I have no doubt in my mind that you have your own method of doing things and in arriving at crucial decisions. I respect that. My hurting is my own humanity and it is something I have been trying to manage since day one. You are a good person, I can tell. And the thought of you hurting anyone -- not necessarily me -- kills you, as you said. You of all people should know what it feels to be in limbo, to be waiting for the sun to set on a day that seems to know no end. The wait is both masochistic and sweet, often a carefree trip down temporary insanity when it suddenly feels like an exercise in futility. Silence, uncertainty, and vague indifference feed this insanity. Affirmation, on the other hand, fuels the engine for another round of waiting. My outburst this morning is my bout of temporary insanity fed by a day of waiting for love's turn. I've lived long enough to know what I need and want. I jump off cliffs if only to learn whether I'll fall hard or maybe grow wings and fly. But the waiting before the jump takes time. And time is powerful. It flows ceaselessly. It builds, destroys. Too, time heals and clears up the fog. I cherish time and its essence. I detest a waste of time especially if it's time better spent knowing someone better, loving someone more, or forging friendships. Your heart is the only thing that can tell you what to do with your time. But it is only when it beats the fastest that it tells you to jump instantly, with no qualms, no questions asked and propelled only by a wind of hope. I have taken a step back last night only to find myself still inches from the edge of the cliff, waiting for your hand. I would like us to jump. Together. Now. While we're still young. Wounds will heal. Scars will fade. They will do so naturally, on their own. Let us not let our time pass trying to prevent things that are beyond our control. Happiness is everyone's goal. But know that one's happiness can very well be at the expense of someone else's. But such is life. It has never been anyone's duty to make everyone happy. But it's certainly crazy not to make oneself happy. I'm happy with you. Jump with me. No ifs, no buts. Just a leap of faith.

The funny thing about fairy tales is that, sooner or later, some smart aleck will come up with an unauthorized sequel or parody that will nip and tuck the original mythology.  

My fairy tale has now officially dragged on, with yet another chapter looming its long, ugly head in the open.  

Sad?  Certainly.  Hopeful? Definitely.  I've read, listened to, or seen many stories -- fairy tales and otherwise -- and I know that one day, maybe far into the future, my happy ending's waiting to close the book.

A friend of mine posted this poem on his site. I immediately remembered listening to Julia Roberts reciting the same in the Il Postino album. Beautiful, I thought. Especially since for two straight Valentine's, I was able to survive the almost unbearable torture of February 14 by finding solace in Julia's candid delivery of this Pablo Neruda masterpiece. But then I was made to realize (by good friends H.F. and Henry Quitain) that NO, it was not Julia who recited this particular poem but... Madonna. Even better.

There's something empowering about this poem. On one hand, it makes a lonely heart feel better and thankful for the gift of single blessedness -- free from the worries that come with anxiously trying to make a relationship work, or the paranoia that sets in when one is not sure whether a partner loves him enough, or at all. On the other hand, it is empowering for people in relationships precisely because it so powerfully expresses the innate human ability to move on. It reassures one or the other that even if the relationship hurtles into destruction, it's still all good.

Aside from empowering, the poem is also manipulative. It's the kind of poetry that you'd whisper to yourself or silently recall in the middle of an LQ or while you're feeling a bit unsure about your partner's feelings. This kind of mental exercise usually happens while your partner is asleep and you can't even manage close your eyes for ten seconds. So you sit on the bed, stare into space, or wander aimlessly inside the room trying to kill that evasive, nagging feeling of doubt.

It's a mental threat -- the type you'd want to send telepathically to your significant other through meaningful stares or pronounced pouting aka pagpapa-cute without giving away too much-- to remind him or her (and yourself) that, yes, you might be in love, but not exactly in a drunken stupor to let yourself be caught unprepared for any eventuality. It's the type of spiel that you'd want to deliver after a serious fight -- if only to lay down your cards and make it perfectly clear that you can also play the game and, more importantly, that you're more than able to call a bluff.

In short, it's something a hopeless romantic would say either in a fit of bravery or in an adrenaline-induced pretense -- all in an effort to pre-empt or cushion a really painful blow.

But believe me when I say that at the end of the day, it is still best kept to oneself. Because just as loudly as it professes the fundamental thesis of Beyonce's Irreplaceable, it also so emphatically promises (with no condition whatsoever) that genuine love -- in whatever permutation, magnitude, or form -- still begets love and the same assurance that everything, however complicated and difficult, will still be all good.

***

If you forget me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Thanks to my best friend Mickey Munoz, I was introduced to Sweeney Todd many years ago. Angela Lansbury and Patti Lupone both played Mrs. Lovett and were spectacular. In the movie version, Helena Bonham Carter's performance was inspired madness, just like Johnny Depp's.

This song, NOT WHILE I'M AROUND, is a favorite because it is most relevant in my life right now. Pay attention to the lyrics.

***

Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around.
Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around.

Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays,
I'll send 'em howling,
I don't care, I got ways.

No one's gonna hurt you,
No one's gonna dare.
Others can desert you,
Not to worry, whistle, I'll be there.

Demons'll charm you with a smile, for a while,
But in time...
Nothing can harm you
Not while I'm around...

Being close and being clever
Ain't like being true
I don't need to,
I would never hide a thing from you,
Like some...

No one's gonna hurt you, no one's gonna dare
Others can desert you,
Not to worry, whistle, I'll be there!
Demons'll charm you with a smile, for a while
But in time...
Nothing can harm you
Not while I'm around...





P.S.
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Benjamin Barker, a skilled barber with a lovely wife who is pregnant with their child, suddenly loses everything. He is sent away on a trumped-up charge to prison at Botany Bay, by the nefarious Judge Turpin, who has designs on his wife. Fast-forward some years later, when Benjamin escapes with help from the steadfast friendly sailor Anthony Hope. Returning to London and taking the name Sweeney Todd, he seeks to find out what has happened to his family. Mrs. Nellie Lovett, the widow who ran the bakery downstairs from Barker's shop, (and always had a crush on him), tells him of their horrible fate, which sends Barker/Todd over the edge into madness, consumed by the thirst for revenge against the Judge. Ever-practical, with the possibility of murder and mayhem afoot, Mrs. Lovett thinks of a fiendishly clever way that they can both make a killing...literally. But she hasn't been forthcoming about everything, unbeknownst to her new partner, and the engines of Fate begin to grind and roar, bearing all the parties involved to an unexpected and devastating denouement

My favorite Broadway musical in ten years.

I've been listening to this one song by Macy Gray. It's looped forever in my car for some reason. It's quite addictive. Funny lyrics, catchy beat, smooth voice.

***

Strange Behavior

[Macy]
This is the story,
about two people
in love.

We were happily married,
Until he waved a gun at me.
I said whats with all your strange behavior.

He said I love you babay
But you got a big insurance policy
And I really
Need the paper.

(Chorus)

Strange behavior by the sea. (se-e-e)
He'd be here
But he's deceased
Strange behavior

[Macy]
I had a big insurance policy
And he had a big insurance policy,
Too!

I said baby if you get a job
You would not have to shoot me now.
He said Oh My God Your such a hata.
But then he chickened out,
I took the gun and shot him down
Cuz I really need the papa.

(chorus)

Strange behavior by the sea. (se-e-e)
He'd be here
But he's deceased
Strange behavior

[Macy]
What was I to do
Sometimes its me or you
I swear that I loved you baby
All I have to say so
I say so
cuz Im rich now

SHHHHHHHHH

Drove his body to the sea
Iissed him on his cold cheek
I said I guess I see you later

And the people all asking me
I say he'd be here but he deceased

Then I go and spend my papa-a
Oh oh oh

(chorus)

Strange behavior by the sea. (se-e-e)
He'd be here
But he's deceased
Strange behavior

He'd be here
He'd be here

he's dead!

"Y Speak has seen some very interesting times.

For three years, the show has been swimming relentlessly in a sea of fantaseryes, koreanovelas, reality shows, and tabloid journalism on-air. For three years, it has managed to survive in an industry strongly hinged on ratings and ad sales.

But Y Speak just kept riding the tide. We evolved, sure, but always went back to that one mission that got us started in the very first place -- the mission of empowering the strong, yet often muffled voices of the Filipino youth. Their issues ranging from identity, sex and relationships, political ideologies, education or the lack thereof, employment or the absence thereof, all the way to their crucial role in society are the tools with which we craft our every episode.

And every time we convene for our weekly line-up meetings, we realize how these issues -- however petty they may be to some -- actually mirror the bigger, harsher issues that our nation has to face today, and well into the future. We realize, more importantly, that long before the youth even begin to take the first steps in becoming responsible citizens of this country, their issues must first be brought to the fore, discussed, and resolved. This is our mission.

Recognitions like this, from the KBP, validate our cause. Thank you very much for rewarding Y Speak in its relentless journey through television clutter, and in its mission to continue serving the youth, the nation.

Isa lamang itong patunay na ang boses ng kabataan, walang inuurungan.

Maraming salamat po."

Britney's new album is great.

Here's a stanza of her song, PIECE OF ME, that (once again) mentioned our country. Sikat talaga tayo.

"I’m Miss American Dream since I was 17
Don’t matter if I step on the scene
Or sneak away to the Philippines
There still gon' be pictures of my derrière in the magazine
You want a piece of me?
You want a piece of me…"

This is a result of the study conducted by the Professional Regulations Commission (PRC) and the Commission on Higher Education (CHED), based on the average passing in the BOARD EXAMINATIONS OF ALL COURSES of all universities and colleges in the Philippines. This study is concluded every 10 years.

Eleven schools come from Luzon, two from the Visayas and seven from Mindanao.

1. University of the Philippines (Diliman Campus /Luzon)

2. University of the Philippines (Los Banos Campus/ Luzon)

3. University of the Philippines (Manila Campus /Luzon)

4. Silliman University (Dumaguete City / Visayas)

5. Ateneo deDavao University (Davao / Mindanao)

6. Ateneo de Manila University (Manila /Luzon)

7. University of Sto. Tomas (Manila / Luzon)

8. Mindanao State University(Iligan Institute ofTech/ Mindanao)

9. Pamantasan ng Lungsod ng Maynila (Manila/Luzon)

10. Saint Louis University (Baguio City / Luzon)

11. University of San Carlos (Cebu City / Visayas)

12. Xavier University (Cagayan de Oro / Mindanao)

13. Mindanao State University (Main / Mindanao)

14. Urios College (Butuan City / Mindanao)

15. Polytechnic University of the Philippines(Manila/ Luzon)

16. De La Salle University (Manila / Luzon)

17. Mapua Institute of Technology (Manila / Luzon)

18. Adamson University (Manila /Luzon)

19. Central Mindanao University (Bukidnon/Mindanao)

20. University of Southern Philippines (Davao /Mindanao)

Five or so years ago, I made a plan. I vowed to retire before 40.
(To be posted in 24 hours)

 

I admit. 

I have been holding on to a delusion for more than two years.  It isn't any of the typical delusions that would lead one to stalk, maim, and go single white female over another.  It's more masochistic, actually.  My unwillingness to accept the truth blinded me from the screaming red light.  It was a messy fit from the get go.  Worse, I was the last to know.  Six months after it all began, everyone else around me knew where it was headed.  Dogs knew it.  Everyone knew about it except me.

It's not as if the delusion was clinical -- bordering the line, maybe, often times stepping on the danger mark -- but hindsight being 20/20, I realize that I may have pushed the envelope too far.  You see, this is absolutely atypical of me, which is why I consider this a life-changing experience.  I have always been able to control my emotions and I knew when something had less chances of survival than an angler fish out of water.  But this one really had me fooled. 

You know how all your friends (mostly the married, kept ones, but especially the bitter and envious ones) tell you that despite your standards, you're bound to end up with someone completely out of your league?  And that when the big L word comes, you lose your sense of self and graciously give in to, well, selflessness?  I believed them.  True enough, this grand philosophy implanted itself in my subconscious and whenever I am faced with the opportunity to save myself from an eternity of isolation, it rears its ugly, amorphous, shiny-shimmering-splendid head.  The delusion I speak of is the spawn of one such opportunity more than two years before today.

When you make it your daily goal to prove that you can rise from the ashes of a miserable, failed relationship, you unconsciously put your guard down.  Suddenly it's like Sudan with UN peacekeeping forces or the 'tetanus' phase of a really bad diarrhea attack.  It really is a dandruff away from desperate.  But, of course, vulnerable would be the word of choice. 

Grand Philosophy X, which is how I will call my friends' unsolicited advice henceforth, and 'vulnerability' are the equally promiscuous parents of my 2-year old autistic kid, aptly named Marty -- short for martyr.  And boy, was this kid spoiled.  When he was barely six months old, he would keep me awake the entire night, make me skip work, and throw tantrums left and right.  On his first birthday, he was already speaking in tongues -- complete paragraphs of unintelligible ramblings that, quite suspiciously, sounded defamatory to my parental skills.  At 2-years, he became curiously attached to alcohol, profanity, and bestial pornography.  Quite recently, he would dress himself in otherworldly fashion -- creating a wild ensemble composed of lingerie, silverware, Ziplock, and double-sided mounting tapes.  This came before he started writing hieroglyphs on walls using chicken blood and leprechaun manure, declaring that the end is near and chanting the remaining hours until the next Heroes and Greys Anatomy episodes would be available for download on Torrent.

I predict that, in the next few months, he'd be surfing the internet for sites that promote hate crimes, instructions on creating a nuclear bomb, or maybe downloading the PDF version of the cult classic, From Anthrax With Love.  It won't be long before he grows into someone I will no longer recognize.  It won't be long before I start scheduling consults with Dr. Katz, or divesting my money in favor of psychiatric insurance.

Last night, while Marty comfortably sprawled on my favorite expensive shaggy silk carpet, I pinned him down, decorated his head with cling wrap (an entire roll), tied his arms and legs with barbed wire and sliced open his throat.  I watched him die a slow, painful death.  My tears (eight in all, I counted) fell on a thick pool of autistic blood.  A few minutes and epileptic attacks later, he was exactly the way I wanted him to be -- motionless and silent.  Easy, I thought.  He didn't even fight for his life.  No bites, scratches, or saliva-slinging like a retard on a birthday party parlor game.  And just like Simon Cowell when Sanjaya was booted out of Idol, I was slightly disappointed.

I admit.  I killed my own kid.  I confess to a heinous crime... against myself.  I ended the life of a two-year old problem child whose existence gave me much pain... but nonetheless negated any and all suspicions I had... on my potency. 

Marty's remains now lie three inches under the wooden laundry basket in the unused room of my three-bedroom home.  Flowers and any such offering from friends, family, or loved ones, are prohibited.  Visits are out of the question.

When the day of reckoning comes and people ask me what's become of the son I so proudly called my own, I'll tell them exactly what I hurriedly scribbled on his death certificate:  Drowned in a Fire.

 

 

 

** Published on the Philippine Daily Inquirer's Youngblood column, May 2007

As far as I can remember, love is the only topic on which my friends and I seem to agree. It makes sense, really. No average reasonable person will argue that love is not a wonderful feeling, or at least something for which to aspire -- unless of course you’re a corpse... or as in most cases, a paperweight. Absolutely everyone with a pulse has loved, is currently in love, longing to love, or begging to be loved. Love is to human emotions as water is to solvent. You can’t get any more universal than that -- my apologies to the motion dancers and their groupies.
1987 marked the year when I first came to grips with the concept of non-platonic love. Yes, I claim to have fallen in love at the tender age of seven when my idea of stress was cleaning out my thermos lunchbox during Fridays so it won’t smell funky when my Mom opens it on Monday to pack my food.
Of course, back then, love was very simple. It woke me up every morning and got me ready five minutes earlier than my school bus. It made me excited during flag ceremonies because it meant standing beside her or -- on days when she would lead either the national anthem or the pledge of allegiance -- seeing her pale, skinny face shining under the morning sun, her Kirsten Dunst lips pretending to sing or mouthing the words so perfectly and in such effortless glamour. She was taller than me like many other girls compared to boys during pre-puberty. Her hair was golden brown under broad daylight, mahogany during the afternoon and, well, a disaster just before dismissal. She was mestiza -- a cross between Cindy Kurleto and, uhm, Carol Dauden. She was confident like Melanie Marquez, graceful like Miriam Quiambao, smart and sharp-tongued like Miriam Santiago, cultured like Yakult.
My heart would beat twice faster whenever she’d walk in front of me, thrice when our distance would fall anywhere under two feet. I was especially fond of nominating her for President of the class or, if she’d lose, for any other position available. The point was - it was I who had faith in her leadership skills, or at least in her power to control... me. She had me at the tip of her fingers and I, in turn, got her under my skin. I was her willing slave -- I’d sharpen her Mongol, lend her my Burnt Sienna or Brick Red crayon, even offer her my 1/2 crosswise intermediate pad complete with one inch margin to the left and half an inch to the right, whenever I'd see her scrambling to find hers somewhere in that black hole she called her armchair. Whenever I was the one assigned to list down the noisy ones during tests (and trust me, I play the part most of the time - probably because I had the reputation of being the biggest snitch in school), I’d pretend I didn’t hear her laughing or gossiping with her Chinese seat mate and, instead, i’d randomly choose one of the nerds at the back who either didn’t have the guts to complain, or were too busy pretending to enjoy reading Sweet Valley High or Choose Your Own Adventure books because, I guess, they thought it makes them look smarter or more mature. And for that alone, I knew I was doing the right thing, everyone else in class a big favor, by making them suffer for their superiority complex.
Sure, she’d talk to me during recess. Our conversations lasted around fifteen seconds on the average, per day, beginning with questions like, “What score did you get in Science kanina?” or “Anong level ka na sa SRA? Ako, brown na.” and other meaningless, stupid questions that required no real intelligent answer. Nevertheless, she’d dignify my questions with decent, straightfoward replies. “Classy,” I thought, while nodding to whatever she said, just to create the impression that I understood and believed what she was saying although, in reality, she already lost me the moment she stopped to even pay attention to my questions.

To be continued...

What does it take to be completely happy?
Is it getting that dream job? Receiving that fat paycheck you've been waiting for since that fateful day when you finally decided not to be a bum and start laboring from nine to five?
Could it be driving your own sparkling set of wheels around town with all your friends in the back seat who, when they're not screaming for you to slow down and avoid colliding with a speeding truck or sideswiping the idiot who seems to think that pedestrian lanes are merely aesthetic, are all eagerly anticipating the next road trip stop where you can continue the endless storytelling in between binges of nicotine, alcohol, or caffeine, or anything and everything else that makes the hours seem longer and the worries of reality a mere distant speck in the pristinely immaculate cumulus clouds... of denial?
Maybe complete happiness is finally boarding the delayed flight to your chosen holiday destination, whether alone or in the company of a stranger to whom you offered your pre-chosen window seat in the exit row? Or landing your right foot into your upgraded hotel room after the long haul and an even longer commute from the suburban airport grounds to the busy metropolitan streets of an exotic Latin American city, or the capital of some former Soviet state-turned-center-of-underground-porn where the native language sounds, well, anything but native to you?
Is it your name being called at a raffle for being the lucky bastard who gets to take home the newly-bartered-state-of-the-art-and-yet-to-be-mass-produced high definition flat screen LCD? Perhaps, it's receiving a well-deserved award for a life's work, getting televised like in the Oscars - tears streaming down your face while desperately gasping for air as you try even harder not to forget the many names in your rapidly disintegrating mental list?
Or maybe it's besting hundreds of other hopefuls in a talent competition, a bikini open (if you're the gym bunny type), a quiz bee, a debate (for which you won by a very clear margin because your dimwit opponents gave a truistic definition or squirreled a human rights debate into a globalization motion), or an essay-writing tilt about global hunger where you were finally able to use that piece of information about Burundi and Ethiopia that you've been hoarding since you read the 2001 World Almanac for yet another debate, which you unfortunately lost because your grandstanding teammate (who happened to be a rebuttal speaker) felt like giving new matter and knifing your arguments like a massacre victim?
Is it winning the heart of that one true love for whom you sacrificed a lot of things you hold dear, not least of which is your ego?
Is it helping those who are less fortunate, the less educated, the differently-abled, the clinically simple? Is it when you've mastered the art of selflessness, martyrdom, or maybe even masochism?
Perhaps it's when you're with your family after so many years of being away from each other, or throwing away a list longer than Earl's after finally making amends for item number 188?
Is it proving your biggest critic wrong? Making an ex, who broke up with you for someone else, fall in love with you over again and grovel as you reciprocate by displaying the patience of a flood?
Is it making peace with your mortal enemy for whom you've lit many a Liwanag candle and cursed like it was the last day for the world's most censorable insults and profanities? Is it finally telling a secret love about your feelings before running away with scissors like a mongoloid in a marathon for special education overachievers (i.e.
honor students, athletes, and print models)?
Is it swapping an extra sticker with the only one that's missing in your prized Marvel, Care Bears, or Rainbow Brite sticker album? Or opening the door to a messenger holding a pre-approved gold credit card for which you never applied?
I can go on and on like a runny nose or make like a street whore during enrollment season but the list will never end. It's like testing the limits of infinity as there are countless permutations to being completely happy. Everyone has his or her own version of happiness. Every blissful moment counts. They might have a world of a difference when compared in scale and application, but it's that funny tingly feeling in the stomach, just when everything falls into place, that is common in every single episode of complete happiness.
Of course, it should never come to pass that I don't remind you of some immutable laws of happiness -- that one's happiness may be someone else's sadness. And that, as in rounds after rounds of rough, raw, unbridled sex where an orgasm lasts for a mere hundredth of the total time spent during fore and actual play, happiness - whether partial or complete - is never a lengthy visitor.
Enjoy it while it lasts. Savor the moment. Because even longer than your list of bliss are the other moments in your life that, you wish, could have been a lot happier.