"Revenge sex is NOT the answer!" - meredith grey
damn! i haven't even heard of the question... have you?
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
...baby cockroaches in my bed...
Sitting here wasted and wounded, at this old piano
Trying hard to capture the moment, this morning I don’t know…
I think Jon Bon Jovi is misunderstood. This is exactly how I am feeling right now. The coldness in my room from an overworked air-conditioner seems to numb not only my skin but the intellectual in me as well. My usually active neurons are still curled up nicely in their neurotic beds somewhere inside my head. Surprisingly, I seem to be thinking with my fingers. Fancy that! My appendages have a mind of their own!
And you think you could expect much from this entry, didn’t you?
I missed blogging. And not to add more to this pining, a slim whale just summarized in his blog what bloggers actually (it’s rather more a matter of opinion) feel about blogging. Geez, I never thought I could use three derivative forms of the word “blog” in a sentence. Congratulations to me!
Seriously though. Much credit should be given to bloggers. They promote voyeurism in a world where nothing much can be seen. They are the ultimate exhibitionists in the pseudo-sexual world. It takes a lot of courage to actually bare one’s self for others to criticize and lambaste, as appropriately stated by that hormonally-imbued whale “I have stripped my clothes off in this blog, both figuratively and literally, to expose my soul. You have, so far, been seeing me in all my nakedness, excess hair and all. The sublime and the hideous have all been mixed up here like jello and mud, each enhancing the flavor of the other.” Whatever that shit means.
Or simply they are just over-excited self-centered good-for-nothing mothafuckers who think the world revolves around them, and that civilization is benefitting from their extensive narcissism.
I think I belong to the latter.
He walks with a purpose, in his sneakers, down the street.
He had many questions, like children often do.
There seems to be a serious lack of patience these days, so serious that it can be declared an epidemic. Blame it on the scorching 40 degree heat that’s cooking half of the people in the city. The other half (including me) is comfortably soaking their white rich asses inside air-conditioned rooms while intently awaiting footages of Paris Hilton’s prison cell on E! channel. Now, MY patience seemed to suddenly run low.
I’m sorry. There. I had been pervertedly impatient with you. I should, and I know I can, give you more than the usual dose of patience that you deserve. And that ever highly-misregarded favor called understanding. I have been immersed in this lifelong fantasy that what ever I give, I expect to get back in return, much like banking investment. And I am wrong. I have realized this not just recently, but for the longest time I can remember; I am only insistently stupid and selfish not to accept it. And I am sorry.
Yes, you’re right. You are only human. And that is the best excuse you can possibly give. And just as you are right, I am only human too. And this is the best excuse I can possibly offer. It is yours to welcome.
I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head. They crawl in like a cockroach, leaving babies in my bed…
And the cockroaches have returned…
Trying hard to capture the moment, this morning I don’t know…
I think Jon Bon Jovi is misunderstood. This is exactly how I am feeling right now. The coldness in my room from an overworked air-conditioner seems to numb not only my skin but the intellectual in me as well. My usually active neurons are still curled up nicely in their neurotic beds somewhere inside my head. Surprisingly, I seem to be thinking with my fingers. Fancy that! My appendages have a mind of their own!
And you think you could expect much from this entry, didn’t you?
I missed blogging. And not to add more to this pining, a slim whale just summarized in his blog what bloggers actually (it’s rather more a matter of opinion) feel about blogging. Geez, I never thought I could use three derivative forms of the word “blog” in a sentence. Congratulations to me!
Seriously though. Much credit should be given to bloggers. They promote voyeurism in a world where nothing much can be seen. They are the ultimate exhibitionists in the pseudo-sexual world. It takes a lot of courage to actually bare one’s self for others to criticize and lambaste, as appropriately stated by that hormonally-imbued whale “I have stripped my clothes off in this blog, both figuratively and literally, to expose my soul. You have, so far, been seeing me in all my nakedness, excess hair and all. The sublime and the hideous have all been mixed up here like jello and mud, each enhancing the flavor of the other.” Whatever that shit means.
Or simply they are just over-excited self-centered good-for-nothing mothafuckers who think the world revolves around them, and that civilization is benefitting from their extensive narcissism.
I think I belong to the latter.
He walks with a purpose, in his sneakers, down the street.
He had many questions, like children often do.
There seems to be a serious lack of patience these days, so serious that it can be declared an epidemic. Blame it on the scorching 40 degree heat that’s cooking half of the people in the city. The other half (including me) is comfortably soaking their white rich asses inside air-conditioned rooms while intently awaiting footages of Paris Hilton’s prison cell on E! channel. Now, MY patience seemed to suddenly run low.
I’m sorry. There. I had been pervertedly impatient with you. I should, and I know I can, give you more than the usual dose of patience that you deserve. And that ever highly-misregarded favor called understanding. I have been immersed in this lifelong fantasy that what ever I give, I expect to get back in return, much like banking investment. And I am wrong. I have realized this not just recently, but for the longest time I can remember; I am only insistently stupid and selfish not to accept it. And I am sorry.
Yes, you’re right. You are only human. And that is the best excuse you can possibly give. And just as you are right, I am only human too. And this is the best excuse I can possibly offer. It is yours to welcome.
I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head. They crawl in like a cockroach, leaving babies in my bed…
And the cockroaches have returned…
Friday, December 22, 2006
...red wine, gay friends and marriage proposals...
I just found out that a dear friend of mine is gay.
With boisterous laughter ricocheting all around her placidly conjured smile, this dear friend declared “Guess what? I’m gay!” A timid smile followed. And for a split second of an eternity I stood there wary of my reaction. The words that flew out of my mouth didn’t strike me as anywhere within the vicinity of polite.
“It’s written all over you tonight.” And that same meek smile of hers resurfaced. Or was it ever expunged at all?
Within the same breath of that nighttime air, only several minutes apart, another friend had confessed in lengthy detail of the phenomenon that is his life, including the romance of his marriage proposal to his then girlfriend and now fiancé, coupled with the turmoil that haunts both of them since.
And I blame all these on three intoxicating glasses of California red wine.
I did not, do not, will not mention any of your names, because I cannot do so. As I am sworn to secrecy, only your reactions to this prose shall ever fan the flames of curiosity of those who are curious, and might in the long run validate their long-standing suspicions about your identities.
It’s just that I cannot be expected to hold so much information with a tied tongue. And although I am keeping my lips sealed, as the stupid cliché goes, modern technology has enabled me to course my ramblings through with unbound fingers and a DSL connection. It is only a question of who is reading.
Keep the grapes fermenting. There will never be enough red wine on earth to untangle a tongue that holds a treacherous secret.
With boisterous laughter ricocheting all around her placidly conjured smile, this dear friend declared “Guess what? I’m gay!” A timid smile followed. And for a split second of an eternity I stood there wary of my reaction. The words that flew out of my mouth didn’t strike me as anywhere within the vicinity of polite.
“It’s written all over you tonight.” And that same meek smile of hers resurfaced. Or was it ever expunged at all?
Within the same breath of that nighttime air, only several minutes apart, another friend had confessed in lengthy detail of the phenomenon that is his life, including the romance of his marriage proposal to his then girlfriend and now fiancé, coupled with the turmoil that haunts both of them since.
And I blame all these on three intoxicating glasses of California red wine.
I did not, do not, will not mention any of your names, because I cannot do so. As I am sworn to secrecy, only your reactions to this prose shall ever fan the flames of curiosity of those who are curious, and might in the long run validate their long-standing suspicions about your identities.
It’s just that I cannot be expected to hold so much information with a tied tongue. And although I am keeping my lips sealed, as the stupid cliché goes, modern technology has enabled me to course my ramblings through with unbound fingers and a DSL connection. It is only a question of who is reading.
Keep the grapes fermenting. There will never be enough red wine on earth to untangle a tongue that holds a treacherous secret.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
...starbucks 101...
As I stood in line here in this crowded coffee shop, Seal blasts some words of motivation through the earphones of my iPod. “…there’s so much a man can tell you, so much he can say…”, he goes, as if the words were pervasively written for pseudo-sentimental writers like me stuck on a gloomy afternoon inside a roomful of adolescent socialites enjoying the rush of commercial caffeine in their brains. Seal can’t even hope to spark my opinion now.
In my attempt to strip this mini-society around me and psychoanalyze the people in it, I am facing a blank wall. “…hearts and thoughts, they fade, fade away…” Eddie Vedder softly croons as his song goes into fade, much like the fleeting anti-social opinion I am harboring for these individuals. I get distracted by boisterous laughter, or a whispered gossip from four tables away.
There is many a lesson in psychology to be learned in a place like Starbucks. The new culture that our young have unwittingly created is an experimental haven for psychoanalysis and research. Imagine, a pre-teener whose pubic anatomies have just barely started to manifest, cavorting with fellow pre-teeners while discussing such important world-changing topics as hair gel, or the latest issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine. All these they do over a 200-peso sandwich drowned by a 150-peso caffeine-deficient coffee drink. That’s more than what an average worker earns in a day. In this coffee shop, that amount buys only half an hour. If there’s a new entry on their resume, it’ll be for special skills – able to spend money they never earned in the first place.
And let me tell you about the place itself. Never had commercialism been more influential in our society than when Starbucks was conceptualized. How on earth were we made to believe that a predominantly sugar and foam concoction can be tantamount to Starbucks coffee, and sold at a price roughly equivalent to the GNP per capita of some impoverished central African nation. We really must have placed Starbucks at a very high social regard for it to still continue its existence in the market.
“…can’t stop, addicted to the shindig…” yells Anthony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, as if on cue when I mentally asked the question, what makes this almost caffeine anemic assemblage click? The lethal combination of a highly commercialized capitalist entity leading an obligingly clueless society is enough reason for us to re-evaluate our values and outlooks as communal beings. It doesn’t take a genius to know that this partnership translates to more money and societal standards degradation.
“Sir,” the darn barista woke me from my trance, “your Caramel Macchiato, will that be Tall or Grande?”
In my attempt to strip this mini-society around me and psychoanalyze the people in it, I am facing a blank wall. “…hearts and thoughts, they fade, fade away…” Eddie Vedder softly croons as his song goes into fade, much like the fleeting anti-social opinion I am harboring for these individuals. I get distracted by boisterous laughter, or a whispered gossip from four tables away.
There is many a lesson in psychology to be learned in a place like Starbucks. The new culture that our young have unwittingly created is an experimental haven for psychoanalysis and research. Imagine, a pre-teener whose pubic anatomies have just barely started to manifest, cavorting with fellow pre-teeners while discussing such important world-changing topics as hair gel, or the latest issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine. All these they do over a 200-peso sandwich drowned by a 150-peso caffeine-deficient coffee drink. That’s more than what an average worker earns in a day. In this coffee shop, that amount buys only half an hour. If there’s a new entry on their resume, it’ll be for special skills – able to spend money they never earned in the first place.
And let me tell you about the place itself. Never had commercialism been more influential in our society than when Starbucks was conceptualized. How on earth were we made to believe that a predominantly sugar and foam concoction can be tantamount to Starbucks coffee, and sold at a price roughly equivalent to the GNP per capita of some impoverished central African nation. We really must have placed Starbucks at a very high social regard for it to still continue its existence in the market.
“…can’t stop, addicted to the shindig…” yells Anthony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, as if on cue when I mentally asked the question, what makes this almost caffeine anemic assemblage click? The lethal combination of a highly commercialized capitalist entity leading an obligingly clueless society is enough reason for us to re-evaluate our values and outlooks as communal beings. It doesn’t take a genius to know that this partnership translates to more money and societal standards degradation.
“Sir,” the darn barista woke me from my trance, “your Caramel Macchiato, will that be Tall or Grande?”
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
...beggars can't be choosers...
It is in melancholy times that I find myself wallowing in my state. In between the hustles of my everyday life that I take small breaths and ponder on what I am, what I had led myself into, and what I might expect at the next turn. My life’s roller coaster is in its downswing at the moment, but only half of the car has turned downward, the rest is in an anticipating stage of curve. I am seated in the first seat and I can see the deep plunge ahead. I am sporting a scream that can’t seem to find its sound yet. The anticipation of falling while seeing to where one is falling to.
My professional life is at a crossroad, one that doesn’t have any direction marks at the corners, neither are there any crossing guards to ask directions from. It is in the middle of a vast land called nowhere. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but a close approximation though. Several weeks from now, I will know where this crossroad would have led me, and whether my decision, if ever and when I finally make one, was leaning towards the better or the worse. I hate this feeling, of not knowing what will happen, or how it will happen, or worse, when. It is like I am being held hostage, or that seven days of waiting for the next episode of my favorite weekly television show.
And yet, on the one hand, I cannot complain. The situation is out of my control, and I am but a simple leaf floating in the gutter after a rain. I am a beggar who doesn’t have the luxury of a choice. This fact, however, instead of consoling, makes everything – the whole situation - all the more exhilarating and agonizing. Now that’s another exaggeration.
On the other hand, I do have a little choice. Even though I cannot choose the scraps that fall off someone else’s table to help me last the day, I can in fact choose which table to wait under. I can choose to stay under this table now, where I am fully aware of the kind of stuff that falls, and be content with its occasional sallowness. Or, I can find shelter under a different table, one where the shoes of those dining are as shiny as my bathroom mirror. There I can surely expect better scrap to fall from the table. Healthy, tasty and more luxurious.
Beggars can’t be choosers, but they definitely can choose where to beg.
In time, this sentimental embellishment might come to pass, or it might not. Still that decision has to be made. And I must weather this lonesome state I am in, until finally somebody tells me the storm has passed. But right now, I must hold tightly on to the rail handles, hold my breath deep, and ready myself for the eventual fall ahead.
This roller coaster is moving.
My professional life is at a crossroad, one that doesn’t have any direction marks at the corners, neither are there any crossing guards to ask directions from. It is in the middle of a vast land called nowhere. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but a close approximation though. Several weeks from now, I will know where this crossroad would have led me, and whether my decision, if ever and when I finally make one, was leaning towards the better or the worse. I hate this feeling, of not knowing what will happen, or how it will happen, or worse, when. It is like I am being held hostage, or that seven days of waiting for the next episode of my favorite weekly television show.
And yet, on the one hand, I cannot complain. The situation is out of my control, and I am but a simple leaf floating in the gutter after a rain. I am a beggar who doesn’t have the luxury of a choice. This fact, however, instead of consoling, makes everything – the whole situation - all the more exhilarating and agonizing. Now that’s another exaggeration.
On the other hand, I do have a little choice. Even though I cannot choose the scraps that fall off someone else’s table to help me last the day, I can in fact choose which table to wait under. I can choose to stay under this table now, where I am fully aware of the kind of stuff that falls, and be content with its occasional sallowness. Or, I can find shelter under a different table, one where the shoes of those dining are as shiny as my bathroom mirror. There I can surely expect better scrap to fall from the table. Healthy, tasty and more luxurious.
Beggars can’t be choosers, but they definitely can choose where to beg.
In time, this sentimental embellishment might come to pass, or it might not. Still that decision has to be made. And I must weather this lonesome state I am in, until finally somebody tells me the storm has passed. But right now, I must hold tightly on to the rail handles, hold my breath deep, and ready myself for the eventual fall ahead.
This roller coaster is moving.
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