Blog Holiday Aha! Aha!

The only true currency in this bankrupt world... is what you share with someone else when you're uncool. - Lester Bangs, Almost Famous (2000)

Here's the sitch dear Scoobies: the economy's down, advertising budgets have been cut by 40%, and my stylish yet affordable boots' soles are getting worn down from all the waking to save on taxi fare.

So I say to myself, T, do your part in helping the world economy and go on a holiday. Spend, drink, and be Mary.

See you in a week.

Until then, as the famous caption after each movie trailer shown in Philippine theaters (in the 1980s) read: Relax, see a movie!

Lying Low

One of those rare down time moments here at the office. The calendar is clear, so far, while the job orders are still being written down, or the account executives are too busy whatever occupies their time to copy and paste from a client's briefing document.

Heelarious.

Have been sick for the most part of January. The first week was the stomach flu. And recently the plain old flu. I think I'm paying for the perfect blush of health since mid-year 2008.

It's my second day back at the office and not hacking like an old hag, not as much hacking as yesterday at least.

Strange. Now that I have the time to write, I actually don't have anything to say.

Catching up

You know you're getting older when catching up with friends is the week's highlight.

14 years have passed since I left the university and though I still keep in touch with my people, I rarely do find the time to be physically present during meet-ups. I get off work late, seven-ish, and the traffic's always bad. So when Mida scheduled dinner at 1:30 a.m. last Sunday, I said, "Really?", laughed at the strangeness of it all, and confirmed. With W in tow.

We arrived a little past 1:30 a.m. in Burger King along Marcos Highway. Mida and Marnie were waving at us from the window, and it was just the best I've felt in months.

There's really nothing like being around people who've seen you at your worst; it's just so much easier. Like wearing worn down sneakers. Comfy, snug, smelly but who cares? No, everyone smelled just fine but, ah, it did feel like slipping inside a time bubble, stuck in that one space in the universe where I never grew old and we never grew apart.

We are all different people now but it's funny our life's objective remained the same. Marnie has always been our writer-activist and now she tells stories through pictures. Mida's the glue of our circle and true to form, she organized this small gathering even if she was probably exhausted from her flight. And she is as brave and bold as ever. And me. I don't know how they see me. Flamboyant? Funny?

It was just great to hang out, singing along to random songs like it was 1991 all over again.

Post Shanghai

Shanghai was cold. Too cold. The day we arrived it was 6 degrees. The evenings were almost unbearable; we spent our second night looking for something to cover our heads with. The trip was a lot of fun (there will be pictures) but if anyone were to ask how it went, I would say this: It was too cold. And when we did get back to Manila, it was too warm. 34 degrees warm. So walking pneumonia it was. Hospital and bed rest. First time out after a long while was the Swing Out Sister concert. Nostalgia is overrated.

The best thing about all of this is I got to catch up with my cartoons. Anime, to be cool about it. Finished Death Note. In the middle of Neon Genesis Evangelion. Ichigo has stormed the gates of the Soul Society for Rukia in Bleach. And wrapping up with the Chunin exams in Naruto, though I have gone ahead and started its Shippuuden arc. Never really realized that great TV is alive and ass-kicking in Naruto. I want to get me some ninja weapons.

The first month of the New Year is almost over.

That was a quick one, 2007, fast-paced distractions taking up most of the days. The year I took the back seat---enjoying the view, watching the sun come up at least once in a month. Gradual transitions, from dark to light, from blue to gold-speckled pink; I relished the laziness of sunrise.

At least until my blood pressure shot up. Heh.

Now it's early to bed and early to rise just like most. Romanticism is really for the conveniently young.

A detour to a wake which got me unbelievably depressed and a dizzy spell over dishes

A sister-in-law of a good friend passed away last week. W and I went to the wake last Saturday. We already knew she died from cancer and that, I imagined, she had time time to say her goodbyes like with most terminal cases. But apparently, it wasn't just the goodbyes that she had time to prepare for: She actually planned her funeral. She gave instructions on the dress (she wanted a white dress, not a top and pants), the venue (Nacional), and made a list of who to call up immediately after she passed away.

We stayed for an hour, W was chatting about work with the friend while I was quietly eating lemon squares and biko. Before we left, an elderly relative arrived in a wheelchair. She had a hard time recognizing people and her body looked like crumpled paper. Our friend's brother wheeled her near the coffin. She stood up with little help and took a few painful steps to look at the body. That was when her knees buckled and she had to be almost carried back to her chair. She approached the other brothers and sisters and said: Isa isa na.

One by one. We all fall down.

I realized that death didn't scare me that much and it was the growing old that really frightened me. The forgetfulness. The burden of crumpled limbs. And the goodbyes to people you love.

----------------------------------

I ran out of cigarettes that same day, and didn't really crave for any. Woke up Sunday afternoon dizzy. Made lunch, still dizzy. I was washing the dishes when it crashed against me like a wave, an invisible slap across my face. High blood pressure? Withdrawal symptoms (that early)? Or just plain dastardly chores?

Sorting the laundry and not much later Doctor Who and a Big Mac

So there it is. This year's theme: Chores and then telly on Friday nights. It's actually a surprise how I'm enjoying domesticity, well, an excuse really so I can spend at least two hours a day with the Doctor.

And look at the time. Almost four in the morning.

Just wishing everyone well. And here's a premature shout out to my sister, Faye, who will be celebrating her birthday this Sunday somewhere far-flung.

If the Brakeman Turns My Way

I’ve got the symptoms: late nights in front of the TV, achingly predictable Friday nights with a book, catching up instead of partying, green tea for coffee, sugar-free pastry, and just recently, a nagging weight around the neck.

It took awhile but here it is, still too soon.

When panic grips your body and your heart is a hummingbird
Raven thoughts blacken your mind until you're breathing in reverse

I'm settling comfortably in my thirties. I'm done being the dog walking in circles flattening the grass. Though I enjoyed the experience tremendously, the band thing came just too late in my life. I'm just not that person anymore. I prefer slowly spiraling to drunkenness conversations with friends over quick, massive attacks of alcohol. I'm the catch-up guy now. What are you reading? What are you listening to? And do you remember that time...?

All this automatic writing I have tried to understand
From a psychedelic angel who was tugging on my hand
It's an infinite coincidence but it doesn't form a plan

At work, I'm surrounded by mostly skittish young people, but also the most hardworking and (frighteningly) responsible of the young folks that I have ever met. We ambush work with furrowed brows and take 30 minute coffee breaks in between. The meeting of deadlines, a given. The fooling around, also a given.

Bright Eyes' Cassadaga is not a record you spin over and over. The dusty folk and soul creeps from behind you and quietly breaks your smile. Not at all depressing. But thoughtful. Thoughtful of time passing. I listen to the album at work to ground me. To remind me that work has to be done, that work is where I am, that work will pass in time.

It is an old world it's hard to remember
Like a dime store mystery
I'm a repeat first time offender
Who has rewritten history

This is, then, the bed of grass that sometimes takes a couple of fuck-ups to find. The bed you made, and the people you choose to fill your space. Growing old sucks. Knowing that you're growing older sucks more. But it's a given.

The rest---the books, the music, the silliness, the couch in front of the TV, the love, and most especially, the friends you've grown old with---these, you grab and never let go.

Bright Eyes, "If the Brakeman Turns My Way"

Love and Other Bruises

Bruising results from the release of blood from the capillaries into the tissues under the skin. The characteristic bluish-black mark on the skin lightens in color and eventually fades as the blood is absorbed by the tissues and carried away.

At 11 p.m. tonight, it will be exactly one week after the attack. My bruises have cleared; my back and side still hurt a little but they could just be muscle cramps. I still lie awake at night but even the fear is fading; the faceless men tip-toeing slowly out of my dreams.

Previous to this entry, I wrote about reconnecting with a friend in the U.S. but a connection error erased the entire account. Too lazy to rewrite. Too tired to remember. (He still waits for me to put the receiver down first. He still waits for the “click,” the dial tone that hums Sweet dreams.)

I read in an online review that “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” is really a (tender) deconstruction of perceptions on love more than a movie about love. And right now, I am agreeing. The hazy edges and the blinking lights that frame Joel and Clementine is probably the closest thing to recreating the atmosphere of memory. In two weeks or a month, most definitely in a year --- love, hatred, anger, sadness --- everything is reduced to foggy, overcast hang-over mornings. See-through skin, glowy eyes, salty lips. Indistinct, but important. Mostly perceived, but the realest thing to real. Love is.

-----------------------------------

Happy Birthday, Margie! May you never forget.

Editing

I keep reminding myself to edit before I hit the Publish Post button. I do it automatically at work, editing practically everything. From internal emails to proposals to text messages to colleagues. And hell, most of my friends are editors --- Margie, Kristine, Dodo, Marnie --- we can actually make jokes out of sentence constructions. No, not really, more like figure of speeches, but I know that we could if we tried. I've been re-reading my posts and I am aghast at my mistakes, my typo errorsssss. Now that at least 3 people are reading this, (Hi, Dodo. Uh, dyahe.) I'll put in the extra effort that would make clicking the Publish button actually mean "worth publishing."

I'm just not used to editing hardcore journal stuff. But I do it anyway. I've been editing my memories more than I should. Part science, part romance, I've been editing my life so it would become publishable bio-fiction.

And this is also why I keep this blog. I write about my life like it were a story, I edit like it were a draft, hoping to find somewhere between the lines, buried under the plot twists, the happy endings that are there all along.

And I think I have. So far, thank you,

1. Wilmer, happiness in our home, in our bed. In our sleep The Great and Secret Show;
2. Margie, tight scoobie hugs after the drive home with Ms. Love and District Sleeps Alone Tonight;
3. Kristine, Whiskey, Tango, Ghost;
4. Dodo, director of words and wow, there's never enough music;
5. The crew of Star Trek Voyager, now, there will always be coffee in every nebula;
6. Joss Whedon, still I always feel this strange estrangement.

Not bad. Six happy stories.

Fear, Itself

Title's taken from a Buffy's Season 4 Halloween episode. The Scoobies are trapped in a house where they confront all their fears, and in the end, have to confront Fear, itself. He turns out to be a foot-tall demon. Buffy steps on it (squishy noises) and that was it. I get it. Fear is overwhelming, but it is also just a speck of a doubt, a thumbnail of worry.

Three men beat me up last Friday. 3 punches on the head. 1 in the mouth. And I think a bottle on the left side of my head, above my ear. I ran away. Scared shitless. I haven't told my family. Got home a few minutes after midnight (editing of memory ongoing) and called up Wilmer. I needed my refuge. Had to be physically away from Manila.

Sunday night and I still can't sleep. In my dreams, they had knives, or guns. Sometimes, I was actually brave and defended myself. Violence inflicted on you by a stranger is baffling. And you struggle in your head how this is at all possible. And it makes the world a very scary place to live in. Violence makes you small. I was nothing but a victim. Helpless, and crouching.

Right now, I'm trapped in this house. And I am inadequate. And I am afraid. This is the part where I learn how to deal with the fact that I am helpless.

Parallel Universes

It's like a religion. Instead of a God, there is almost a desperate need to believe in parallel universes. And why not? They say that for every choice, every decision made --- waking up 5 minutes later, getting off work an hour earlier, stopping for a minute to light a cigarette --- a new universe emerges where instead of later, you are earlier; instead of stopping, you continue walking; instead of you, you are someone else. A deja vu could be an instance of merging universes, of similar histories intersecting and two different selves occupying the same continuum for a few seconds.

Going back to U.P. yesterday made me think of who I would be today if I had stayed at the university and pursued a life of teaching English. I tried to imagine life in a classroom instead of an office, life without advertising, maybe without W, and definitely without 10 people who i now consider indispensable friends. I tried, but couldn't.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the episode "The Wish" in Season 3 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Anya (a vengeance demon) granted Cordelia's wish of a Buffy-less Sunnydale. The new, darker Sunnydale had Xander and Willow vamps, a scarred (and dead) Buffy, a faithless Giles, a sexier Angel and a humorless script.

Could staying or leaving really be so devastatingly life changing?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Afternoon beer with KF after a long trip around Manila was exactly the cooling down that I needed. When music geeks come together the conversation takes the melody of giggling exclamation points. New albums (YeahYeahYeahs and Juliana Hatfield), lousy singers (Purple Chicken) and learning how to baby talk somewhere between the peanuts and travel writing.

In this instance, staying was a good idea. I couldn't have made a better choice.

Not Really the Beginning

I can't get the dates right. I can't decide whether to write about AR or not. But I have. I have deleted my previous blog, and here he is now, the first entry, the only reincarnation of my first blog. It's not that I want to relive the longing and continually punish myself with it; it's really more of not forgetting the innocence of last night's celebration.

We just wanted to be around each other.

Take out the sex, his physical appeal and my hornyness --- what's left is an almost innocent, buddly-flick friendship.

This is what I want to remember.

-----------------------------------------------

Over a smoke while standing outside the Library, I did tell Margie about last night. And she actually found it "cute." Safe. And I think it already is, safe, for us to see each other again. I can keep my pants (painfully) zipped. Nothing that beer can't cure.

Yes, alcohol keeps me more sane than usual. I'm a boring, square drunk that way. The bad fucks and the worse morning-after-the-fuck thing doesn't at all apply. It's when I'm alcohol free that I uhm misbehave. That's my reality. My alternate reality is when my head is spinning from too much rhum and 3 liters of Cable Car's draft, while thinking of ways of how to be good.