I find it hard to ask help from people. I find it insanely hard to ask help from the people I love. The moment I feel that I am being an imposition, I try to make myself scarce.
If you’re reading this, know that you came to mind when the question of “Who are the people you can depend on to be there?” came up today.
When the shit hits the fan, who are the handful of people I’d call at three in the morning to get me out of a bad situation, give me a roof over my head, drive me to the hospital, or simply listen to me rant about life’s general suckiness?
The names that came to mind surprised even me.
Hell, you’re probably reading this and going “WTF?? I’ve only known her a year!” or “I haven’t seen her for like, a decade” or even “But we’ve only had about four serious conversations together, and there was drinking involved!”.
Out of the fifteen I named, only three are related to me by blood. I don’t know if that sounds sad to you. For the traditional Filipino, it probably does. Somehow though, friends seem easier to have in my life, less aggravating, lesser strings attached. But I digress.
We all have countless friends we’ve made through the years, many of whom we still adore even if we don’t see them often. Maybe their priorities changed and they moved out of your immediate circle; maybe they got married or had to walk down a different path; maybe you just grew apart because of social calendars or geography. No matter, you know that these are good folk and that you would do almost anything for them. Yet their names didn’t make your top ten. And you wonder, why is that?
Sometimes it is easier to think of someone currently on the same frequency as you. People who you know will be there when you get the courage to admit that you need help. Those intelligent and compassionate enough to give what you need at the time, whether it is a sympathetic ear or a kick in the butt to tell you to pull yourself together.
People who have no agenda but seem to like being in your life. People who ask nothing in return but the pleasure of your company.
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve seen me act like a decent human being and you’ve seen me at my worst. Or, if we’ve only just walked into each others lives, you seem to be the kind of person I’ve decided I could trust to not walk away when I’m intolerable, but stick around to make sure I make it home safe when everyone else had lost interest.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know that your name came to mind and I’m glad it did.
I want you to know that I’d show up at three in the morning with a shovel in hand if you asked me to (no, don’t call me now). I’d cry at your wedding and I’d dote on your kids. I’d dread having to live longer than you. Being the person that I am though, I’d also get my wits back right about now and deny ever having written this sentimental crap.
Cheers to the New Year.
Dec 30, 2009 2:46am
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Alien Adventures
I was an illegal alien for eleven days.
Me, little miss follow-all-international-laws. I misunderstood how long my visa was valid for. It expired. Who’d have thunk.
I was told to report to the police by the immigration powers that be. Not a pleasant thing to hear when you have no clue what the laws of the land are for overstaying foreigners. After being assured by a friend that they would probably just slap me with a penalty fine, or worse case scenario, deport me, I went and trudged up to my local police precinct .
I ended up paying a fine. I then reported back to immigration for a visa I technically had no use for, as I was leaving anyway.
Trust me to get into a scrap like this.
Had the immigration dudes given me a hard time, I had planned on telling them that I had Chinese ancestry by playing up my Sino sounding middle name: Cha-lu-yan.
In the end, the officer only asked why Filipinos had such long names. The Chinese don’t have middle names. I told him our middle names were our Mother’s maiden names. I was about to tell him mine, but thought better of prolonging my stay at the Overstaying room.
Me, little miss follow-all-international-laws. I misunderstood how long my visa was valid for. It expired. Who’d have thunk.
I was told to report to the police by the immigration powers that be. Not a pleasant thing to hear when you have no clue what the laws of the land are for overstaying foreigners. After being assured by a friend that they would probably just slap me with a penalty fine, or worse case scenario, deport me, I went and trudged up to my local police precinct .
I ended up paying a fine. I then reported back to immigration for a visa I technically had no use for, as I was leaving anyway.
Trust me to get into a scrap like this.
Had the immigration dudes given me a hard time, I had planned on telling them that I had Chinese ancestry by playing up my Sino sounding middle name: Cha-lu-yan.
In the end, the officer only asked why Filipinos had such long names. The Chinese don’t have middle names. I told him our middle names were our Mother’s maiden names. I was about to tell him mine, but thought better of prolonging my stay at the Overstaying room.
All Saints Day
Breakfast in Shanghai. Post Holloween. Jobless again. But in one of the most modern and dynamic cities in Asia.
Mama is in the mountain province paying respects at the grave of my grandmother. The rest of the Philippines is busy doing the same thing. Visiting the dead.
Career paths die easily in this industry. This is crap writing. I have no idea what to do next. Beg for a position at friggin Star cinema. Sell my soul to the industry devils of mass consumerism.
Manila or Shanghai? Manila or Shanghai?
I wish I had a roadmap.
Mama is in the mountain province paying respects at the grave of my grandmother. The rest of the Philippines is busy doing the same thing. Visiting the dead.
Career paths die easily in this industry. This is crap writing. I have no idea what to do next. Beg for a position at friggin Star cinema. Sell my soul to the industry devils of mass consumerism.
Manila or Shanghai? Manila or Shanghai?
I wish I had a roadmap.
Friday, August 7, 2009
caged
This place stifles me. I feel caged, manipulated into a sense of vacation. I sleep more than I should, I indulge in rich food. I do not feel the need to physically move, which is as we know very dangerous. I’m sliding into a black hole of irritation. Everything irritates me. My father, my brother. The rude man who took the paper without asking for it.
Randomness: I gotta go to Cuba. Why Cuba? Because I’ve always been fascinated by the place. And because I once promised to go before Fidel Castro died.
The question, I think, that faces most of us is, not whether we will work, but what kind of work we are willing to do. Do we go to the studios and work like rats for canned storylines geared only towards the masses? Or do we sit at the doorstep of Indie production companies and pray that they have space for another intern?
Or do we stick to our guns and make our own features from scratch?
What is it about artists that lead them into either poverty or overnight sensations? We never seem to find a middle ground. Those who magically do are, well, never heard of. I think our capacity for success is mostly dependent upon luck – and obviously being prepared when the opportunity comes knocking.
I need to be part of the film community again. I would be lying if I said that any part would do, but right now I’m close to allowing the role of grunt/coffee girl into the job possibilities I am willing to consider just to get back.
Randomness: I gotta go to Cuba. Why Cuba? Because I’ve always been fascinated by the place. And because I once promised to go before Fidel Castro died.
The question, I think, that faces most of us is, not whether we will work, but what kind of work we are willing to do. Do we go to the studios and work like rats for canned storylines geared only towards the masses? Or do we sit at the doorstep of Indie production companies and pray that they have space for another intern?
Or do we stick to our guns and make our own features from scratch?
What is it about artists that lead them into either poverty or overnight sensations? We never seem to find a middle ground. Those who magically do are, well, never heard of. I think our capacity for success is mostly dependent upon luck – and obviously being prepared when the opportunity comes knocking.
I need to be part of the film community again. I would be lying if I said that any part would do, but right now I’m close to allowing the role of grunt/coffee girl into the job possibilities I am willing to consider just to get back.
Monday, July 20, 2009
And it is July
I know why I didn't write in May.
I have no excuse for June.
But I'm back. And I'm not wasting any more time.
It is always lonely in Baguio the first night one is back. But then the rhythm of the house slowly returns to the body and refreshes the memory. You settle back in. And then you're thankful to have returned. Even for just a few days.
I have no excuse for June.
But I'm back. And I'm not wasting any more time.
It is always lonely in Baguio the first night one is back. But then the rhythm of the house slowly returns to the body and refreshes the memory. You settle back in. And then you're thankful to have returned. Even for just a few days.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Into the Dark
Don't ask. I just want to type out the song....forgive the cheese.
Into The Dark - Death Cab for Cutie
Love of mine
Someday you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of the spark
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
In catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me "Son fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
You and me
Have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes
Are all worn down, the time for sleep is now
But it's nothing to cry about 'cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
And I'll follow you into the dark.
Into The Dark - Death Cab for Cutie
Love of mine
Someday you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of the spark
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
In catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me "Son fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
You and me
Have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes
Are all worn down, the time for sleep is now
But it's nothing to cry about 'cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
And I'll follow you into the dark.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A different kind of parlor
There must be a reason I detest funeral parlors with a vengance.
I've just come back from a thirteen hour shoot at a very respectable funeraria, and besides being tired and in need of a shower, I have ghosts of past wakes floating in my head.
I'm still quite unsettled about the downstairs embalming room and coffins. I texted a friend that I thought I was the only one who got nauseated upon arrival. My mind can't forget the rows and rows of coffins sitting in the unused chapels.
Funerarias creep me out. Much more than they creep out the average person I think. I'm actually fine with attending wakes held at private homes. They seem much more personable, not so antiseptic, not so corporate. My grandmother's wake was held at our home and since her coffin was pinewood and made-to-order, she had to be laid out on a bed during the first two nights of her extended wake. And I was fine with that. It freaked out a few of my friends but, whatever.
It's different with funeral parlors...I don't know why. I just can't get used to those coffins lined up, just sitting there waiting for occupants. And the decaying flower smell brought about by the wreaths, bouquets and recycled candles...that is another reason for the psychological nausea. Somehow that smell is SO different from regular flowers that are close to wilting or have wilted. Yes, regular non-wake flowers. Yes, that makes no sense but I'm sticking to my belief that wake flowers have a different smell altogether.
As we packed up the lights and cameras, I passed by a chapel that had just been occupied only that afternoon. I tried not to look in as I passed but something made me look up. A picture of the deceased was on top of the coffin. It was of a young woman, not much older than me. I quickened my pace to the jeep. Instead of heading back up to help the crew with the remaining equipment, I stayed down at the parking lot until we were ready to leave.
I hate funerarias.
I've just come back from a thirteen hour shoot at a very respectable funeraria, and besides being tired and in need of a shower, I have ghosts of past wakes floating in my head.
I'm still quite unsettled about the downstairs embalming room and coffins. I texted a friend that I thought I was the only one who got nauseated upon arrival. My mind can't forget the rows and rows of coffins sitting in the unused chapels.
Funerarias creep me out. Much more than they creep out the average person I think. I'm actually fine with attending wakes held at private homes. They seem much more personable, not so antiseptic, not so corporate. My grandmother's wake was held at our home and since her coffin was pinewood and made-to-order, she had to be laid out on a bed during the first two nights of her extended wake. And I was fine with that. It freaked out a few of my friends but, whatever.
It's different with funeral parlors...I don't know why. I just can't get used to those coffins lined up, just sitting there waiting for occupants. And the decaying flower smell brought about by the wreaths, bouquets and recycled candles...that is another reason for the psychological nausea. Somehow that smell is SO different from regular flowers that are close to wilting or have wilted. Yes, regular non-wake flowers. Yes, that makes no sense but I'm sticking to my belief that wake flowers have a different smell altogether.
As we packed up the lights and cameras, I passed by a chapel that had just been occupied only that afternoon. I tried not to look in as I passed but something made me look up. A picture of the deceased was on top of the coffin. It was of a young woman, not much older than me. I quickened my pace to the jeep. Instead of heading back up to help the crew with the remaining equipment, I stayed down at the parking lot until we were ready to leave.
I hate funerarias.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Not helping.
I don't have to explain myself to you. But the fact that I endeavor to, and that you still misunderstand me says a lot about our dysfunctional friendship. So you say I've changed since that Friday night. Okay, so maybe I have. But has it ever occured to you that I may be distanciating myself from you for a reason? Could you not perhaps stretch your imagination a bit to include the possibility that I may have found myself in a position of either the sink or swim - and that I decided to swim? Albeit, away.
I do not pretend to be the nicest of persons when cornered. But I think I deserve a little more than callousness and judgment. I was one of your best friends. You said so yourself. I only quote you. Thus as a friend, I think a little leeway should be given when things go to shit in my world. I walk away when people hurt me - deliberately or not. I sometimes come back - to people I love long term. Sometimes I don't bother. You are someone I will explain myself to. Just don't force it out of me. Just don't label me, call me names or harass the reasons out of me. Just give me time.
I do not pretend to be the nicest of persons when cornered. But I think I deserve a little more than callousness and judgment. I was one of your best friends. You said so yourself. I only quote you. Thus as a friend, I think a little leeway should be given when things go to shit in my world. I walk away when people hurt me - deliberately or not. I sometimes come back - to people I love long term. Sometimes I don't bother. You are someone I will explain myself to. Just don't force it out of me. Just don't label me, call me names or harass the reasons out of me. Just give me time.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Don't fear the butterflies
One of my very good amigas is in-kilig. Note that I refrained from using the L word. It's simply in-kilig. For now. And that's wonderful.
The butterflies in the stomach. The I-can't-wait-till-I-see/talk/chat-with him again feeling. The daydreaming. The conversation that leaves you smiling long after it's happened.
Up until a couple of days ago, that was me as well. Which is why I can't help but worry. Because I somehow don't want her to go through the roller-coaster that I'm currently going through.
You know how they say, what goes up must come down?
The kilig factor gets replaced by questions, and the exchange of more information, that leads to even more questions. Then follow the expectations. And then the inevitable downward spiral when either party does not meet said expectations.
But sometimes, things go well. And kilig turns into admiration. And then to love.
I somehow screw things up somewhere between the questions and expectations. (wry laughter here).
But my friend has more brain cells than me when it comes to matters of the aorta. She is the one person I know who can handle men with so much grace (even under extreme pressure) that I end up fuming on her behalf. This girl could put up a school on poise education with electives on self-esteem formation.
Suddenly, I'm not that worried anymore.
The butterflies in the stomach. The I-can't-wait-till-I-see/talk/chat-with him again feeling. The daydreaming. The conversation that leaves you smiling long after it's happened.
Up until a couple of days ago, that was me as well. Which is why I can't help but worry. Because I somehow don't want her to go through the roller-coaster that I'm currently going through.
You know how they say, what goes up must come down?
The kilig factor gets replaced by questions, and the exchange of more information, that leads to even more questions. Then follow the expectations. And then the inevitable downward spiral when either party does not meet said expectations.
But sometimes, things go well. And kilig turns into admiration. And then to love.
I somehow screw things up somewhere between the questions and expectations. (wry laughter here).
But my friend has more brain cells than me when it comes to matters of the aorta. She is the one person I know who can handle men with so much grace (even under extreme pressure) that I end up fuming on her behalf. This girl could put up a school on poise education with electives on self-esteem formation.
Suddenly, I'm not that worried anymore.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Nice going genius.
I'm staring at my toes because I refuse to think about how idiotic I was acting today.
If I could do one thing over today it would be this: Find a better way of expressing myself without sounding stupid. Anything would be better than what my mouth came up with, which was: "I am so not jealous!!!"
If I were inebriated, I'd probably have started off with (and this is in no particular order) -
>I'm sorry but years of jerk exposure has turned me into a scarred cynic who has trust issues. The fact that you act the player does not help.
>I am probably now hard-wired to sabotaging any/all chances of semi-coupledom.
>I try to find reasons to run away before you can get under my skin.
>Jealousy is a by-product of like, so you see, I'm actually admitting that I like you too. In a roundabout way. And that's a lot from me.
>Be semi-glad I'm showing any emotion at all. I could've just walked away without warning.
>I'm sorry, but until I know what the story is, and where I stand, I will act like an idiot sometimes.
But I wasn't inebriated. I was stone-cold sober, albeit green-eyed. So all I could come up with was: "I'm so not jealous!!!"
How creative.
I see the other party running in the opposite direction now. The end is nigh.
If I could do one thing over today it would be this: Find a better way of expressing myself without sounding stupid. Anything would be better than what my mouth came up with, which was: "I am so not jealous!!!"
If I were inebriated, I'd probably have started off with (and this is in no particular order) -
>I'm sorry but years of jerk exposure has turned me into a scarred cynic who has trust issues. The fact that you act the player does not help.
>I am probably now hard-wired to sabotaging any/all chances of semi-coupledom.
>I try to find reasons to run away before you can get under my skin.
>Jealousy is a by-product of like, so you see, I'm actually admitting that I like you too. In a roundabout way. And that's a lot from me.
>Be semi-glad I'm showing any emotion at all. I could've just walked away without warning.
>I'm sorry, but until I know what the story is, and where I stand, I will act like an idiot sometimes.
But I wasn't inebriated. I was stone-cold sober, albeit green-eyed. So all I could come up with was: "I'm so not jealous!!!"
How creative.
I see the other party running in the opposite direction now. The end is nigh.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Stop. Look. Listen.
Remember how, as a kid, you were taught to look both ways before crossing the road?
The instruction was pretty simple and very logical.
Look to your left and then to your right. If it was clear, you could cross. If not, stay on your side of the road and wait until it was safe.
So why do we, as adults, refuse to apply this simple rule to our lives? Why do we cross without pause, blindly hoping we sidestep the inevitable wreck that may just happen because we refused to look? Why do we insist on walking into the path of speeding bullet trains?
Why do we ignore the figurative traffic signs staring us in the face???
If it's clear, walk. If it's not, stay put. Wait until it's safe, and then cross.
Maybe we all secretly dream of adorning the asphalt as non-furry roadkill.
How else does one explain it?
The instruction was pretty simple and very logical.
Look to your left and then to your right. If it was clear, you could cross. If not, stay on your side of the road and wait until it was safe.
So why do we, as adults, refuse to apply this simple rule to our lives? Why do we cross without pause, blindly hoping we sidestep the inevitable wreck that may just happen because we refused to look? Why do we insist on walking into the path of speeding bullet trains?
Why do we ignore the figurative traffic signs staring us in the face???
If it's clear, walk. If it's not, stay put. Wait until it's safe, and then cross.
Maybe we all secretly dream of adorning the asphalt as non-furry roadkill.
How else does one explain it?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Revolutionary Road follows Ash Wednesday
I am not April Wheeler. I refuse to die as April Wheeler. The fact that I sit here typing this must be testament to my ability to rise above the pettiness of imagined suburbian bliss. There must at least be something within me that realizes the lie in feigned conformity.
I must admit though that I am not as honest as I wish I could be with myself. There are times I find my thoughts wander to the safety of the nine to five existence again.
And I conform. We all do. Don't say that you've never salivated over a window display at Ikea. I have. But I believe I do it because I want to, not because I have to.
And yet I question myself.
Somebody spoke to me honestly and simply yesterday. And that opened my eyes to the hypocrisy within me. Here was someone who wasted no time sugarcoating what he had to say, yet was not cruel in dispensing the truth. He didn't give a rat's ass what people thought, as long as he knew that he was doing no harm and was being as good and decent a human being as his parents raised him to be. I envied him that.
And I thought I was pretty decent. And I thought that I was being honest with myself. And to others.
I always prided myself at being a really lousy liar. Now I think, I'm possibly a good liar without knowing it.
Now I think of another goal to set for myself. To try and be a little more honest with myself before it's too late. Yet another reminder of my mortality passed me by the other day. Nuns with the black crosses on their forehead signifying the passing of another Ash Wednesday.
This time last year I wrote about how the day reminded me of old roses. And churchyards I think it was. Poetic. Romantic. Whatever. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be the tough cynic again with that I'm about to say. I just want to say that poetry goes hand in hand with honesty. Don't go around showing everyone how tough you are by being the rebellious badass. Be the badass because that is the most honest way you know how to Be.
This year I think about how much clearer things become when I take the time to just fucking let go of all my issues and say things like they are. It isn't that hard to be honest with oneself. Or with others. It just takes a little practice.
I must admit though that I am not as honest as I wish I could be with myself. There are times I find my thoughts wander to the safety of the nine to five existence again.
And I conform. We all do. Don't say that you've never salivated over a window display at Ikea. I have. But I believe I do it because I want to, not because I have to.
And yet I question myself.
Somebody spoke to me honestly and simply yesterday. And that opened my eyes to the hypocrisy within me. Here was someone who wasted no time sugarcoating what he had to say, yet was not cruel in dispensing the truth. He didn't give a rat's ass what people thought, as long as he knew that he was doing no harm and was being as good and decent a human being as his parents raised him to be. I envied him that.
And I thought I was pretty decent. And I thought that I was being honest with myself. And to others.
I always prided myself at being a really lousy liar. Now I think, I'm possibly a good liar without knowing it.
Now I think of another goal to set for myself. To try and be a little more honest with myself before it's too late. Yet another reminder of my mortality passed me by the other day. Nuns with the black crosses on their forehead signifying the passing of another Ash Wednesday.
This time last year I wrote about how the day reminded me of old roses. And churchyards I think it was. Poetic. Romantic. Whatever. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be the tough cynic again with that I'm about to say. I just want to say that poetry goes hand in hand with honesty. Don't go around showing everyone how tough you are by being the rebellious badass. Be the badass because that is the most honest way you know how to Be.
This year I think about how much clearer things become when I take the time to just fucking let go of all my issues and say things like they are. It isn't that hard to be honest with oneself. Or with others. It just takes a little practice.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
About a boy
So here I am again. After a long absence due to the insanity of shooting schedules and celebrations, I'm back. But not because I really want to be.
I'm back because I have to bitch and moan. And because my closest faggy friends, my girl friends and yes, even my platonic guy friends are of no help.
So its you and me blog. It's lets-let-out-all-our-pent-up-emotions time. Lets get it all out in the open without the painful possibility of someone giving you advice you may not as yet be ready to hear.
Yes, okay, this is about a boy. and believe me, I have absolutely NO IDEA how I got tangled up in this. And now, now I want to know why I'm, er, so, um, crap, confused. What is it about this kid that I can't quite figure out?
I thought I could pigeonhole him into your run of the mill player. But then he exhibits traits that say otherwise.
I thought maybe brainless actor/jock. But then he shows me he has a brain.
I thought maybe, chivalrous long-term dude (not necessarily for me, mind you) who was being the nice guy-next-door type saint because he didn't want to be the jerk to any girl. But then he goes on flirt mode with the lobby gals soon as one turns around.
Hans says that it could be possible that I have finally met a guy who is fairly normal, decent and NOT a jerk (problem is my exposure to jerks has left me with absolutely no working knowledge of how to treat possible nice guys on a normal level).
Another friend insists that the guy IS a player and that I should start running in the opposite direction. Like now. And fast.
But punyetah, no matter how cool and detached I insist I still am, come end of day, I admit to looking forward to that goodbye hug and beso.
I sometimes think, fate, in all her wisdom and twisted sense of humor, has sent me this person to well, keep me on my toes here, lest I become lazy on my last term.
My reality based one-foot-constantly-on-the-ground side is telling me that this confusion can and will be over in a matter of weeks (hello, past experience here at this funny farm!). It could be over next week. I should thus stay cool and apathetic to all manner of charms being thrown my way. That way, when end comes, I can properly deny, laugh, mourn over, cackle and shake my head over this little episode with a guy who was, truth be told, an absolute puzzlement.
But this stupid little fluffy voice (yes fellow cynics, I have one inside me too sometimes) says I should just smile and enjoy the attention.
After all, it isn't everyday someone inspires you enough to kick the nicotine habit. It isn't everyday a guy carries all your things, walks you to your door not expecting anything more than a thank you and a hug goodbye. It isn't everyday you get a smile so warm and without guile.
It isn't everyday you wish you belonged to someone you could, in another life, have maybe really been great with.
I'm back because I have to bitch and moan. And because my closest faggy friends, my girl friends and yes, even my platonic guy friends are of no help.
So its you and me blog. It's lets-let-out-all-our-pent-up-emotions time. Lets get it all out in the open without the painful possibility of someone giving you advice you may not as yet be ready to hear.
Yes, okay, this is about a boy. and believe me, I have absolutely NO IDEA how I got tangled up in this. And now, now I want to know why I'm, er, so, um, crap, confused. What is it about this kid that I can't quite figure out?
I thought I could pigeonhole him into your run of the mill player. But then he exhibits traits that say otherwise.
I thought maybe brainless actor/jock. But then he shows me he has a brain.
I thought maybe, chivalrous long-term dude (not necessarily for me, mind you) who was being the nice guy-next-door type saint because he didn't want to be the jerk to any girl. But then he goes on flirt mode with the lobby gals soon as one turns around.
Hans says that it could be possible that I have finally met a guy who is fairly normal, decent and NOT a jerk (problem is my exposure to jerks has left me with absolutely no working knowledge of how to treat possible nice guys on a normal level).
Another friend insists that the guy IS a player and that I should start running in the opposite direction. Like now. And fast.
But punyetah, no matter how cool and detached I insist I still am, come end of day, I admit to looking forward to that goodbye hug and beso.
I sometimes think, fate, in all her wisdom and twisted sense of humor, has sent me this person to well, keep me on my toes here, lest I become lazy on my last term.
My reality based one-foot-constantly-on-the-ground side is telling me that this confusion can and will be over in a matter of weeks (hello, past experience here at this funny farm!). It could be over next week. I should thus stay cool and apathetic to all manner of charms being thrown my way. That way, when end comes, I can properly deny, laugh, mourn over, cackle and shake my head over this little episode with a guy who was, truth be told, an absolute puzzlement.
But this stupid little fluffy voice (yes fellow cynics, I have one inside me too sometimes) says I should just smile and enjoy the attention.
After all, it isn't everyday someone inspires you enough to kick the nicotine habit. It isn't everyday a guy carries all your things, walks you to your door not expecting anything more than a thank you and a hug goodbye. It isn't everyday you get a smile so warm and without guile.
It isn't everyday you wish you belonged to someone you could, in another life, have maybe really been great with.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Island fever
I'm not going to write a cliched storm about what turning thirty meant to me. Because I intend to stay twenty-nine for another six months. Yeah, you heard me. I can make my own rules.
But I will tell you what happened to me the moment I stepped onto Kalibo airport's windswept tarmac after a five hour wait at NAIA.
What happened was, I got a fever.
The grey skies, rough seas, airplane fiasco and my incredibly delayed arrival in Boracay contributed to my deteriorating health and enthusiasm over my beach birthday weekend. I was sure I was going to give someone a bitch fit soon as my feet hit the white sand.
Out of sheer fatigue and nausea, not only did I do away with birthday melodrama, I also let go of any delusions of drinking and dancing the night away. I thankfully ended up being extremely well taken care of by friends. Pumped with vitamins and paracetamol and treated to dinner (bless Pix and Ritchie), I started to feel the island vibe. but due to the cold and absolute exhaustion, I promptly fell asleep after coffee (which unfortunately left Jing and Siobe to their own devices at Cafe Del Sol).
Goodbye first night in paradise.
The next evening was, er, a blur. Really. Armed with good intentions and the will to party the night away, we made our way to Juice. After a couple of beers, an undetermined amount of tequila shots, a flaming "waterfall" which in retrospect must have been the reason the world almost went black, and a "blowjob"shot, one really couldn't blame me for the inebriated dance floor madness that followed.
I thus greeted the dawn of my thirtieth year dancing with hazy figures, stumbling home through the sand and puking my guts out in our pretty hotel bathroom.
The shaking stopped sometime after noon.
Although my eyes still found it hard to focus by three and my head was throbbing like a thousand elders were having a canao in it, I somehow summoned the will to stumble out to the seashore and bid my birthday sun goodbye.
So I slept more than half the day away. So my insides felt like jell-o. So I didn't get as close as I planned. Big deal.
I welcomed the day with friends I loved, I partied like a madman, danced like there was no tomorrow and lived to see another day. I couldn't stop smiling.
Hello three-O.
But I will tell you what happened to me the moment I stepped onto Kalibo airport's windswept tarmac after a five hour wait at NAIA.
What happened was, I got a fever.
The grey skies, rough seas, airplane fiasco and my incredibly delayed arrival in Boracay contributed to my deteriorating health and enthusiasm over my beach birthday weekend. I was sure I was going to give someone a bitch fit soon as my feet hit the white sand.
Out of sheer fatigue and nausea, not only did I do away with birthday melodrama, I also let go of any delusions of drinking and dancing the night away. I thankfully ended up being extremely well taken care of by friends. Pumped with vitamins and paracetamol and treated to dinner (bless Pix and Ritchie), I started to feel the island vibe. but due to the cold and absolute exhaustion, I promptly fell asleep after coffee (which unfortunately left Jing and Siobe to their own devices at Cafe Del Sol).
Goodbye first night in paradise.
The next evening was, er, a blur. Really. Armed with good intentions and the will to party the night away, we made our way to Juice. After a couple of beers, an undetermined amount of tequila shots, a flaming "waterfall" which in retrospect must have been the reason the world almost went black, and a "blowjob"shot, one really couldn't blame me for the inebriated dance floor madness that followed.
I thus greeted the dawn of my thirtieth year dancing with hazy figures, stumbling home through the sand and puking my guts out in our pretty hotel bathroom.
The shaking stopped sometime after noon.
Although my eyes still found it hard to focus by three and my head was throbbing like a thousand elders were having a canao in it, I somehow summoned the will to stumble out to the seashore and bid my birthday sun goodbye.
So I slept more than half the day away. So my insides felt like jell-o. So I didn't get as close as I planned. Big deal.
I welcomed the day with friends I loved, I partied like a madman, danced like there was no tomorrow and lived to see another day. I couldn't stop smiling.
Hello three-O.
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