The Flight of the Rocketman

It has been awhile... well, I guess not really. But only one thing has been occupying my time and thoughts these days and I don't want to get into specifics. I want this to be just mine and mine alone. For the first time, I want to be selfish. This is the first secret I want to keep for myself.

In this regard, I wanted to put a poem that I wrote 2 to 3 years ago... Quite a long time ago, really. It's funny but the person I wrote it for, dedicated it to, no longer matters in my life. I haven't even seen that person in years... Much less has that person been in my mind for quite some time. Are we allowed to change the dedications of things we have written? When you wrote something for a particular person and that person no longer strikes you the same way, can you just switch the names and dedicate it to someone else?

Maybe it loses its magick, its power. The words are still powerful, they still mean something great and deep and meaningful. But because it was not origianally written for the new person it may seem weaker than originally meant. But whatever. "Testimony" is written for someone new. And if it isn't enough, I'll write something else. After all, I've never been more inspired to write for anyone than I do now...

Testimony

You are the burn, I am the swell
the blister, the feel of pain

You are the waking moment, I am
the counting of sheep, the drowse

You are the total bliss, I am
the crash, the fall and the fear

You are the handwritten moment
I am the printed page

You are the dog star’s waking,
I am the dog star’s howl to the moon

You are the letter’s rush, the stamp, the seal
I am the postman’s baggage and journey

You are the falling rain, I am the rise
of vapor, boiling rivers, boiling streams

You are the undertow, I am
the ocean depths

You are the character; the point-of-view
I am the plot – the rise and the fall

You are heliotrope
I am osmosis

You are the hushed whisper
I am echo

You are the wooden bridge
I am the river far below

You are the poem
And I am everything else

If I could do anything for you/ Believe me I would/ Do you feel the same?/ Feel the same as me?/ If I could be anyone for you/ Believe me I would/ I'm not ashamed/ Not ashamed to be/ It's hard for me to know/ Sometimes I feel like letting go/ But what if it all means something?/ What if it all/ What if it all means something/ What if at all -- What If It All Means Something, performed by Chantal Kreviazuk (written by Chantal Kreviazuk and Raine Maida)

And what is a little lunacy? A little craziness in a life that was spent in depression and sadness and loneliness? And when the good things come, to just take it all in and forget everything else first? To give yourself a week to enjoy the feeling, to allow yourself to get overcome by these series of moments? To have a genuine smile on your face and the fact that you want to do things for people, not just for one person, but for everyone because you know, there is just so much of you to give?

Happiness can do that for you. Energize you and forget all the cynicism and jaded-ness that you used to feel. Before, I always said, 5 days in Boracay during summer with my friends could revitalize my soul from the day-to-day grind of when I was working regular hours. Those 5 days where I am surrounded by sun, sand, water, wind and happy people would make it easier to go through the rest of the year. And it was true.

But now, the sun, sand, water, wind and all those happy people have been compressed to just one person and this drives me forward. This makes me want to achieve my dreams. This makes me want to go on. But not yet, let me enjoy this week first. Let me have my genuine smiles and my selfish moments where I just want to be alone.

Let me just fill myself up with all of this. This thing that I don't want named, because without a name, it has no definition, and without a definition, it can still become anything, everything. It has a chance to grow, like some tree, up into the sky and just branch out and reach far and wide. There is no fear, the roots are strong. They will not be so easily torn away from the Earth.

This feels like home to me. I used to be a happy child with no stress, no worries. I used to jump and smile easily. A laugh was a common thing - laughter for its own sake. This feels like home to me.

For two days the internet has been fucking up so I haven't gone on-line. But it seems to be working now. I mean, this is my livelihood, for God's sake! If I can't e-mail my articles, if I can't browse through the net for research, how am I going to get any work done.

Technology is amazing, really. It saves me a lot of trouble and little inconveniences. But it has also made me very complacent. If something terribly wrong happens to the internet or to my cell phone, for that matter, I'll be crippled. I'm a child of this new century, I can't work long hand anymore (unless I'm writing poetry, or a recent obsession - song lyrics) and if computers stopped working, I'm afraid of having to start from scratch regarding writing short stories long hand.

But I've begun writing in my journal again - the one in an actual journal with pages and ink and everything. I've been hit by a sudden inspiration to take down my day-to-day. Unlike this journal, that is more mundane. Completely un-literary and meant only to record what has transpired and, in the most banal way, what I felt about it. No flights of fancy with words and feelings and ideas. Just your average day-to-day.

And so much has been happening with me. Something has come into my life and I could just breathe it in and be so happy about it. Right now, I'm obsessing about it, I want more of it again and again but I can't wait for that time where it just becomes something that is so familiar that I don't obsess about it, because I know it won't go away. It's there and it won't walk away.

I drink a case of you/ and I'll still be on my feet/ Yes, I'll still be on my feet -- Case of You, written and performed by Joni Mitchell

And it shocks me to listen to songs in this mood and all of a sudden they've changed their meanings. Sad songs become hopeful. Happy songs become ecstatic. Love songs become so moving. And then, at one point, I read all the works I've written before and I want to change all the dedications. It is as if I wish my past were different to accommodate this new thing in my life. Poems, songs, stories, written because of and for other people now all gravitate to a different name. Beautiful things that I've written, moving things... I wish that they were meant for someone else. And now, I mean them for someone else. Especially "Testimony," which I wrote for someone that I never got to know. Well, that person can fade away into the darkness. That person is barely on my mind anymore, anyway. But this thing that has gotten a deep hold into me. It deserves all the beauty I can create.

Has anyone ever written anything for you/ And on your darkest hours do you ever hear me sing?/ Well, listen to me now/ You know I'd rather be alone/ Than be without you/ Don't you know that?/ I want you to remember me -- Has Anyone Ever Written Anything for you, written and performed by Stevie Nicks

And I know I am not alone because there are all these songs and all these poems that echo and resonate with the way my pulse beats, the way my heart rises and then falls. All these songs, these sentiments, are one and the same. And in some sick, twisted sense of glee, I am just like Stevie Nicks, Joni Mitchell, Jewel, sarah McLachlan, Kate Bush, Tori Amos, Dido, Nelly Furtado, David Bowie, Bruce Springsteen, Bono (of U2), Sting and whoever else out there who has written such beautiful things. Robert Bly, William Blake, William Shakespeare, Anne Carson, Rumi, Myra Shapiro, Margaret Atwood, Ian McEwan and all the other poets, writers and whoever else who has lived a life that had love flowing through it.

More than anything, love is a fuel that allows us to continue on living and not just living, but living beautifully. How come it has happened so late in my life? It doesn't matter. As long as I embrace it tight enough to never ever forget how it felt... Then it would all be worth it.

I get afraid/ Don't think ahead/ Let's just stay/ This way in bed/ Feels so good inside your arms/ Home is everywhere that you are -- This Way, performed by Jewel (lyrics by Jewel Kilcher and music by Jewel Kilcher and Rick Nowels)

To a particular someone: I am moved by you. At one point, I am vulnerable and so easily broken. At another point, I am strong and wise and older. You may not have the confidence to do all that is expected of you. If only you could see yourself through my eyes. Beauty was never so blinding than it was to me that moment. I was moved and I had thought that I was immobile. I thought I was not able to leave this space where I was comfortable. Am I making mountains out of molehills? I feel things too quickly, too soon. I want to take things slow but always moving forward. There is so much to learn. But you are in here. And I don't know how to be anymore. I'm afraid because it just feels so right.

Your hands are in my hair but my heart is in your teeth -- Near You Always, written and performed by Jewel

I have always felt that one of the most important things in the world is connection. To be able to connect to someone, to try and learn as much as you can about a person. To see someone's soul. It is a journey that requires much commitment. I'd like to think I'm good at this. In this way, I am a traveller. I have been gifted with some semblance of trustworthiness. People tell me things that they don't usually tell other people. And I am always ready to reciprocate. And in that, there is a bond that is created. And I have begun my journey. And time does not wear away what is learned. Sometimes, I forget. But more often than not, I remember. If it mattered to me, I remember. It is a blessing and a curse. I am so taken by a whole moment of connection. I see everything around me. I listen to other conversations in other tables but I am still here. And I hear you, I see you, I feel what you are feeling. And slowly, the world fades away and it is just you and me and our history laid out before us, just waiting to be told.

And when I'm on my journey, are you in yours? When I am on my way to you, are you on your way to me?

And you wake up to realize/ Your standard of living somehow got stuck on survive// When you're standing in deep water/ And you're bailing yourself out with a straw/ And when you're drowning in deep water/ And you wake up making love to a wall/ Well it's these little times that help to remind/ It's nothing without love -- Deep Water, written and performed by Jewel

Why is it we are afraid when faced something that we want? Is it that we are so used to labour and toil that when it comes flying by at you, our first instinct is to reject it as being something flawed or coming with a price that we might not be willing to pay? What is it really to just grab all the beautiful opportunities that come our way and not look back? Would we really regret it, to have something that you really wanted for one night? I was asked, "Wouldn't it better to have something for one moment than to never have it at all?" My answer was something like this: "If having it for one moment meant never being able to have it ever again, no. I don't think it would be worth it." But then again, thinking about it now and how I've lived my life; considering the fact that I don't forget. Maybe one moment of it is would be worth it. Love and comes and goes. It is us who are left behind wondering whether it meant anything.

But it did mean something. Otherwise, we wouldn't be where we are, still waiting for it to come back, or if you are one of the fortunate, cherishing it for all its worth.

If u want my heart/ U have 2 promise not 2 tear it apart/ 'Cause my heart/ Has been hurt a lot/ And it always seems/ Love is not sweet, like in dreams/ Something falls through/ But I don't want that 2 happen 2 me and u -- Fragile Heart, performed by Jewel

Love at times is minimal; it says, Hold On
And as time runs out says nothing more.
-- It Mends, Peter Abbs

To a particular someone: Why do we engage in this game of cat and mouse? Sometimes you're hot and other times you are cold. We all know you are leaving in 3 weeks. And one moment you are all giddy and excited like a little child, somewhat happy to see me. You tease, you flirt, you smile. And then, just so suddenly, after the movie, you are brooding, off tangent, oblique. Remember, it was you who wanted to chase, so I let myself be chased. It was you who wanted to "hand out" with me. So we hung out. And all of a sudden, I get the cold shoulder. I thought I had shown you interest? And now, that nothing is defined or settled, I get these random texts of your returned interest. We all know that this is just some game to be taken as far as we will let it. You will leave in 3 weeks and have someone to return to. We are both old enough to know what we are getting into.

And what about the other night when we went out? Is it true you were hitting on someone else? Did you not think it would reach me? As I have said, I will know of it. After all, people tell me everything. I will know. But do I bother telling you that I know? I am not the confrontational type at all. But this is all just a little game, right? But then again, if it is a game, then why will I take it personally that you hit on someone else when you wanted to "hang out" with me?

Ah! The little games people play. I have said often, I used to play games. And I played them well. I was very good at them, actually. The only reason why I lost was that I took the outcome of every game seriously, personally. And when you start doing that, it is no longer a game. And that's the only reason why I was losing. In hindsight, I shouldn't have played those little mind games. Of course, there is always a turn on when engaged in a good mind fucking but at the end of the day, we are all grown-ups here. We shouldn't play anymore, right? It is not something I should be proud about.

And now, I am surrounded by people, strangers and on the other side of the field, old friends and relatives. I am torn by the new and the old. This slight power struggle of digging deep into the psyches of these new people, learning more about them and checking out to see if they are all what I am making them out to be. And then, to further learn more about the people I already know. To see if the mark that I tried to make on them will stick, will become more than just a reminder that I was here. The new and the old. The exciting, thrilling mystery versus the comfort and security of the familiar.

If only there were two of me. No! What a frightening idea! I'd probably end up killing myself. No. There is no solution gained from such double existence. There is only the here and the now and what I must do.

Time. There is only so much. And to think it is only a man made thing.

On some dark night, consider this; beware --
your name may be on a menu somewhere.
-- Lines to a Missionary, Roddy Lumsden

You know? I've slowly begun reading the on-line journals of other people. Very slowly. I've decided, when I first started this thing, I don't know exactly what to call it, but when I first started writing here, I didn't want to read other people's stuff first so I could just go on and on without thinking I'm doing this wrong or something like that. If I read other people's on-line journal, all of a sudden, I might try to start writing like they do. I didn't want to be influenced in that way. I just wanted to write freely. As I have stated before, this is merely a place for my mental excretions. I have no literary ambitions here except maybe for a line somewhere that I can use for future work. But this is just merely an outlet for me to be heard. To tell anybody willing to listen that I'm here and I am thinking. Therefore, I am. I am a thinking person and I exist.

I am slowly making my mark, albeit in virtual space. One powerful black-out and it will be all over. But hey! It's a step, right?

And so I'm slowly beginning to read other people on-line journals now. I feel like I can without it affecting my writings here. So I read two journals written by old friends that I haven't heard from in a long while. That was great, in a strange way, it was like keeping touch.

And I am surprised that people have been reacting to this journal and I am surprised at the people who have told me that they were affected in some way by the things that I have written here. It really feels good to know that I am connecting. Some of these people I've never met or even heard of. And I've been told that the things I write here make them feel that they aren't alone or going through things alone; some one else feels the same way that they do. And of course, it goes vice versa as well. I know I'm not going through things alone. Some one else is feeling the same things I am feeling also. All of a sudden, the truth that I've always known is apparent to me. Everyone is one and the same. Everything is one and the same. It has been something I've always tried to show in my writing - the poems and some of the short stories I write. I'm always trying to prove that, in a world of metaphorical thinking, everything is one and the same. Everything is one.

It's that idea of magic. That it all exists unless you've proven it in your hearts that it doesn't exist. It's faith, really. And how strange, I'm not really a religious person, but I guess I've always been spiritual. And I found it through poetry, really. I guess that's why I love poetry so much, especially the ones with great symbols and metaphors - their objective correlatives. It's just so cool.

God! I'm rambling again... Actually, I think I'm babbling again. How foolish. I think I'm writing here like a child. I'm quite embarrassed but truth is, I'm very taken by this whole experience. This whole connection that is derived from reading someone else's on-line journal and from the reactions of people who have read mine. It's quite thrilling. I feel so vulnerable yet so free. I feel like someone has just stripped me naked in front of thousands of people and there is nothing wrong about being naked. And that feels good.

Funny, about nudity. I've always wanted to be have nude photos of myself. I just thought of it as some way to deal with all my physical insecurities, you know? The shots, to be worked on with the photographer, would be artistic. And though, I guess I wouldn't mind it being seen by others, it doesn't have to necessarily be so. It's really just for myself, to be completely naked and shot with a camera and to see those pictures. It must be such a powerful release. All of a sudden you have no choice but to deal with the way that you look when you see those pictures. You will completely understand the full extent of your sexuality; what you are capable of as a sexual individual. It must be amazing to pose under lights under the gaze of a cold lens and a sudden flash of light, knowing whatever you look now will be trapped forever in a two-dimensional sheet of paper. And that's it. Forever framed in a moment that will never go away; it can be hidden in an envelope or framed in glass for all to see at some exhibition.

True, in our world today, there's nothing new about nudity. Art has been a lame excuse for others to distribute their filth and their apparent usage of lust as a marketing tool. But, if done just for yourself, just for that moment, with someone you trust, those pictures can be a sort of liberation of all your physical insecurities. That, at one moment, you were naked and there were no judgements. No one praising you or laughing at you for whatever physicality that you've been blessed or cursed with. For that one moment, you are yourself as you were born, only older. I believe it must be a powerful thing.

And after all, there's really nothing we can do about our bodies. We can only do with what we have been given by our genes (and if you believe in it, by our creator, whoever he/she may be). And some wise ass might say, but we can work out and make our bodies look better. And yes, we can. But under whose standards do we follow when we say better? In truth, there is only our own. And that's all that matters.

One day, I'll have those shots taken. I'll hold that photograph of myself clothed in nothing more but shadows and light and I'll hear a window opening, and all my insecurities flying away like a murder of crows, off to find some other person to plague. And I will be alright.

He was enjoying what he was doing.
The look was one of pure rapture.
-- Adolescence, Frank Bidart

I was about to say, that again, somehow, I take as many steps back as I take steps forward. I did a nasty thing and it was voluntary and wasn't at all spur of the moment. It was tempered by time. I could've stopped myself at any moment, stopped it from happening. But I let it go. I let it happen.

But as I write these things, I wonder if some people read it and think it is them that I am talking about. I wonder who exactly reads my journal and if any people who have graced through this blog (albeit, anonymously) realise that it is them I am talking about. Or are there people who look here and think, "Oh my God? He's talking about me, isn't he?"

The points of reference is blurred by the vagueness of my writing. As much as I would like to name the names, they are not my names to just say and blurt out. This is my journal, not theirs.

A while ago, I watched Fight Club and forgot how good it was. Everytime I watch that movie, I feel like someone just punched me in the gut. It is so real despite the surreality of the fiction. The emotion, the passion is very real to me. The need to release, to let go, to relax. The need to find some sort of freedom. To get away from the restrictions of society, a society, mind you, that I love so well and so badly feel like I need to adhere to. And Brad Pitt is such a good actor. God! How I need Tyler Durden come into my life and beat me into a bloody pulp.

And if Fight Club was real, would I have joined? Damn right, I would be there. I'd be there once every two weeks, throwing punches, kicking with all my might. Would I have won? That isn't the point. I'm letting go, I'm letting lose. I wouldn't have joined all that anarchic fanaticism. That's not my style. But getting in that circle for the single moment of freedom, of disregard would be bliss. A different kind of bliss.

It would have been great, though, to watch all those credit card companies lose their records. Let everyone start from scratch. It's not fair to them, they earned their money fair and square. We borrowed and we must pay. But at this point in the game, if the house always wins, we better pack our bags, hold on to whatever little we are left with and move on to the next place.

Give me a one way ticket to the next phase of my life, please. I'll sit on the aisle seat of the sixth row. I'll adjust the airconditioner vents so that they are not directed towards me. I'll take out my book and read 3 chapters on the way. And then, I'll tilt the seat and fall asleep. When I wake up, I want to be well rested and 20 minutes away from my destination.

I want to be there and I want to get there well-rested yet awake.

We fill pre-existing forms and when we fill them we change them and are changed.

Everything in art is a formal question, so he tried to do it in prose with much blank white space.
-- Borges and I, Frank Bidart

"A work of art is an accumulation of details." -- Eric Bentley

"Remember, it is the property of being illogical that makes miracles what they are..." -- Kaily Chua

And in one simple twist of fate, things have begun to look up. Not completely. But in tiny little bits, in tiny little moments, certain phone calls and certain texts, in a sudden rush of activity and then a slow moving; things have become better.

I've thrown away old pictures of my past. Remnants, tangible things that need not exist except in my head and those that were present. I took my old journal, the one I have yet to write in again since July 10, 2003 and read testimonies, my testimonies of becoming stronger; my record of good times and bad times. I close it. I think about writing on a journal again but I feel I should start on a new, empty book. To write on the old one when there is still so many pages left that need to be filled, it seems wrong. It is a different hand that guides the strokes of the pen.

But I am not one to waste trees. There is still a lot of pages to go. All it takes is a little effort, a lot of ink and remembrance.

'I live my life twice when I write..." -- Sylvia Plath

There is no destination that has been foreseen. We all arrive at any one spot and wonder how we got here. We long for different shores; arrivals filled with joy and happiness. We believe it is what we deserve. And we do. But we never get there. We wander around this foreign land that we call "the moment" and look at our maps and realise we have strayed from the road.

"The road has strayed from us!" -- Into the Woods, book by James Lapine

We long for the things we strive for and wander at the things that we end up with. It is not all bad. 12 silver coins made in 1940, 3 glass jars that is 10 years from being antique (if only I can wait that long), a collection of CDs, books and DVDs, pictures waiting to be replaced, thrown away, given up, and a lifetime of love and hate, sadness and anger, laughter and joy. No, we wander why we still long for things when we have so much already. No matter who you are, you have so much.

in longing you close your eyes,
but in wonder you open them.
-- Longing and Wonder, Myra Shapiro

This is elation, the elusive bliss in yet a different form. Now, I think that I am not trying to find it just to be able to feel it rushing through me, but I am here to record it, define it, categorizes in the many guises it wears. Today, I'm drunk with it. Famine and feast. 6 years. Such a long time 6 years. And now, it has come, rushing, flooding my body with it and it is overflowing from my ears, my mouth, my pores. I don't know how to be. All of a sudden, I feel no hate, no contempt.

Is it this easy to forgive? I never thought it would be without forgetting. This is all illusion. For if I were not feeling this, it wouldn't be so easy to just forgive. I read my journal and remembered the many betrayals and abandonment that has transpired. The anger is gone. I read without fury, without resentment.

Is this the goal? Is this the destination? What is it truly that I want? Reality? But the illusion tastes so sweet. And it doesn't last forever. So why not revel in it when it comes?

But it is truth, for this is how I really feel at this particular moment, at this particular time. This is magickal. How can you say there is no such thing as magic? It is here. This transformation. Anger transmuted into love. Resentment, frustration, anguish shifting into calm.

"Only 9% of everything we say is understood for what they mean..." -- Roddy Lumsden

Really? It sounds truthful but I have to ask, "isn't it because 91% of the time, we only hear what we want to?" This is the magic that remains among all people: the ability to change the quality of truth into that which we need it to be at the moment. We are such powerful beings!

This day has been so strange. I spent most of the late afternoon packing up my little pad. Putting all of my Dad's things in boxes so it can be sent to him in Bacolod. Later on, I start cleaning up my stuff and I find old pictures of the days before I became what I am now. I found pictures of my bohemian days in College. Pictures of my unkempt hair, my oversized clothes, my crazy poses and faces. I saw pictures of my old friends and my ex. I saw an old polo shirt from High School, on graduation day, filled with writings from my friends in High School. I threw them all away. No record kept of those days. They are all gone. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. And I don't hold a special place for those things anymore. The memories in my head seem like a better place to keep them. I can twist it and change the little details in my head to what I need them to be. I'll always remember them for how it was truly, really, but when the time comes, I can adjust it, tweak it to make it what I want it to be or even what I need it to be.

In a way, I was saying good bye to my little pad. Slowly, I am moving back in with my Mom and letting go of the place so my brother and my sister-in-law can take over. No more wild parties. No more little rendezvous. No more private intimate moments there. It is now whatever my brother and sister will want it to be. The power to breathe life into that place is no longer mine to control. It is theirs now.

And there was sadness, the sadness that always comes when you are letting go of something or saying good bye. And in a way, by getting rid of old papers, notes, letters and pictures, I was saying good bye to things that were. They never will be again. And I guess, at the time, it was better to have nothing tangible to hold on to. I'll just keep it in my head. In a way, it is better. It makes things more meaningful. It happened and I know it and I don't need some object to remind me that it did occur.

And then, just a while ago, in a very uncomfortable moment of being teased and cajoled, I got swept away. I find myself smiling and I'm giddy all over. And things are extremely complicated. And I know it is transient, fleeting, even improper considering the other person's current situation; but I can't help but smile and shiver. I was swept away but a smile. And I'm being chased in the way that I want to be chased. My God! I don't even know if I had a chance to flirt with all my giddy feelings. I guess not... but my body reacted accordingly.

How strange! I feel so happy all of a sudden, like everything is right in the world, you know? Everything is the way it should be. I mean, things are still shitty - my finances, my relationships with certain people, my life in general. But this tiny little niche just opened up and I find myself falling in. And for what? Breakfast? Hehehe I'm actually giggling.

And what? All of a sudden, all the darkness seems to lift, even for a moment. I'm not falling in love. I hope not. Because I'll just get hurt in the process. But this little bit of bliss... how strange... I don't know what to say? My goodness! I'm struck dumb!

Another poem...

Manananggal

1.
On the car stereo on my way to work, the AM announcers read
from the unseen papers where everything must be true
that over 70 people were killed by a Manananggal in Cavite.
The image of a woman flying without her lower half, twenty feet
wingspan, like those of a bat and a hunger of a more carnal kind,
robs me of peace. I can imagine her sharp teeth tearing out skin,
her arms claw at the stomach, making their way to the liver and spleen.
This must be a feast of both innards and liquor: Kidneys heavy with Red
Horse and the stomach lining still wet with Tanduay or Ginebra or Gilbey’s.
Somewhere, a woman is sleeping, her hair black as coals, her hands
holding her skirt down to her legs. The cold bites at her thighs, her shins,
her knees. She is shivering. As she exhales, she is recognized
as the town drunkard.

2.
During our coffee break, you scare me by saying that we are destined
to love someone who is like ourselves. In-between sips of coffee black
and coffee with milk and cream and sugar, I mention that I was in love
once. Was he like you, you ask, did he always come late for work
and always talked about the lonely nights and the lonely days? Did he
eat alone in restaurants, with a book and a rose as his only companion?
Was that how you found each other and eventually got tired of the same
old-same old? No. We were much different. He was a vegetarian
and couldn’t stand the smell of meat or blood. I just got tired of cooking
chop suey and tossing salads. I got tired of wanting more and needing less.
Don’t we all was your smart-ass reply. You turn to go. Our fifteen minutes
are up. Behind you, you will not see me leave my lower half behind,
where lay dead the legs and torso of one who has not learned how to satisfy
hunger by taking only what is necessary to life and love.

Met an Indian boy, in Ottawa
He laid me down on a bed of straw
Said don't waste your breath
Don't waste your heart
Don't blister your heels
Running in the dark

Oh where, of where will I be
Oh where, when that trumpet sounds
-- Where Will I Be, performed by Emmy Lou Harris and written by Daniel Lanois

I hate dreams that are so real, you wake up and still have feelings of hatred and anger or hopelessness. Some dreams seem real that you couldn't tell you were in dream. You wake up and you're wondering if it really happened. A great big fight ensues, shouting, things were said that were real, things you feel the other person wants to say to you, you say things that you really want to say to that person. You end up waking angry, tired, frustrated.

I'm in a dark mood these days. The shadows of past crimes have come forth and covered me in darkness. I am all darkness and I can't even go out to exhibit it. I must stay home. I can't even do bad things because I've put myself under house arrest. The gym just becomes a wonderful place to expel all that energy. I haven't gone dancing in a long time. I'm glad you don't forget how to dance. It's all part of the way you hear music. It's all part of how you let music take over your body. I'm glad I will never forget how to dance. I just wish that there was somewhere I can go to where I can dance. There are no more real clubs anymore. It's such a shame. There's really a big difference, to me, dancing to R&B and hip-hop and dancing to house music.

Some people have even turned away from me. I don't know why. A joke turned into a cruel realisation of who I am. It has come back to haunt me. My distance and space from my friends have been misinterpreted, maybe. They don't care. They just want what I can give. The others, no matter how far the bridge I make to reach them, a storm always comes to break it apart.

And I'm left alone with strangers to talk to. I am connecting to family again. It's about time. But the shadow falls, the darkness consumes. I want out. I want to see the light again.

And when the trumpet sounds, where will I be? What will I be doing? And where will I be sent or called to? These are dark times for me. The year of the Monkey has begun to step out of hiding from the tree tops and has begun his mischief. His canny ways, his slyness. Will I be able to survive it? Will I be able to flourish? Will I try to be as cunning?

Do I have what it takes?

And I asked Henry, my bartending friend
If I should bother dating unfamous men

And Henry said, "You're lucky to even know me.
You're lucky to be alive.
Your lucky to be drinking here for free
Cause I'm a sucker for your lucky, pretty eyes."

And then he said, "Do you want to be a Polyester Bride?
Or do you want to hang your head and die?
Do you want to find alligator cowboy boots they just put on sale?
Do you want to flap your wings and fly away from here?"
-- Polyester Bride, written and performed by Liz Phair

And despite how sleepy and tired I am, I still end up picking the pieces and opening the door for other people. I want to say "no" but at this point, it would be cruel and unfair since I've never said "no" before. I'm not a confrontational person, so for me to say "no more" would mean a whole long list of things that need not be said. Need not be said right now.

But already, I've been saying the "n" word. I haven't gone out in a while and I won't be in a long while. I've got to get my life back in order and going to the gym everyday and then going back home to read a book that won't end and working on possibilities that hope grow into something I can harvest.

At this point in my life, I really just want to spread my wings and fly away from here. Nothing I do is good enough for some people that really matter, and unfortunately, are so nearby that they can make their comments and whenever they please. Sometimes, you can never outlive your past from the people who have been with you since birth. It gets suffocating. And you know you did wrong, but some people will just never let you forget.

I guess that's the price I am paying. Things could be much worse. It could be a hell of a lot worse, I suppose. But I'm soft and weak and used to the good life. My skin is brittle, fragile, supple. I break easy. I will break easy nowadays. I easily fall for carefully placed words and indiscreet intentions on text. I'm so easily swept away. And I know that things will not be okay in the next few months.

I know that somewhere, someone is holding me high up above his or her head with a smirk. He or she will send me crashing down to suffer gravity and I will shatter into a thousand pieces. I can already hear the sound, it's been like a death knell, ringing and ringing in my ear. All I have to catch me is the knowledge that even I can survive this; that things will get better.

After all, there is no way else to go when you are down in the dumps but up.

The Rocketman is flying through the universe, low on gas, hoping to get home. But it isn't home he pines for. It is a different place. Hopefully somewhere better. Somewhere he can make his own. He doesn't step on the gas, but cruises on, floating through space. Hoping some distant planet's gravity will take him in and drag him closer and closer. Maybe to land on alien soil. And feel the coldness of alien air.

A poem of mine:

Beached

And now it has to be over.
There will be no more coming back to me.

The ocean has receded into the depths
And will no longer be seeking refuge by the shore.
The moon is the beautiful betrayer
Our only light in the darkness
But the controller of the tide.
And in the many years of waiting,
I am no longer a beach, but a desert.

And now it has to be over.
There will be no more coming back to me.

In my waiting, without the nourishment of water,
The trees wilt, the gulls fly away.
I am just but many specks of sand
With only traces of your passing on my body.
I am adorned in shells and driftwood,
Signs of life that once was coming and going.
There will be no more coming and going.

And now it has to be over.
There will be no more coming back to me.

No more questions, no more waiting.
I am just here, a geographical landscape
Of something that has tasted life
And then drowned in its flavors.
Another deserted beach, another hollow form
In this planet we call wanting.

And now it is over.
You will not be coming back to me

The Hermit stands isolated on a snowy mountain peak, holding up a lantern to guide those below. This is the light Lamp of Truth, containing thin it the six-pointed star, the Seal of Solomon. The hermit carries a patriarch's staff to use on the narrow path of initiation. His cloak is the mantle of discretion, and in some decks he partly covers the lantern with it as if to protect Truth from profane eyes.
He is ready to go to the help of every man who cries for Light. He remains on the heights throughout the long nights of spiritual darkness. Only those who dare, do, and keep silent can see the light of the Hermit's lamp. "Be humble, if thou wouldst Wisdom; be humbler still when Wisdom thou hast mastered!" (from The Voice of Silence)
-- A Complete Guide to the Tarot by Eden Gray

I watched Return of the King again yesterday. It really is a gorgeous, wonderful film. What an honour, for all those actors to have been a part of that. They may forever basked in the shadows of obscurity, but will forever be remembered for the roles and the parts that they have played in that film. I believe, most notably, will Ian McKellen (Gandalf), Bernard Hill (Theoden) and Miranda Otto (Eowen). And on this third film, Sean Astin (Sam) and Elijah Wood (Frodo) will also be remembered for such stellar, grand performances.

Every moment that Gandalf smiles, I feel comforted and at ease. Everytime Theoden makes a speech, I sit up on the theatres and pay attention. After all, he is a great king of man. And the strength and courage of Eowen, I felt from the tips of my hair until the ends of my toes. What a beautiful woman! What an amazing actress!

It is moments like these when I wish I had more strength, courage and will to stand up and try and be it an actor. It would be great to just fall deeper and deeper into a part during shooting. To discover what it is like to have to change your movements: the way you walk, stand, smile. To talk with a different inflection and accent. To react to things differently. To be someone else, entirely.

I'm thinking of doing that. Changing me. Something has got to give. I've been saying that for the past 2 years and nothing has. They call it your "comfort zones" because that is exactly what it is, a place of comfort and the way I have been living my life has been comfortable. Everything is expected and it is so easy to predict the outcomes of any situation because I have done it before and I will be doing it again. It is so easy to fall into the trap of habit that you don't realise that you have stopped growing. You have stopped getting better, you have stopped improving on yourself. You're just going around in circles, like a wolf trying to bite its own tail.

There is nothing great about getting dizzy chasing after something you already have.

Wrote a letter to the future
Asking for directions
It came back to me, return to sender
There I go
Am I here yet?
Am I here yet?
Am I?
-- Am I Here Yet? (Return to Sender), Performed by Billie Myers, written by Billie Myers & David Tyson

Last night was just too weird for me. I'm still reeling from the blow; from the confusion. I get scared, because during the whole prospect of learning about myself, figuring things out and my whole reaction towards the joke, the Jester, the one who played the joke on me, learned a little bit more about me. Now, of course, I'm scared that the friendship might be affected. After all, you discover something so shallow about the person. How can you not shy away from something so... I don't know? Vile? But then again, I'm turning mole hills into mountains. It might not be such a big deal. And not everyone is like me, who feels things so quickly and strongly, that something so little is turned into something so huge and big. Some people take things for face value and react accordingly. They know the meaning of restraint and control. They look at things how they are meant to be looked at. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm living my life correctly.

Passion is so important to me; the fuel that runs the engine of my life. I want everything to mean something, even having a few laughs, having fun. It has got to be a bigger part of some process of getting to know somebody or of sharing something significant in the process of a growing friendship. Passion. It is so important to me. It helps me write. It helps me create. It helps me think that I can be significant and important. It drives me to continue creating. It helps me move on and get through the day to day.

This neverending quest for meaning. I don't try to discover what the meaning of life is. I try to make meaning from the life that I lead. And without passion, it seems that there is no meaning to be derived from the life that I lead. At one point, you just want to make your mark, like carving your name on a tree or writing on some desk in a classroom "Wanggo was here."

I was here. And so, I try to leave something behind. I write. I act. I try to leave imprints of myself on people, marking them with a "Wanggo was here" and hoping, wishing that when they hear my name, they get this complete and vivid picture of me. Leaving imprints on people's minds. So that if tomorrow and I die, and I haven't left anything significant of myself on this world, maybe someone out there will keep me treasured in their minds and their hearts.

People sometimes ask, "what is your greatest fear?" My answer is immediate: Anonymity. Who wants to fade away? Disappear in a puff of smoke? Not me. I'm going away blasting, fighting, moving at the speed of light. With the passion in my heart, that's the only way I want to go.

Someone played a joke on me. In all fairness, it was a good joke and if I wasn't hoping too much that it was real, I would have probably laughed at it and everything. But because I wanted it to be real, I took it seriously and I almost cried. I think I did. It truly ruined my world for that singular moment. Explaining the journal entry right before this one. I so wanted the joke to be real, all of it. I thought, for the first time, I was going to get something I want. Then, as all jokes do, they turn sour and that would have been funny too, but I couldn't laugh with it. In a sense, I needed it to be real. Sometimes, we hold on to little dreams and would be so happy at even the thought it might come true.

I was in the middle of chatting when I was writing the journal entry previous to this. That's why I got so fucked up during and at the end of that entry, I kinda turned up-side down. I really don't know what is real and what is not. And I envy the people who do because as much as you would want that statement to be false, it is true, there are people who know what is real and what is illusion, what is fake and what is a big, fat joke.

Sometimes, you have to ask yourself questions, find out who you really are and be prepared for the answers. Because sometimes, you won't be happy with the answers that you get. Sometimes, you won't be able to believe the answers that you receive. But you have to be prepared for what happens next. And you have to be strong enough to do what must be done.

Sometimes, you'll be pleasantly surprised by the answers. And you can go on living your life like you were, as is. And everything will remain fine and okay.

Sometimes, there are no answers that come; the questions remain unanswered. And though that may be scary, I just experienced the first situation -- because I didn't ask the question, but the answers came anyway and I wasn't happy with them. I wasn't happy with what I discovered about myself. And I have no choice but to do something about it. Because there is no way I can live like this.

I remember that song. I can't remember who sang it but it goes something like this, "I started a joke, and it got the whole world laughing..."

I think, in a way, I know why they wrote that song...

Lily is dancing again on the table we've all been Pushed too far I guess on days like this you know who your friends are Just another Dead fag to you that's all just another Light missing on a long Taxi ride Taxi ride And I'm down to Your last cigarette and this "We are One" crap as you're invading this thing called love -- she smiles way too much but I'm glad you're on my side, sure I'm glad you're on my side still -- Taxi Ride, written and performed by Tori Amos

You know what? I think people are generally good inside. I think deep down inside, there's this gene that makes people want to do good things. I think, maybe, desperate times call for desperate actions and that's why some people act like animals. This may contradict an earlier journal entry, saying that there is very few things that separate people from animals... That people are really just animals, with the capacity to rationalise and reason out why they do the things that they do.

But today, I saw someone, just lying down and looking at me and though we didn't know each other too well, there was something there. It wasn't love. It was tenderness. And I felt so bad because I had to send that person away. I was done. It was over. And would it have been so bad to just give a hug, to lay there for a little while longer? As I looked at that person's eyes... it occured to me, people are not bad. They're just doing the best they can. The best they know how.

But then again, I'm at a tender stage right now. I know that I will believe something else entirely if something bad is done to me. But at this moment, I saw something inside a complete stranger. And maybe using one stranger as a basis for the whole human race is wrong... It is generalising to an ultimate degree, I know... But what an experience.

I wrote something about it. Putting myself down again, of course. I hope it turns out well. Sometimes, I look at myself and think I'm cheap. God! I don't know what's come over me, really. Been on an emotional rollercoaster lately... Things with my friends, my Mom coming back home, looking for a job, waiting to get paid... and then finding myself doing things that I don't normally do. The little things and the not so little things that is not really something I would normally do. I'm all of a sudden doing them. And I'm getting to know myself again because I've changed.

Who am I kidding? I don't know anything about people, really. I still think a lot of people are mean and cruel and evil. But not everyone. I just don't believe in anything that people say is "human nature." Humans, by nature, are individuals. Sure, there are people who are part of the herd... but they are all herd for different reasons... It's hard to figure out people. I can't even figure out myself.

I don't know... It seemed like such an easy entry to write and then... BLAM! I fell flat on my face while writing it. I just started thinking out, contradicting what I was typing... Oh God! All of a sudden, I'm so embarrassed...

Soak up some lazy days/ No one can rain on our parade/ Stand here beneath the shade/ of our love -- Lazy Days, written and performed by Leona Naess

Sometimes, it is just so nice to laze around and not do anything and not think about anything important... It's great, to just sometimes let go and just be free. Spent a day with friends in my little pad down the street. In a way, it's like we're saying good bye to the place since, in about 2 months, it's going to my brother full time. I'll lose the Ube Room, Club Liwanag and the Red-Light Special. So after a steady night out, we went to my place where two friends went crazy and my other friend and I stayed sane. Because of gym, I couldn't quite sleep well and spent the whole morning talking to my other friend who went crazy (who had sobered up). The other two went to sleep. I received a call from a friend and it just brightened up my whole morning. My friend wnet home and I finally was able to get some sleep. Then after, when we all woke up, we spent the rest of the afternoon just lazing around. We listened to music, told stories, made jokes, it was great!

And sometimes the Elusive Bliss comes in and sits at the corner of the room and you don't notice that she's there. She's just there, sitting and watching, smiling. Her presence lingers and you are happy. You don't realise she's there but you can feel her near. It's wonderful. Sometimes it doesn't have to hit you like a tidal wave, but just like a ripple. And it tickles rather than overwhelm. And it's wonderful.

Oh I've seen a part of people that I never really wanted to share/ I've seen a part of people that I never knew was there/ Shelter - give them shelter from the coming storm/ Shelter - give them shelter from the coming storm -- Shelter, written and performed by Sarah McLachlan

"No." A very simple, two letter word. It requires only one syllable to utter. Just a tiny movement of the mouth. "No." Yet it is one of the hardest things to ever say to anybody. Funny, as I thought, that anger that fueled the previous entry is gone. I was just tired and, well, coming from a weird strange day but the emotion felt was real. I'm not saying that it didn't mean anything, yes, it did. But all I need is one night's sleep and everything is okay.

I still think what he said was painful but it is past me now. It doesn't really matter anymore. At the end of the day, it was still he who needed something from me. But funny that I would receive a comment from someone I'm not quite familiar with asking me to just say "no."

I find it funny because if he really knew me, then he'd know that I wouldn't be able to. Thousands of people, family and friends, even strangers have told me that and still I cannot do it. I have no capacity to make people not like me. I have this unbelievable, crippling desire to be liked and loved. To say no, I guess in my head, would be tantamount to making someone not like me. It's a very foolish thing to think. But this is the world as I see it and God knows I'm half-blind and crazy.

And that's another thing I do not like about myself. The act of sleeping makes me forget the anger and hatred in my heart. It's not a bad thing. But it makes me more susceptible to people using me. People who've hurt me know they can do it again because they know they just have to wait for me to wake up and all is okay. All is gone. Vanished into thin air.

Sometimes, I just want to be able to not sleep. To stay awake and keep it. Fight for what I think is mine. Fight for what I believe to be what is right. I want to stay awake so that if they try to come back at me, anybody, with the intent of pushing me to my limits, see how far they can go, I can grab a 10 inch spike and nail their foot to the floor! I don't want to be stepped on anymore. I don't want to be nobody's doormat anymore.

But how many years have I been saying that?

God! I swear... some people just take it things for granted. Point I want to make, some people take me for granted. I mean, Jesus Christ! They're asking me for a favour and they have the gall to insult me when I tell them I'm still waiting for a response, I'm just so busy because everyone is asking something for me. He said, "Then just say 'no' because I don't need time for your pity party..." Son of a bitch! My pity party? Fuck you, asshole! You're the one asking for help here. Why can't you do it yourself? Or worse, it's your fucking High School reunion, get your own friends to do it! Everyone just thinks that I'm free to do whatever they want. He was asking a favour from me? Could he have said, "Wangs, I really, really need the number from Grilla. You haven't sent it yet." Or something like that? Give me your fucking needs and wants, I have needs and wants of my own.

God damn him! What? Because I'm family, I'm supposed to drop everything? He didn't even care to know if there was a reason why it was delayed. I'm not at his beck and call. Say "no?" What? After his comedic whining about, "Everyone can't get their act together so I have to be the one to do it but I'm in Bacolod so can you do this for me? Pleeeeeeeze?!?!" Fuck you! You're asking a favour from me, you be nice! You still have 2 months anyway, jerk off!

Where do some people get off? Where do they get off? Every fucking phone call its "Wang, please do this for me? Wang, favour?" Bullshit! That's the first thing that ever comes out of their fucking mouths. And what? They're going to say, "But Wangs, it shows we trust you. It shows that you can do it." I don't give a damn! What's so wrong about doing things yourself? Get your own water, turn on the light yourself. I'm sick and tired of having to do everything for everyone.

Say no? NO. No more of these stupid demands and possessive wants of my time. I have a great recall for things that make great stories. I remember things that were said on first meetings. I remember the way people stood and where they were looking at during cinematic moments. With all the things I have to do for people, you got to remind me. And please remind me politely. After all, you are asking the favour.

Ugh! I'm just so pissed. My day was already piss off as it is that I don't need this kind of shit thrown at me. My pity party. What about your incapacity party? Your inability to do anything for yourself. Get your own damned life. I'm not your slave.

Ugh! This is probably just some angry rant and I'd probably not feel this way tomorrow. Fuck it, I'm the one who's probably going to end up apologising. But right now, I hope I'm never going to talk to him because I'm just so mad!

Ugh!

You are the darkest childe
You spread your angel wings
And fly through the night into the dreams of ancient ruins
and make them sing

...

You are the darkest childe
You have a sacred duty to perform upon this blessed earth
You must cradle those thoughts of the lustful lonely
Inside your wicked warmth
-- The Darkest Childe, written and performed by Sophie B. Hawkins

Sleeping early and then sleeping late the next day. Waking up early and then waking up late the following day. There is no design to my everyday. One morning will find me walking, groggily, rubbing the morning out of my eyes and slowly sitting down in front of the computer to start my day. Sometimes, I'll awake with energy, walking with a bounce from one room to the next. I'll sit in front of the computer with a bowl of cereals and/or a large glass of cold fresh milk (Nestle, of course) and checking out who are my new friendsters, if it bothers working properly.

One moment I'm spending the whole day with my friends and the next moment, I'm staying home, watching DVDs and trying to finish Cold Mountain which is a beautiful book, but rather slow and thus my reading pace is also slow.

One day, I'm rushed to write PR articles for a job that came out of nowhere and the next minute, I'm actually sitting down to watch TV and channel surfing because the TV has no power over me and find myself slipping deeper and deeper into boredom.

There is no grand design to my everyday. That is why I need a job. Because when you're everyday has no concrete structure, surprises and little adventures hold no meaning. It's all part of the chaotic, of the random-ness of your little world. But if there is something you are being kept away from, a little danger of "No, I can't do this, I have work tomorrow" then all of a sudden, these little moments with friends, these little adventures mean something just a little bit more.

And I want everything to mean a little bit more than they do.

Somethings I do not want to forget:

Texted to me by Kate (01-02-04):
Buddha says: "In the end, only three things matter - how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of the things not meant for you."

Texted to me by Datu (and others) (01-01-04):
To kinder gods and fiercer loves, to brief jealousies and even shorter griefs, to wine, to coffee, to sunsets and full moons, two family, friends and country. Happy New Year!

Texted to me by Morx (01-08-04):
The more I work, the more I see things differently, that is, everything gains in grandeur every day, becomes more and more unknown, more and more beautiful. The closer I come, the grander it is, the more remote it is. -- Giacometti

Texted to me by Morx (12-30-04):
"...O never to get, nor have// got there. To thirst gothically, to want --/ like a spire: no discernible object but more sky." from a poem by Carl Phillips

Texted to me by Morx (12-08-04):
Bless them, those things. There the furnitures, forks, and food. There foam, sunlight and sand. Things knowing not hearbreak, not endurance, but endures still. They standing ceremoniously, despondent and brightly, the loss of you. I don't know how they're built. Bless them. I myself am nowhere near.


I always find myself surrounded by beautiful things and people. But these are not things that I feel I attract. These are the things I searched for. I sought them out or make them up when needed. These are things I want around me at all times - beauty and the sublime.

I feel that I attract misery, hunger and weakness. I think this because I have the quality to make people feel better about themselves. I contradict the feelings of low-ness, if there is such a thing. My eyes pierce the veil of depression, the ugliness and the bitterness, to see what is beautiful inside. Or I can always make a lie sound so beautiful and so truthful. I can make it up from what I see and make it sound honest and sincere.

But these are not the things I want. No, I want what is beautiful. I want words to flow smoothly into my life. I want the food to always taste good and the people to always seem pleasant and happy.

But we do not choose these things. We cannot will it to happen. We can only take a step forward and push and pull and hope that at the end of the line is that which we have been seeking since we've begun to make the effort.

Hey friends what would you like to discuss today? Let's see, maybe the weather or the world today? I'm not sure but I think there might be something to say about the way that we're livin' and lovin' and givin' in vain. Cuz life is more than you and love is more than me. Conscious is more than where you are or where you wanna be. But if these things are true then who am I who are you? And what would I need to do? To be special. -- To Be Special, by Rebekah (words by Rebekah, music by Rebekah and London Jones)

In just 7 days, things that I always thought happened to other people have happened to me or someone who is close to me. A friend of mine had a major falling out with his wife. I actually screamed because I needed to take a cigarette. I quit cold turkey before and my return was voluntary. I didn't look for the damned thing. I held a very good friend's hand in a hospital telling him he wasn't going to die.

I think this is really my year to grow up. To let go of the life that I denied myself when I was still a teen-ager. Had my fun but I have to start remembering graduation day and my first day at work. I have to remember what the sun looked like and what the moonlight felt like on my skin those two days.

We tend to look at the things around us and adjust accordingly. Maybe half the world's population does. I do. I'm not the type to stand against the winds of change, the shifting of the tides. I adjust and conform. I try to listen to what the universe is trying to tell me. I don't want to be ungrateful. Or to look back in hindsight and say things like, "shit! I should have seen the signs! I should have seen it coming."

After all, all my horoscope, astrological readings say that I'm very intuitive. My empathy is really strong. My ability to understand signs and symbols is very acute. And it is true. But all those same readings say that I tend to rationalise and reason out what I should be trusting my instincts on and so I always find myself in moments of regret. I should stop rationalising and reasoning and just trust my first instincts. And I should. I have great instincts.

But it is fear that stops me from taking risks and chances. Fear is really the killer. If there was only a way to remove it from the equation, things would be so much easier for me. But then, it is also fear that keeps us alive. Fear reminds us that the fire will hurt, the fire will burn. Fear reminds us that the ocean is deep and filled with dangerous things. If only it serves as a reminder and not a hindrance. Not an excuse to jump through the flame, an excuse to not go swim in the sea. If only we could use fear to remind us what we are getting into, what the consequences are but still have the courage to go on with it if it's worth it.

And a lot of things, a lot of people are worth it. Right?

Things could be better. Drove the car out and someone bumped it while it was parked. Got there and I was just shocked to see the side of the car all scratched up. God, this day could've been so much better.

Actually, the day was pretty fine except for that sordid little detail. One little thing can really change your whole perspective of the day. And if that is the case, then one person can change the world, one person can make a difference. Don't let anybody ever tell you different.

Went to the gym today and did a whole work out thing... my body is in pain but a good kind of pain. Ha Ha Ha I don't know. I don't really see myself as the gym bunny type of person but I want to look good and better. Nowadays, definition, cuts and toned body is the norm. People are expected to look that way. I remember back in the early 90's, it wasn't that important. As long as the person wasn't chubby and he was good-looking, it was enough. Then, one day, people upped the scales. People raised the standard. And now, you ain't all that hot if you don't have the body of some print ad model for Calvin Klein or something.

So far, I've got the desire, I hope I don't lose it. It costs a lot, but anything worth it, I suppose, has a price.

Blah day... not much going in my head except for the fucking scratch on the car. I can't believe it happened to me. I didn't do anything wrong.

Blah day... God, things could've just been fine and ordinary...

Out of the sky came the lights out of the night out of the fear came the strength strength to live, live to love out of the sky came the lights light of life -- Lights of Life, written and performed by Donna Lewis

The Rocketman is looking at the great large expanse of oblivion. Oblivion isn't nothing or nothingness, really. Out here, there are stars, there are planets, cosmic fog. There are lights out here, bright flashing lights of coloured brilliance. But there is no sound. The vacuum refuses to let anything vibrate. No waves, no sound. Silence. That is oblivion. Oblivion is the feeling that no matter how far you reach out, how loud you scream, there is nothing there that you can touch, no one there that will hear. Oblivion is loneliness, a world without feeling.

I traverse this space now and know that it is much different to me than it was when I first began my journey. Something look so much bigger than when I first saw them and others look much smaller, much more insignificant.

Yesterday, I was at Megamall to visit an old friend. But it's strange because my friendship with Eena and Charley has to be defined to understand why it is that I was able to achieve the Elusive Bliss yesterday.

Eena and Charley where classmates of mine in a workshop I took on Movement in Bacolod back when I was still 13, almost 10 years ago. We spent a whole summer together and the five of us (with my cousins Yciar and Johanna) were pretty much the gang. We were all of the same age, and except for my cousin Jo, we were Manila people with Bacolod roots. We spent a whole summer together and worked hard on our studies and exercises and graduated as the second class of Movement ever from the Bacolod workshop.

When we returned to Manila, there was a lot of talk on calling each other up and stuff but we never got to do that. One phone call here and there and then soon, Eena left for the States and we never really got to see each other again. Then, once a year (sometimes once every two years) we'd e-mail each other and ask how the other is. One reply and none to follow.

Now I know she's back in Manila for a visit. So we talk and decide to meet up. And we do. Megamall, Seattle's Best, Sunday afternoon. I expected to talk casually for an hour or two and just talk about the good times back in the summer of so long ago or just a little quick update on what we are doing now. But once we saw each other, boom! That was it. We reverted back to our little 14-13-12 year old states and we just started catching up like there was no tomorrow. We were like childhood friends that lost touch for 8 years. I told her things I thought I would never really tell some people. We talked for almost 4 hours and a half! It was amazing!

And for that moment, I forgot the future, the past and was just so in touch with the present that I was so happy with myself. I touched the Elusive Bliss. Or actually, in that moment, the Elusive Bliss touched me, embraced me and I was not aware of it until I had to say good bye. It was then that I realised, it's dark now, so much time has passed, both in a physical sense and in a symbolic sense - that sense where 10 years has been condensed into stories that we've fed to each other.

Amazing. We could not let each other go. We just kept hugging and saying good bye and promises to see each other again. How lovely to be connected in such a way. To meet someone and know that this is forever. That time, distance and silence will never tear the two of you apart. I know that I may not speak to Eena and Charley again after January or February but I know that when we do see each other again, it will be great and fantastic and true. How wonderful to know that it is there.

And all of a sudden, I realise that no matter how far into space I'll fly. No matter how far into space I'll be travelling, I'll never be alone. Because there are always some people I'll be coming home to. Loved ones that will never let me go. And that will always remain in my heart.

Drawn towards the edge/ Do I assume I could fly/ Every secret shared/ Why do I drink the feelings dry/ Don't go too far/ Limitations scars -- Beauty on the Fire by Natalie Imbruglia (written by Natalie Imbruglia, Gary Clark and Matthew Wilder)

Slowly, I'm beginning to accept reality around me and the fantasy still continues to seep in. I'm having a hard time trying to resolve all that is around me. Some of my friends have turned what happened last New Year's Day into some anecdote, some little funny story with an edge. I refuse to turn it into something much smaller than it is. After all, if you try putting it into a box, you'll just end up breaking the container. Size does matter when you're trying to put something inside a container.

So I've tried quitting smoking. Got through 3 days before my throat was on fire and I was getting skittish and cranky. I ended up screaming one morning, just shouting, running to my drawer and taking out a cigarette and lighted it. 2 came quickly after the first one and my body just began to relax. That was horrible, something I do not want to do ever again. But after yesterday, I'm back to giving quitting a try. My cough is getting worse and I'm expectorating more and more phlegm everyday. It has a strange viscuous (sp?) or is vascuous (sp?) quality to it and I slight tinge of green rather than black. I'm really hoping it's not cancer, but then again, if I got it, I probably deserve it.

Went to the gym and began my cardio work-out. I almost fainted. It was tougher than I thought.

There's just so little time for me in this world. Between the things I want to do alone, the things I want to do with family and the things I want to do with my friends, I just don't have the time to juggle. I have to let go just a little bit of one or the other. Play the little juggling game and remember that good jugglers have two balls in the air while one is on the hand being thrown to the other hand.

Sarah McLachlan's "After Glow" has yet to arrive on Manila shores. I'm getting very anxious. I'm getting very frustrated. I want that album out now so I can buy it and get some release. Her music is very powerful. Very free-ing. I wish it would come here soon...

Pas Encore Vaincu (not yet defeated)

We've all had our fun and games. We've all had our pretensions and our little vanities. We've all had our laughs at each other's expense and other people's expense. We've all danced around the razor's edge and played with fire.

Happy New Year, it was the first day of our burning. In-between coffee in malls, drinking from eleven in the evening until three or four in the morning, dissing people "beneath our standards" we were never really growing up. We were learning, acquiring important information, slowly accummulating what was needed for the next major decision, which never really was too difficult to make.

All it takes is one little moment, and all of a sudden, it's no longers games, fun or laughter. It's no longer about how much you've drunk, how well you dance and how good you look. It's not about the places you've been, the clothes you've worn, the books you've read or the movies you've watched. It all becomes about the person beside you and how much you really care about that person, that despite the fact that you're staring straight into their eyes and hoping to God that they won't let go, that they will keep fighting and holding on, you know that the chance of it is there. You might never see this person again.

All of a sudden, you are hit by some powerful, gigantic wake up call. This could've been really bad, you think, and not truly recognising the fact that you were extremely lucky this time round. Really lucky. It wasn't meant to teach you pain or loss or chance, it was all about growing up, facing something that was real. Facing something that was larger than yourself and then choosing to do something with your life. To do something with this thing that we were given.

I was always, always have been, ready to go first. As they say, Death is easy, it is living that's hard. It never even occurred to me that anytime soon, I might be losing someone. I just wanted to cry but I couldn't, I wouldn't. I had to be strong. Several hours later, the tears refuse to fall and you lose that sense of catharsis. That freedom that comes with release. Holding on to strength exhausts the mind and the body.

I am thankful. I am humbled. I am changed. I was so depressed over tiny, little stupid things. I thought I was hardening my heart for pain. I was making myself numb and preparing for loneliness. There is no preparation for that but the real thing. It almost happened. Something precious and beautiful was almost lost. And things must change now. Things will change now.

I will be 25 soon. Quarter of a century old. Now is a good time as any to wake up and grow up. Better late than never, they always say.