requires graveyard shifts and rotational shifts instead of the flexible hours I am looking for. In short, this is NOT creative writing per se. It is not a part-time deal for it requires 8 hours a day of work. Letch.

Then online english instructors/tutors. One Korean company called, declined the interview twice -- so I guess they figured out I’m not really that interested in teaching koreans how to speak english -- I said I’m a writer not a speaker. I have a little bit of problem with T’s and H’s and S’s. Anyways, not my calling.

So here comes the blogging, writing per article basis jobs. I applied to maybe a dozen but only one replied. I checked the pay per article and it’s

200-300 words = 60p
300-400 words = 75p
400-500 words = 100p
500 above =120p

That’s in Philippine Peso. *sigh. The going rate per article is not really that encouraging.

Then there’s this one company who actually sent me a job order. I was really excited because at last my efforts didn’t go to waste - but then the job order was for an Accounting Expert. I could research on it but I’m not really an accounting expert. My article might be filled with errors and I wouldn’t even know it, how would I know it? Hello?

So I requested the company to send me job orders regarding the topics I am most updated and and interested -- like Healthcare, Medical, Literature, Movies, Politics, Religion, History, People, maybe reviews on techie objects, Cars or Laptops and Cellphones. But not anything with numbers please…

I could be a Physics, Math, Algebra, Trigonometry, Geometry, Chuvametry tutor but only at the Highschool level. I took Arts in college! Hello?

Anyways, I hope I get another job order.

-- aymi --

So much for the anticipation. My script had three versions already and it wasn’t even proofread yet. Anyways, it’s the end of the week. Much has happened that I can’t even recall.

The other day I saw Sarah Jessica Parker  (or was it Piper Perabo? Beats me.) in person. I’m actually taller than her. And she doesn’t  look at all that enchanting. Like the way she sprints around in that show “Sex and the Kitty” hehehe

Kidding.

Very interesting horoscope today. It says that i’m lucky that I have friends coz I’m fortunate enough to have the kind of bunch that would stick by you, uplift you, and help you in times of trouble and need. So, I must repay them in anyway I can, let them feel I appreciate them, extend to them my warmest hello, and the all time favorite “kamusta na?” So I did. in friendster. I sent everybody a message. And the kind of life that I’m living and the possibility of living it for ever, my friends would be my only refuge.

When I was younger, I never had a “best” friend. I don’t remember having a friend, actually. Friend for me that time was – constant companion; I go to their house, s/he comes to mine; we share snacks at school; we gang-up against the bad girls and boys at school; I see s/he during the summer, and most importantly – a playmate.

I never had a playmate. Except for one stupid boy every summer.

So, I would play by myself. Climb all the trees at the backyard pretending I’m a monkey. Then jump down with a towel as cape pretending I’m superman. Lucky me, never had any injuries of any sort. But my legs got the beating. Remember that joke, “mayaman ako, kasi marami akong piso”. Well I was like that before. My scars literally looked like 1peso coins. Even had multiple scars, one on top of the other on my knees. I would also pretend I’m robinson crusoe, stranded in an island, so I would just write…write and write; and when I would get tired of writing “letters” to my family, I would exercise my combat skills—by hitting the banana trees all around me. Then I would pretend I’m Jackie Chan, or Cynthia Luster J and go on kicking, boxing, and hit the banana tree with a kitchen knife.

On a hot lazy afternoon, I wouldn’t be seen napping. I’m out on the street, biking, by myself, under the hot sun.

I never had a doll (but my mom claims I did, but where?) so I would steal my brother’s toyrs; cowboy guns with pellets and horsey-horsey… I would sometimes pretend I’m a priest and give communion to imaginary people. I would pretend I’m indiana jones playing hide and seek with the dogs and climbing the bamboo roof to get little birds and play with them… or sometimes just feed them to the cats.

There was this one time I pretended I’m a store owner and tried to sell orange juice in front  of our house. Nobody came to buy. Nobody walked by our house kasi. Unless you purposely come to see my parents.

Anyways, I’m thankful now that I have friends, real unimaginary friends, I won’t have to go on pretending and playing by myself – but it was also fun.

Everything is fun when you’re a kid. Wish I still am…

------
aymi

I got caught the other night. Swerving in EDSA Ortigas. I paid 200 pesos. To whom? The corrupt MMDA. Asshole. Initially, he wanted 500. Bangag ba siya? I bargained in the middle of EDSA, until he gave in to 200. Grabe. It was my first time to be hustled like that. The last time was when I was with Marge, Toni and Michel. Beating the red light. I admit I’m really stupid. But they’re banking on my stupidity. Anyways, they’re not going to get rich by a mere 200 pesos. They will just feed it to their children who will grow up to be just like them (God forbids!)

I pray for their already tortured souls in hell! (as if?)

There’s this cheap perfume store in Robinson’s Galeria, JMJ. They sell you original perfumes maybe 500 less than the original price in Rustan’s. Which is a very nice buy, right? You will also get discounts if you pay in cash. Then they have this TESTER bottles (not for sale actually) which they sell in a much lesser price (tester kasi). But it’s a tester bottle so the packaging isnt like the orginal, and on the bottle, there is non-removal sticker that says “not for sale” harr! Harr!harr!

But if it smells the same? And it’s original? Good buy na rin, right?

For two nights I have been taking care of my niece because my brother and his wife went to Boracay for a vacation. Nice, the first time; exciting and scary; then it became tiresome; she would wake up every two hours while I'm still in the process of pre-REM. I need to tap her legs and hum a soft lullabye to lull her back to sleep. Then the witching hour  2-4 am. She would wake up, and fall asleep again. But she's still sleepy, so she would fuss, and I don’t know how to get her to sleep again. Eventually my mom heard her cries and came up to her, or my, rescue. After that, it's my mom's problem na. But she's so cute. And she would smile in her sleep. And she would giggle and laugh without any apparent reason - she's only 2 months old.

Add my stress regarding the screenplay. I worked myself out trying to come up with an interesting synopsis. Which I hope I did. And contacting people just to force them to read my script and comment because there might be a possibility of you know…

Anyways, now I am starting to revise my script over and over again. Before it's only 10 pages; it became 30 pages; now I'm running on 50. It's supposed to be a SHORT FILM! Waaaahhhh!!! Now, I think I am making a feature film screenplay. The mystery gone; the argument of art film gone; the play of words and colors and cinematic shots gone; my goal ala-wong -kar wai cinematography, still achievable… ah, basta.

I'm exhausted. Pagod na ko. But I'm liking it.

I feel so alive.

----
When life hands you lemons, go buy Tequila! Inuman na! Adja! Adja!

I am depressed. It takes a lot for me to smile today. This depression has been looming over me for the past years but I chose to ignore it. And I am still ignoring it. Except that I felt it’s sting creep within me and I felt an anguish distinguishable of a worthless cockroach.

What purpose does the cockroach have for existing anyways?

Various thoughts occupied my mind while driving today. I drove like an old lady, thinking – what if i crash the car, I know my parents would kill me – but will they still kill me if I’m already dead? I have to make sure I’ll die if I do that. I’m ready actually. The reasons that I told myself over and over again as the reason for my existence – is still there – but: I don’t feel I matter anymore. The reasons will still be there even if I’m gone.

My body is weary and I look at people and I feel disgusted. I want to resign in my solitude and dance to the music of abandonment. I feel like I have so much love to give and the people I want to give it to doesn’t want it – though they claim to love me more than I love myself. That’s why they are determined to make life decisions for me. They are overtaking my life and I see no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow…heck, I don’t see a rainbow anymore after the rain. I see hues of black and heavy clouds crown my skies. Vast green moss crowds my blue ocean. And hungry cows devour the freshness of my meadows.

I refuse to falter, but I am.

Maybe it’s better up there, where the sun rises endlessly and I can touch the stars and dance with bodyless children with wings on their neck.

Assuming I would end up there. If not I’d be eating barbecue for the rest of eternity. Maybe I could just stay in that space in between – the limbo. Nicole Kidman pronounces it in a very distinct british accent that makes it very exciting and sophisticated and presumably a nice place – maybe I’ll just go there… but maybe I am already there…

If I still exist… after the moon overshines the sun. Then maybe i’m still alive.

But then I am going to drive again. Hopefully I won’t be lucky next time.

I finished writing my original screenplay this week. It's somewhere here in my blog and I'll give whoever finds a tap on the shoulder :)

So here goes. The story was about two lovers on the process of breaking up. Will they separate or will they stay together?

I asked my friends to read it. I asked for their technical and creative opinion. But only 1 out of the 6 friends I asked replied with a positive comment. Now that got me thinking, AM I BAD WRITER? And then one friend said that I am just proud of my stories that’s why I asked (forced) them to read it – of course I am. But then again, AM I GOOD WRITER?

I ponder with this thought lots of time in the past. I was afraid to let others read what I’ve written because I don’t know if they would like it or not. I had a very low self-esteem. I know I excel in some areas; I even wanted to become a journalist before. I know I can come up with any technical write-up about anything - but when it comes to the arts, creative writing especially – something would hit my ruckus existence even with just a hint of criticism.

It was only during college at UP that I got the courage to share my story. It was actually received well, very well that my class went on to perform my play onstage, with tickets! I was really proud of myself, got a good review from my professor, kudos from my classmates, and encouragement from friends. Life was starting for me.

But still, I was hesitant to share more of stories. I guess it comes with your being young and fragile, I don’t know how to survive in the outside world. I was told people outside the university were cruel and they would step down on you any chance they get. I was scared. Terrified. So I hid my poems, I placed passwords for my stories in the computer…then at times I forget to get back to it…eventually I stopped.


Other things occupied my mind. But every now and then inspiration strikes me and I would doodle some lines on my notebook, my book, tissue paper or any availble writing material I get my hands on. It didn’t matter to me before that I displaced those sheets of papers, that I lost my notebook or my book. Posterity and collection meaned nothing to me – nobody would want to read it anyways.

As years go by I evolved into a more mature woman. With enough self-esteem to get me by – I was able to understand the meaning of every deepest statements; I shrugged off my shoulders with a boulder of criticisms; I learned how to save lives…

Then I remembered my stories and poems. Hidden. Lost. Insignificant.

I decided to save my dying creativity. At least for my own sake. I continued writing Part Two’s of my stories; I compiled my saved poems on my PC; and I started writing new stories, new poems, new insights, haikus, comics, etc…and things just like this article. This gave me a new outlook in life. I didn’t care anymore what other people would say about my work, I cared for the improvement of my written art. And their opinions and comments helps me mold my works into something better.

I guess you could say I grew a thicker skin. What matters to me now is that I can touch lives with my stories; I can open their eyes into the most insignificant of situations and convey the feelings of loneliness; that leap of faith; that victorious dance.

As I was browsing through Rainier Marie Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, I got this incredulous idea that I don’t need other people to review my work. That I should write for myself not for other people – TRUE. I actually sent a text message to my (forced) friends that I no longer require their opinion and that I can take away their privilege (see This Is My Galaxy), etc…

Then I came to realize- yes, I write for myself; I write so that I can escape, build a whole new world apart from this hellhole; to immortalize my thoughts, to express my feelings, to waste time – but then, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone take that journey with you? To have someone to talk to while trying to escape from the ridiculousness of reality? And to have someone read your feelings and then smile?

In short, I’m reaching out to YOU, the reader.

Reading is essential for your well-being. Do it everyday. Exercise your brain.

View this article on Youngblood.


TO everyone who might be affected or in serious allergy of this topic, I request that you turn your newspapers to the hypocrite and pathetic section. Thank you.

I am a bisexual. No, not the one who wears baggy pants and big polo shirts just to look like a boy. I am myself and I dress the way I want to, that is, as a lady. A feminine, supple, beautiful woman. I do not have anything against those "kababaro" who prefers to wear boyish clothes just to let people know that they are lesbians, or to get people to notice them. I laud their audacity to out themselves in public, or going out of the closet, as it's popularly called.

I am in the closet. Not because I am scared or hiding, but I prefer to keep my private life private. I don't want my life to be the topic of other people's gossip. I have my reasons and I will not subject myself to the judgment and ridicule of those people whose minds are so narrow even a surgical needle cannot fit.

If they don't understand me, why do I care? At least I won't have to go live every day of my life thinking that they know something about me and I would owe it to them so much that they're keeping it to themselves and that I would act as if I were guilty.

No.

I am in love with a woman. Is that such a bad thing? It just happened that she is a she and not a he, not in conformity with a tradition that we don't even know who set up. Who said don't fall in love with a woman if you're a woman. Is that in the Bible? Don't I have the right to choose the person I want to spend the rest of my life with? Even though she's also a woman like me?

I had men before. Three actually. One of whom lasted for two years. I loved him
dearly and I know he loves me too. But somehow our relationship lacked something. There's no fire and passion, and no deep understanding. I cannot look straight into his eyes and see his soul, but instead I see numbers -- calculus, debit, credit, tax laws. I've never been good at relating to numbers.

My woman, she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She indulges herself in art, classical music, and poetry. We both share a passion for everything. We can tell each other things that a man and woman could never share. We have an intimacy that keeps our flames burning even if we're not seeing each other that much, because of some
circumstances.

I went through a lot of things for her; I boldly admitted to my family that I love her. I do not mean disrespect but how on earth did it happen that they didn't understand me? They are supposed to be the ones who understood me better. Who accept me for who I am, and also accept the one I am happy with.

What I have with this woman is different from all my previous relationships. I know it in my heart that I could spend the rest of my life loving this woman. And I am willing to work for that, fight for it.

The important thing is I am in love, and it's not a matter of he or she, but of who and why.

25 year old sagittarian, born under the planet of Jupiter, year of the rooster. Daughter of Zeus.

Idealistic and optimistic, i see things for their potential, i refuse to look at the obvious and make my way around things, poking and asking questions if need be. I like passion and drama and the play of words, it amazes me how one single thing could be describe in so many ways yet still enthralls you everytime. I seek for the finest expression of feelings; i seek for the realization of my deepest, darkest, funniest, most romantic ideas-even if it's only in writing.

I find solitude and peace when i write. Even if people thinks that i just try hard that's why i come up with my collections, that i am patient, and i am hardworking - well, i work hard to achieve my goal, i wait patiently for its' turning to life through my pen, and i try my hardest to squeeze my vocabulary and my brains out when inspiration strikes me- so i could write.

Writing takes me to places I wish I could go to. Writing puts me in situations i wish i am into. Writing fires up the deepest emotion i don't think i'll ever feel in this world - it is my escape, it is my haven, it is my paradise.

I don't want to force anyone or anybody to read my work. I write for myself, for my own amusement, for the expression of my thoughts. You and many others are merely spectators, i gave you that privilege-i can take it away. Your opinion matters only if i say so, i am my own critic, i am my own reader - this is my galaxy.

Now, ask me again why I write.

I came from a friend’s house this morning, went there straight from work last night. The house was somewhere north so I had to take the MRT going to work. I went to the oldies/women’s section, it was not so crowded as I expected at 9 in the morning, I even had a seat, but didn’t have the chance to give it up for the pregnant lady cos the girl beside me beat me to it. So I contented myself with making palinga-linga like stupid looking at people. Observing them.

All of the passengers have Libre Newpspaper. Sitting, standing, leaning, even nakabitin they are all reading the newspaper.I saw what one girl was reading, Dolly Carvajal’s article about Yilmaz and Ruffa and the turkish newspaper with a headline Uyupturucu Kacakisinn Odlu Flypynler Unlu Aktrstyyle Evlendy, in english –Smuggler’s Son gets married to a famous Philippine Actress. So, naturally, the scorned Ruffa filed a complaint againts Carvajal saying she shouldn’t judge Yilmaz, blah and blahber. Anyways, read the whole article if you want here.

So, I made linga-linga again like stupid, and the other girl was reading this little green book with a weird title, 38 Judoki Elementary Edition. It was intriguing, at first I thought it was a guide book for teachers in elementary. Then I got to peeked in a little, turns out it’s a pseudo-sudoki type board game how-to’s. *sigh*

Then the train stopped at Kamuning, in comes a petite, fair girl; amidst the siksikan she managed to get the bitin spot right in front of me. So, having my view blocked I proceeded on scrutinizing every piece of her. She was wearing a 2-inch-pin heeled slip on sandals, no pedicure but her toenails are clean. Her feet are a little large for her body figure, she stands maybe 5’1 but her feet seems size 7, or 7+. She had those veins that pop out when you’re standing on heels for too long. I thought only women like me have those dorsal veins popping out, having no care for the feet at all (not even a single foot spa) and walking long distances. She has scar-less legs, I think even hair-less. She has this garterized striped-ala-samba skirt above the knee and a black off the shoulders top with a not so transparent plastic bra strap. She has long hair that reaches to her waist, and one shoulder bag and one paper bag. The paper bag contains 2 to 3 pouches of maybe make-up, a small organizer, a box of tissues and a folded umbrella.

Then a woman and her kid sort of bumped into her and in the stillness of the MRT we heard a very Paris Hilton like “Ouch!” So, this girl is very very much maarte. Why did she take the MRT if she doesn’t want people bumping into her? I wanted to hit her right in the middle of her legs like you would a guy, to teach her a lesson. But. Oh well. She was reading Libre, the whole train ride, nakabitin and all, she was unmindful of her skirt being pulled by gravity or something else. Her belly was exposed same as her white undies. I was thinking maybe she put that on purpose, to arouse the guys? So, seeing that she’s very fair and has nice skin I figured her belly was also the same. BUT upon closer examination, her belly is just like mine! She has this rolled out skin that you get when you lose weight, and I also noticed white-silvery-grayish lines…hmmm…stretch marks. So maybe she’s older than she looks, maybe she has a kid already.

Anyways, next stop was mine so I stood up. She sat in my seat still reading.Hablutin ko kaya bag niya? Mahahabol niya kaya ako? Hehehe Arte, arte. Dapat nagtataxi ka na lang. Hmp!

There’s this guy two desks away from me at the office, he’s a very big, mustache American guy, who speaks on the phone as if the whole floor was his office! We could overhear everything he’s saying, even his burp…that’s how loud he is. It’s funny sometimes, like this one time he was trying to get to someone and a receptionist got his call. Then the receptionist tried to connect him to the person but the line got cut so he called again and got the same receptionist, this time the receptionist told him to hold, which he did, then the line went dead. Then he called again, now a little pissed, the same receptionist got the call again, after so much so- and so, and him telling “This is the worst receptionist, ever!”, she gave him the contact number of the person, who turned out was not in the office at that time. We were laughing our hearts out just by listening.

Then every morning he would bring in donuts, preferable Krispy Crème that Mr. Donuts (?) He would offer it to everyone but I wouldn’t dare touch it, I just don’t like eating his food. Maybe at the back of my mind I’m scared getting so big like him. He’s really obese, he walks like a penguin, and I’m guessing he doesn’t fit in the revolving door anymore. But he’s a nice guy. It’s just funny observing him and listening in on his telephone calls. As one girl office mate would say it, “ang ligalig niya”.