The Flight of the Rocketman

Relaxation is who you are, stress is who you think you should be -- As texted to me by my Dad

My last day here in Bacolod. Yesterday, I was in a great bill of health but now, I feel I have relapsed a bit. Must've been that sip of Australian Shiraz my Tita brought for dinner. I totally forgot I was on anti-biotics! But I only had 2 sips before I remembered so I don't know if that low amount of alcohol is enough to cancel the effects and if it can negate the next batch of meds I took a couple of hours later. If all of that was enough to put me back on a relapse.

But the alcohol must be out of my body because I can feel the antibiotics and paracetamols to be doing their thing. And I don't know, I don't feel the difference with the pain killer but hell, I'm supposed to take it once a day only. If I didn't take it, would I just keel over and scream "bloody mercy" for some pain relievers? I'm such a baby when it comes to pain, sometimes. If I have shown or proven to be otherwise, well, I fake it well. I am a masochist. I may love the pain but that doesn't mean I can't feel it. And that it doesn't throw me to the ground just like everybody else.

Coming here is, as the cliche goes, like stepping into a dream. Sick, I was waited on hand and mouth by people who loved me and I was able to do work that I have always wanted to do for a long time: creative writing in a medium that truly inspires me. Like a dream, I come to this strange land where, when it rains, it is musical. According to my Dad, the cicadas only come out every 17 years and I was here on their next presentation. They would sing after every shower and they would be joined by a chorus of frogs. How magickal! And here, I was not disturbed by anything. All I did was work. I didn't even have a chance to go and see my friends. But I feel fulfilled.

I'll be back. And this time, it will be for fun.

Adn know, the cliche ends, I'm waking up and the magick will be brought in my hand carry, a hardbound copy of the first script of mine that will be produced. Almost like a mystical tomb, an arcane book of secrets. Lovely.

I can fly
but I want his wings
I can sight (?)
but even in the darkness
I crave the light that he brings
revel in the songs that he sings
my angel Gabriel

I can love
but I need his heart
-- Gabriel, performed by Lamb (written by Andrew Barlow and Lou Rhodes)

I've been sick. I've been horribly sick. I'm about to tell you a little bit about my self; little details that you may not want to know -- personal hygiene details that is extremely private and sometimes, digusting. But I must make my point.

I love showers (or baths) and I try to shower at least twice a day. If I can manage a rational, three would help make an exceptional day. I am very conscious of this little part of my body care. I can't even go down to the laundromat without a quick little shower. It's a mania of mine. I must always be presentable and clean.

Unlike many fortunate people, I have irregular bowel movements and, so all my astrological signs dictate have poor digestive abilities. Many kinds of food (most of the time, food that I like) makes me gaseous. And often enough, I have loose bowel movement (told you this would be gross, but I have been praised for my candidness, and I assure you, I have a point to make). Lately, I have been fortunate to have firmer... well, bowel; but I've been adding a lot more fiber into my diet.

I eat and eat and eat. I love to eat. I always believed someone who does not like to experiment and taste new kinds of dishes, well, there's something wrong with that person. After all, eating is one of the (if not THE) greatest metaphors for life. The partaking of delicious food in order to survive. It is both necessary (to sustain our life) and pleasurable (honestly, eating is fun and great).

And because of my sickness, everything is topsy-turvy. Everytime I take a Paracetamol, I begin to sweat profusely. I've never been a pill-popper so I don't know if this is a standard thing. It is good for me because it means I am removing a lot of toxins from my body. But it also leaves me, well, sweaty, and smelly and downright disgusting. I wish to take a shower but I shouldn't because it might aggravate my fever more so (I sneak in an occasional hot shower when everyone is busy so they can't stop me). I've been reduced to one shower a day! Horrors!

Because of my swollen throat (not only have my wisdom teeth been removed, now I have toncillitis as well... it always pours, it never drizzles) I cannot eat solids. And here in Bacolod, all food is delicious. And I cannot eat a bite. I've been reduced to fruits and milk and a lot of water. So I'm losing mass... mass I've gained from two months of going to the gym everyday, gone because of a week of this damned condition. But my belly grows because of all the water I'm drinking. Sweet, huh?

Because I'm not eating... I barely eat; I haev not taken a shit in days! I think that's bad... I am malnourished (see Anonymous, I learn! *wink*) and this is very bad. When I get better, it will take a while to be able to nurse myself back to proper health.

How sad! Months of hard work, stripped away to nothingness... so quickly! A shame! A true shame...

But if anything, all this writing, all this working has been bliss. Hidden from the world, where no one knows where I am (or at least very few); I'm able to accomplish so much. Putting my best abilities, my talent to full use. Maybe I should've been a dancer, maybe that was my calling, but this is the path I chose and I forged it. I worked hard to become a writer and I'm a writer now. I've been writing since I was 14; professionally, making my own money with the words that I put together.

And I'm sick, my head burns and throbs, I am swimming through molasses, sometimes there is clarity (thank you Paracetamol) and I get to finish my work in due time. And the work is fine, sometimes it is excellent, and there is a little touch of genius in some parts (if I may say so). How wonderful to come to my own, here in Bacolod and sick and sweaty and dirty and under-bathed and hungry.

But I can do it. When push comes to shove, I can do it. I believe in myself. I can do it. I can do whatever I put my mind to. And if I can, so can anyone else. I must admit, I do not have great willpower... If I can, anyone can.

Bless the day he came to me
Angel's wings carried him to me
Heavenly

I can fly...
-- Gabriel, performed by Lamb (written by Andrew Barlow and Lou Rhodes)

I realized something. Sleeping, lying down a lot, resting. I cannot stop thinking, even in illness. I've made a grave and serious mistake. I've made a terrible, terrible error.

Friendster and connexion has been a big mistake. Making new friends in the net. What a concept! It works. It happens and I've made a few. But I am the kind of person who needs to be deeply set into a relationship to make it work. Very few people are privileged to not be so close to me but still have the same fondness we always had when we are together. But most of the time, before we reach that level of true friendship (when time and distance do not matter), there must be a lot of time shared. And chatting on-line does not create that bond. And how can I meet up with new friends, when air-head and scatter-brained as I am, I would rather secure a sure company with my old friends, tried and true than take a chance to see if I connect with this stranger?

Whether we've chatted forever, the truth is, we're still strangers. For me, anyway, nothing beats flesh and blood. And I've made so many mistakes, made assumptions, fooled by pictures and words and I can't afford to make more mistakes. I am too involved with certain people, too involved with my work, too involved with my self. There is very little time left for strangers. I guess, I should have to meet them the regular way, before internet and text messaging. Before we were left as designations in our cellular number or internet IDs.

It's time, I think, to get out of this virtual world I've trapped myself in. It's time to go back, full-tilt boogie to reality. And I believe in my wake, I've made expectations, I may have even led people on. I have assumed, judged, punished, bitched, bitch-slapped, praised and so many more... I have made a grievous error and there is no way I can think to apologize for it properly.

I am sorry. I am truly sorry. But I was mistaken. I fooled myself to think that it was true. And maybe it was, but I seem to neither have the time nor the capacity to carry it through. Instead of keeping any expectation, I drop them all now. Please forgive me for rash behaviour.

Consolation: just because I had no time nor capacity, does not mean I was not sincere. I truly wanted to connect. But I'm afraid... Afraid of disappointment and wasted time.

I fell out of her eyes
I fell out of her heart
I fell down on my face
I tripped and missed my star
I fell and fell alone
The moon's a harsh mistress
The sky's made of stone
The moon's harsh mistress
She's hard to call your own
-- The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, written by Jimmy Webb (performed by Joe Cocker, Judy Collins, Linda Rondstadt or Joan Baez [but I like Rondstadt's version the best])

I come from self-discovery back to sentimental mushy shit. Forgive me, once again, but this is me.

To a particular someone: You come and you go. Like the tides, tugged through many miles by the gravity of the moon. The moon is a harsh mistress. The moon can be so cold. Yet you return now and I don't know why. And you are so distant but close enough to touch. I once again yearn for your touch, and even just to see your face.

I fear I cannot love anyone else until I'm over you. And when your influence begins to wane and fade, you call. You know, somehow, you can tell. Or coincidence is unkind. I don't know if you will let me go. I don't know if you know how I feel. I don't know if you are afraid to reciprocate. I don't know if you know how far and how deep I am willing to go with you.

This is, as Bonnie Raitt would sing, a Circle Dance. If I had her CD with me now, I would, once again, put an epigraph of the lyrics here. But I don't. Instead, the moon is a harsh mistress and in your distance, you are cold and it is hard to love you well.

Let me in.

the whole time i'd never seen
all you had spread before me
the whole time i'd never seen
that all i'd need was inside of me

now i feel so different
i feel so different
i feel so different
-- Feel so Different, words and music by Sinead O'Connor

Despite being sick; and I'm not just talking fever here, I've got a really bad case of the flu where I cannot swallow and my head is in constant pain and it feels like it is throbbing and my jionts and muscles are in pain and are aching... Let's just say I'm the exact opposite of good health.

But despite all that shit, I finished a script, in one day, all by myself. If my body was not in pain, I'd pat myself on the back. But I can't, so I won't and I'll just smile to myself and say, "Hey, I can survive in this world. Me got some skills, yah!" He he he

Here I am in Bacolod, working with my Dad, finally. After how many years of trying to get to work together, we are finally able to do so. And what an exciting project. I can't wait for the rest of pre-production to start. This is going to be truly exciting and fun.

And it is strange to be here in Bacolod; just like that. Dad said, "go here now, let's work on the script," and then BLAM! I'm here, took the first flight out (while I was sick with the flu, mind you!).

What can I say, I'm a professional! Ha Ha Ha Rain or shine, well or sick, if I got paid to do the job, I will do the job and finish on time.

And it is strange to be here. I'm not even sure many people know I'm here. Pretty soon, I'll be making my return flight to Manila to follow up some responsibilities I have over there.

Just when I bought Peanut Butter with Guava stripe of all things! Yummy! That's my favourite kind of Peanut Butter. Sometimes, I won't even eat Peanut Butter if it isn't guava stripe. It just makes it taste so much more sweeter.

So tomorrow, let my Dad read the script and see what happens. Maybe, if there is time, I could go to the doctor and find out what's wrong with me. Because God knows, this is worse than any ordinary fever or flu.

Take care, y'all! Heard there is a flu running around, don't catch it. If it is anything like this one... It's a killer!

Listen here, young lady, all that matters is what makes you happy but you leave this house knowing my opinion won't make you love me if you don't care to... -- What Makes You Happy, words and music by Liz Phair

I've been sick, as in really, dog-assed sick. Mouth is healing up and my dentist told me I was a quick healer. I told her, "that's because I'm a masochist." I mean, by their very nature, masochists should heal faster than regular people, right? But whatever the case maybe, I just got so tired yesterday, hungry and weak. I couldn't stand and got the cold chills.

I wanted to take my cousins out but had no strength to even leave the house. I just plopped, half-dead onto my Father's bed and fell fast asleep. I woke up to have dinner with my Mom and knew that there was no way I could follow after my brother and my cousins. I still was in no shape. So instead, I watched Northfork, a gorgeous, gorgeous movie by the Polish brothers. Excellent cinematography, beautiful music and an understated story filled with beautiful imagery.

Sometimes one can only wish to be as talented as these people.

I woke up today feeling slightly better (but on a whole, still sick and worse) and listened to great music until I finally decided not to baby myself. I never do that when I'm sick. I fight it all the way and now I'm hear in an internet cafe writing all this down to all of you. I don't know what it is that the day has in store for me but I'm sure about one thing...

I'm still going strong, not giving up, fighting all the way...

Listen here young lady, all that matters is what makes you happy but you leave this house knowing my opinion won't make a difference if you're not ready... -- What Makes You Happy, words and music by Liz Phair

"There is just so much beauty in this world..." -- paraphrased line from American Beauty (screenplay by Allan Ball)

Amazing, really, when you consider the amount of blood the human body has and how much more it produces. I felt like I was spitting out gallons and gallons last Monday. Everytime I took out the gauze from my mouth to replace it, it was soaked to the last fiber. I replaced it and 30 minutes later, it was in the same state.

And of course, I haven't been eating well since I'm all alone with a partial kitchen. Haven't completed it yet, but at least I now have salt, pepper, garlic, olive oil, butter and sugar. Soon, I'll be able to start cooking. But because of my wound in my mouth, I can't eat hot food or solid foods. Been eating bananas and drinking a lot of water and milk. And yet, malnutritioned as I am, I still had enough blood to squirt out of my mouth.

The human body is just absolutely amazing.

But I'm a fast healer as well, surprisingly. I guess that is a natural gift of masochists. We are healers, constantly ready to face more pain -- anxiously waiting for it. That's life for you. Life has a habit of adapting to the way it is lived.
I bet I could survive a bullet wound to the brain. Shotgun round, I'm sure...

All of a sudden, I want to start all over. Tabula Rasa -- clean slate. Just want to start all over now that I'm wiser (and I'm not wiser just because I had two wisdom teeth pulled, aight?) and I have things in perspective. Change my number, disappear for 3 months (maybe go to the province and do some theatre and writing) and then change e-mail. Change everything. See what happens when I get back. What will happen when I get back?

I just feel like I have to start over. I don't know why. So many changes, so soon. Or as Billie Myers would sing:

Much change too soon

So many. I'm not catching up. Gotta catch up. Gotta start to run again. I've been out of the race for a while. I thought I was still in the race, just far behind. Apparently, I strayed from the tracks. I've been running lost. Gotta get back on the track. Gotta get back on the race.

Much change too soon... well, live fast, adapt faster. I'll make it. I know I will...

Oh c'mon Wangs! No great writer is meant to die of bleeding. That's going to be paradoxical. -- texted to me by my good friend DC

Having your wisdom teeth pulled out is quite a strange feeling. The anaesthesia truly blocks the pain and then, the doctor/dentist starts drilling, pulling and stuffing these strange metal tools into your mouth. There is so much force and pressure (something the anaesthesia cannot negate) that is entering your mouth and along with it, these sounds of cracking and breaking. I had no idea that it was so violent. And yet, with all pain negated, it is not. It is jarring to think that despite all the sound and movement and force, because you don't feel pain, your reality is removed from the normal world.

But the moment you get home and the anaesthesia wears off and you're on pain-killers that don't really remove all the pain, and you take out strips of gauze from your mouth, completely soaked in blood... There, the violence does not elude you. It is there. You are not allowed to do strenuous work, lift heavy things, or even eat solid or hot food. You are to stay perfectly still, get long rest, otherwise the wound will open and you can bleed to death.

Yesterday, alone at home, I thought I was bleeding to death. I would wake up from stolen moments of sleep with blood coming out of my mouth. Suffice to say, the moment I have the go signal to carry things again, my bed sheets are going straight to the laundromat.

All alone with nothing to do, I had no choice but to listen to music and try to sleep. Of course, I couldn't... So many things entered my head. And one of them was to become invisible and start again.

In a way, I've already made a sort of reputation for myself. It is time to start over. Blank page. I was thinking of erasing (once again) the sites that I carry like Friendster and Connexion. Delete my accounts - maybe it is time to meet strangers the original way, through friends or seeing them face to face in a mall, on the streets or in a bar. This whole web thing is just too weird for me. My relationships have all been too, I don't know, strange and disjointed. I can't keep them up for long... I get lost in the fact that I don't really know who they are. I try to but being face to face is the true messenger of truth. And sometimes, people don't always appear as they seem.

I was also thinking of changing my phone. That would be sweet escape from the many non-sense that has been coming into my phone. Not just certain people I want to hide from but from the contests and the strange requests on my cell phone.

Speak to my skin, boy
Mock me with your stare
Tempt me... seduce me... Relieve me of despair
-- a text sent to my friend Jaypee (who gave me permission to spread it around)

Someone has returned to my life and has requested for the return of a lost friendship. An hour and a half conversation on the phone; I could not refuse. Am back to my old routine, found myself back at the start - am going in circles. Is this all there is?

There is a line from a horrible Filipino movie that goes: "Eto ang sukdulan ng iyong katangahan..." which translates roughly to "This is the point of no return in terms of your stupidity..." I'm reaching the point of no return in regards to my stupidity. How often must I let this person make me sparkle and then drop me to the sea? This person leaves and then comes back on terms that this person has made for the both of us.

I've realised at one point that I'm no longer good at playing games since I always get attached to the outcome, I always get attached to people and to things. I don't like sentimental songs yet I am a sentimental person.

I cannot let go of the things that I want. How strange, since I've always been able to let go of the things that I needed. You can even say I've let go of people that I needed. Is that how it is always going to be?

Is this all there is?

This is something that I wrote, that is akin to how I feel right now... I hope that hopelessness is a natural state of mind when coming out from the darkness. Confusion that grips at your heart and doesn't let go. It shakes it from at its core. But I like it. There is a distance, a feeling of detachment from the things that bother me and the things that attract me. I can look at them clearly; see them for what they are and what they can do for me and what I can get from them; whether it is all really worth it in the end...

Thus this piece that I feel I want to share with everyone.

A poem by Wanggo Gallaga:


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.

Note: A Manananggal is a woman who, at nights, separates from her body through the mid-section. She leaves her legs behind, hidden while her back sprouts wings and she flies off looking for people to eat. She must return to her legs before sunrise and merge back to her original shape or the sunlight will destroy her.

Another day, another night -- Breathless, Texas (written by Sharlene Spiteri and Johnny McElhone)

once again, i find myself in my mother's house. life has a strange way of spinning you in circles... once again, i'm settling down from a dizzy spell. i've been turning and, as we all know, when you turn, you don't go anywhere. there's a lot of movement but no distance covered.

i've disappeared into the darkness once again. i was lost for almost the equivalent of 2 days. i left the confines of shelter, all forms of shelter - physical, symbolic, intellectual; and cavorted into the darkness. i made it my bedfellow again. and darkness is a very strange bedfellow.

but you know what? i still recognize myself. i still know who i am. and there are no regrets... there should be none. but there is always something to feel sorry for... and there may be no use crying over spilt milk, but i'm sorry, the milk mattered to me. i was thirsty and i refuse to lick it off the floor. i still have my pride.

my world grew so small for 2 days. in the darkness there were many people, some i knew, a lot i didn't... but whatever the case maybe, i was lost and the problem was i knew how to get out. i just didn't want to. in the end, all the things you are running away from will catch up to you. there is no running away from something that is in the back of your head. you can't remove your head and run. but you can remove your legs and still think. sometimes, it's the fault of gravity; the changing of the tides, the pull of the moon, venus and mars... we can't help ourselves but move.

no, there are no excuses. there are no justifications for things that you need not apologize for. i am responsible for my own self, for my own actions and i did not harm others and removed their freedom. there was no harm done, no wrong committed.

but apologies are still in order -- jayce, my absence is not of any doing on your part... i'm fucked up at the moment, picking up pieces as they shatter day to day. sometimes i pick up a lot of pieces and seem whole; other days, i shatter more often than i can pick up the pieces... this weekend was the latter days...

kate, you are beautiful inside and out. i love you very much and i am honoured by your patience and reciprocation. i will make up for lost time. i'm coalescing...

jaypee, your epiphany was more beautiful than anything i've ever heard or seen or experienced for myself. your life is lived in grace, be it urban neon lights or tranquil bird song and sunshine... you are an artist not just because of your immense talent, but because you live your life surrounded by symbols and metaphors. you are truly blessed...

berna, i have said that you are a force of nature. i do not rescind from the statement... i fear all who call upon your wrath... i've always loved the storm...

to the kid, you have been erased as i have been replaced. but know this, you are nothing but a cheap imitation. i cannot be replaced nor can i be forgotten. you will only suffer in the comparison...

to the group, understand if i disappear but the kid's random appearances is not something that is good for my integration... i need to stay away from the drama that jump-starts my life... since i cannot ignore the pain, i will avoid the cause. the last thing i want to be is a drag...

to the people in the darkness: do not take my egress as a statement of any form of hatred. the truth is, i envy you, for the light that shines brightly inside. it may not be tended well, and it may not shine when you are not in the darkness, but it is sincere. the need is sincere, if not the cause. sometimes, that might just be enough...

to the three who i found in the darkness, to the "r", the "k" and the "c"; how fortunate to have found you. who knows if it was merely the bliss that has enraptured us and brought us together or if there is truly a connection there. whatever started the spark, let's keep the fire burning, eh...

to the baker, the hunter, the witness and the angel, to steve mcqueen, rhiannon and carey and all the other reasons why people write songs... i ask for some light now please. i don't want to go back to the darkness for a while...

let's give sobriety a chance... i take off the shackles of this bliss and return it from whereever it came. i don't want it anymore...

it's another day and another night. but this time, i'll be stepping forward...

We are all angels. What we do with our wings is what separates us... Northfolk (as texted to me by my father)

I love the sentiment of the above epigraph, but something is rotten in Denmark if there is any fucking truth to the statement. Because if there were any truth to the statement, there are a lot of angels who are dragging their stupid little wings in the mud and dirtying them up and them raising them for all to see.

When they fly, the mud and dirt and whatever trash and filth their pinyons picked up will drop to the Earth and shower us all with their refuse... It's not a pretty sight. But that is what will be if the epigraph is true.

It's happening now: assholes and bastards hurting people left and right, doing what they want and without regard for anybody else's feelings. Some of these people are merely 17. If they get away with it, can you imagine what they could do when they are older? Son of a bitches, acting some tough, feeling so good, confident because God made them attractive... well, sweetie, he didn't give you much of a brain and neither did he give you a heart. And if he did, well, you certainly are being an ungrateful fuck about it, aren't you?

To a particular son-of-a-bitch: FUCK YOU! (you know who you are)

Anyway, life goes on and things are just getting more and more complicated. Clothes piling up because all my money is going to rent this week and my laundry is piling up and up. My landline is there, the unit has been connected but the telephone lines are dead; no dial tone. I'm so pissed off... Just one break -- that's all I ask.

I'm so tired from going to the gym everyday. I'm so weirded out that I've given up smoking and drinking... I just find it so strange...

Everything is so strange...

Had a FABulous time! =) until then, sin & desire! -- texted to me by my good friend Chistelle Mariano

Affirmations (both positive and negative):

I used to love the rain. But now, I'm not so sure. I still love getting wet, watching my shirt change colour, stick to my skin, weighing me down while I take step after soggy step through the drenched city. But it's near impossible to get from one place to another. Work is a new consideration to what must be; the criteria for what my appearance should be has changed. Work is work, a responsibility. And the rain just makes it harder and harder for me to do my work -- be it transport wise, or appearance wise. One should not go to work drenched, leaving puddles on the floor. It's just not proper.

I do not like umbrellas and stupid people wielding umbrellas. I understand your need to stay dry... but please respect my need to stay unharmed. Just because it is raining does not give you a right to be stupid and waving that bloody thing all over the place. You are not the only person in the world and the ends of your umbrella can stub my eye out. Watch where you are going! And that goes with drivers too. What? Just a little rain makes you stupid?

I like living alone, walking around in my birthday clothes, sleeping in the nude, playing what music I like in the volume that suits me. I like being in control of the lighting. Of the temperature. Of the clutter and the randomness of the clutter. The mess is mine.

And some people are just plain amusing. They put a smile on my face and I don't know why. They say the right things sometime. Like, "Yup i have a crush on u!" That is so sweet. It sends shivers up my spine for some reason. Now why can't I feel that way when anybody just says it? Why do only some people can elicit that sort of response? I'm truly a shallow, superficial person.

And I'm cheap. I'm a cheap person. I'm a cheap person with expensive tastes. I enjoy mere sentiment but can value expensive gifts... HA HA HA

More affirmations to follow...

Haven't been here a while because I've moved out. And in my hurried rush, I moved in without curtains, exposing my naked body walking all over my new apartment. I realized the freedom of living in my own place. If anyone lived in the condo that is facing my window, then I would've just have exposed myself to my neighbors. But I have not had that opportunity. The condo facing mine is empty.

In my hurried rush to move out, I forgot to bring plates or utensils. I have no ways or means to eat. In my hurried rush to move out, I forgot to bring pan or pots. I have an electric stove but nothing to cook with. My books and CDs are all over the floor and I don't even have a floor mat or rug for the bathroom.

And I love it. It's mine. I live alone now. I am now having to fend for myself. The feeling is weird. I now have all this freedom. And now I have all this responsibility. It's strange. There's so much you want to do; yet there's so much you have to prepare for. I call it Lost In Transition.

That's what I am now. I am Lost In Transition. I just exploded with the options that were available to me. I went dancing and lost myself in the dance, in the movement. I allowed myself to lose my identity in the throes of passion, in the throes of the music. And I did... twice in a row; getting home at morning and with sweat, adorning my clothes and my glow and aura.

I'm proud of what I have been able to do. At 25, the youngest in my family to have moved out -- my other siblings were much older when they finally moved out and some of my siblings have yet to completely... So I'm proud of that fact.

But I seem to have lost my way... I can't wait to get stable and to get back. I want to be reliable again.

It passes. The rest of the song fades away. The piano is only a piece of dignified furniture now. -- The Atheneum, Lakambimni Sitoy

It happens. Things just silently fall into place. Things follow according to plan. And sometimes, you were not part of it in the long run.

One of my rackets just died on me. I could've made a huge amount of money; I already started and finished half of the work. I was panicking because I haven't received the downpayment yet but I was on a good authority that it would push through. And then, it was over. Half of the project was already done and the idea was shot down and I'm not even going to get paid, not even a downpayment.

And I was already counting my chickens, I haven't even been given eggs yet.

This always happens when I work with my father. I told him, "Dad, don't you ever get that feeling we were never meant to work together? Everytime we try to start a project, it falls flat on the ground..." He told me that he didn't believe that. It was a matter of time that we would work together. But, I may not believe in fate or destiny, but there are certain patterns and I do believe the universe tells us certain things.

There are systems, there are unearthly processes that surrounds us... we are trapped in them. The universe, one of the old powerful systems tries its best to share its knowledge. We have to learn to separate these echoes of wisdom from the assumptions that grow fully-grown from our heads. That's the trouble with being a thinking race. We end up muddled by our own thoughts.

Sometimes, thinking can be a problem. Like today, I decided I was going to give a call to someone who has been trying to fade out of my life for quite a while. I've already made the conscious choice to never initiate contact again but no... I had to call and the phone had to connect and even if that person was overseas; I had to speak. I had to say, "Hi, hope you're okay. Hope you're doing well. I really miss you."

Stupid. I am so fucking stupid. And now, it's over. I find myself throwing myself back into the stupid moebius strip and I'm going in circles, round and round, never ending.

Did you know that if you cut a moebius strip at the center, it only ends up becoming longer, bigger? Cut it again and it becomes 2 strips, one inside the other.

There's a symbolism there that I cannot fathom; other than the fact that once you're in a moebius strip -- you cannot get out.

Much like love, really...