She seems too honest about herself, so she can’t be trusted, right?

She feels lucky to have those around her. Aside from her family, there are her friends who love and trust her. Some she knew for nearly a decade, some she just met from recent months and easily bonded with as if the friendship has been through years. She feels lucky to have them hover around her to remind her of how she deserves to be loved and trusted. How, beneath the sometimes dangerous image, dark demeanor, the crazy neon red hair, and the vandal-like tattoos, is a woman who has a heart for what is good and what is right and what is just. Otherwise, she, herself, would have believed what other people think about her. People who can’t see beyond what is easily perceived. People who think that she, like her tattoos, and red hair, and image, is a vandal, who is crazy, dark and dangerous.

For most people, it’s easy to think the worst out of people who are different, who are strange. And in this age of hidden agendas and conspiracies, it seems easier to think the worst out of people who open themselves to the world.  Every wound, every quirk, every bad habit, out in the open. Too much honesty about one’s self, sometimes to the point of debasing herself, can be very suspicious, right? Because no one seems to be honest about one’s self these days, right? In this day and age of social networking sites, everyone’s instinct is to hide himself under awards, and achievements, and happy family pictures, and MA degrees, and designer bags, and expensive gadgets, and good manners, and flawless grammars, and cups of coffee to be had in posh shops. And if you see someone who doesn’t feel the need to “hide” herself, she must not be trusted, right? She probably has an ulterior motive, right?

Forget about the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she just doesn’t believe in pretenses. Forget about the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she never felt that she has the need to put on a mask of someone who she is not, because maybe, just maybe, she celebrates who she is, her uniqueness, her individuality, even her flaws. But no, she is too honest about herself, therefore, she shouldn’t be trusted, right?

Random Twitter Drama is Random

Because I haven’t gone into an emotional diarrhea over Twitter for quite some time already…

“I Failed Him and He Failed Me”

(A poem by Katie Ford)

I failed him and he failed me—
Together our skinned glance makes a sorry bridge
For some frail specter who can't get through.

I failed him
               but maybe it was the lamp that failed,
Maybe it was the meal,
Maybe it was the potter
Who would not intervene, maybe the clay,
Maybe the plateau's topaz, too steady to help,
Or was it the meat cut two days late, was it
The deciduous branch and its dull wait for bloom—

But I remember the small thing rotating in us
Towards hunger, how it did not fail to guide,
And that we made no request of our souls or all souls
Or the one perfectly distant soul
                                         and so did not fail in what we did not do,
Never begging at the sky but moving
On the islands beneath it, hungry together by its rivers and bones. 

Who told us we had failed
If not the human world gone wrong? 

It was the world?

Ah, then we will fail again and again in the waters apart,
Bridging nothing, bridging nowhere
Towards what we, failures, are.

Windows

“The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, glittering and blinking, but it might just as well not have been there at all for the good it did me.”

(Trying out WordPress Mobile again)

Posted with WordPress for BlackBerry.

Pasig sanctuary

The last quarter of 2011 started new beginnings for me, and these new beginnings needed a place to stay. From the wilds of Cavite, I moved to a small place somewhere near my Ortigas office. It is a small place housed within a compound, wallpapered with tiny flowers, window blinds that cannot be removed and replaced by curtains, a small bed, a stand fan, an air-conditioning unit, and a wooden work table which all go with the rent. It isn’t much, to tell you honestly, but I’ve managed to turn it into a personal sanctuary. It is, after all, the first time I’ve lived alone. I may have lived away from home a couple of times in the past, but never alone. Thus, I try to make this place less lonely as possible.

The top shelf of a five-feet-tall DIY rack I bought from Ace Hardware, for instance, is filled with photos of loved ones, both friends and family, plus knickknacks given to me by those who I hold dearest.

The un-removable window blinds, on the other hand, became a growing repository of more photos of loved ones as well. I’ve likewise attached colored print-outs of things I find beautiful, from artists who I admire, who inspire me.

I also managed to turn my bed into some sort of a canopy, with two whole yards of red cloth draping over the pillows. And I also brought, from home, my favorite stuffed toy.

On the floor are books, stacked together neatly. Beside them are scented candles, an aromatherapy oil burner, and a framed zombie-themed “Keep Calm” poster. It reads “Keep Calm and Destroy the Brain.”

I do get homesick, every once in a while, and I make up for it every time I go home to Cavite. I snuggle next to my pregnant sister during sleep time (with her husband on the other side of the bed), I cuddle up with the parents, especially Mama, every time they’re back from Leyte. But in Cavite, I do miss this small place in Pasig. I miss being able to soak in the quiet, the solitude. A place for introspection and conversations with the self.

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 7,700 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 6 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Aray, aray naku

(Unedited, no consideration of form and style and grammar and shame. Just careless morning writing.)

You wake up to one of those episodes when you try to control yourself from wailing. You wake up to extreme pain in your stomach, and you feel like you’re practically paralyzed.  It’s as if someone, some invisible entity, was sharpening his knife through your stomach, through your intestines. Back and forth…back and forth. In and out…in and out. Twist…twist. Is this knife sharp enough? No? Back and forth…back and forth. In and out…in and out. Twist…twist.

Last night, it was different. Migraine came over you, and it was merciless. You turned all the lights off out of fear that a tiny flicker of light could detonate something inside your head, explode, and scatter your brains all over the place. You cried out loud last night. Your neighbors probably thought you were dying. One of the perks of living alone is, in times of extreme physical pain, you have no one to come to you, to buy medicines for you, to massage your wildly throbbing little head. So you hugged your stuffed toy and phoned your mom, just to give you an illusion that you are not alone in this little unit you are renting.

Mama, help…Mama, help, was all you could say over the phone, in between loud sobs and in between the sound of you lightly pounding your head against the wall. Mama, help…Mama, help, was all you could utter. In which your mom panicked and screamed: Where are you? Where are you? Are you kidnapped in Mindanao (her constant worry)? Baby, what is happening?? You try to be intelligible for her sake. You didn’t want to cause a heart attack. Migraine, was all you could say. And then she completely got it. How many days and nights before have she massaged your head as you screamed in pain?

She tried to comfort you, as much as she can, over the phone. Next time, stock up on painkillers and mentholated oil to soothe you, your mom reminded you. And pray. Pray, dear daughter, pray. In which you wanted to tell her that you’re not even sure now if there’s someone out there you could pray to. In fact, what caused this terrible migraine attack was the stress caused by the news: Sendong death toll now at 927. You cried hard upon hearing this news. Cried hard then wondered: Should I pray harder, or just stop believing that there is a god? What kind of god would allow such a thing to happen? Of course you didn’t tell your mom, a devout Catholic, your sudden lack of faith. You just allowed her to comfort you via phone, until her voice lulls you to sleep.

Then this morning, you wake up to another pain you are very familiar with. It starts with a growling sound in your stomach, then goes on as if you were being stabbed from the inside repeatedly. Again, you knew what probably triggered it. It wasn’t alcohol, because you haven’t had a drop since last Friday night. It wasn’t your “starvation diet” because you had cheeseburger last night. You are pretty sure it’s these extreme feelings. From being too emotional from what happened, from what you learned from the news last night, perhaps. Emotions make you weak, you keep telling yourself. In your case, you mean it not just figuratively, but also literally. You spend your entire life trying to manage the extreme shifts of your emotions and to no avail. And now, it has worked its way into causing you unbearable physical pain.

You look up to the sky and begin to pray. Pray that you would be able to transcend all forms of pain. Pray for the people down south. Pray that the souls of the 927 are resting peacefully. Pray that you become less emotional in the future. But you’re no longer sure who you should pray to. Maybe, just maybe, the sky really is empty.

That one line that had me pegged

(Alternate title: One of those blog posts about me psychoanalyzing myself)

I maybe quite moody, yes. I maybe too emotional, oh yes. But I still don’t consider myself as having a disorder…much more a borderline personality disorder (BPD), considering that I don’t manifest most of the symptoms in the BPD checklist. There’s this one line, however, in this Psychology Today article (republished this week) that had me pegged:

“In my experience, the person I know with BPD has TOO MUCH empathy and reflects too much about how others are feeling and cannot deal with the overpowering emotions it brings out in her.”

Boom. The speaker here described how I am exactly. I consider it a curse, because this is one of the main reasons why I can be unhappy sometimes. I am trying, however, to rid myself of this. I must be more pragmatic and less emotional. No more mercy for those who do not deserve it. No more urge to take care of a random person who seem to need it. No more endless feelings of frustration if I am unable/can’t do anything to help someone who seem to need rescuing. No more confusion on whether what I am feeling is being in love, or just wanting to be there for someone who needs it. No more. No more. It is frustrating. IT IS EMBARRASSING.

You knew you shouldn’t drink, but you still went on with it

Image via Wikipedia

You wake up to a hangover, from a night of insobriety. You mixed beer with scotch whiskey with coffee-flavored tequila with some yet to be determined alcoholic poison and without a single drop of water, so a hangover shouldn’t be much of a surprise.

Growing up, you were told by experienced drinkers that drinking lets you forget. That alcohol blunts your senses, numbing you, as if it were a garden variety medical anaesthetic sold in bars and liquor shops. More often than not, though, this doesn’t apply to you. Strangely, drinking heightens your senses. Blurred images sharpen to a blinding vision. Silence becomes a cacophony of songs and voices and curses. Dormant emotions come roaring back to life like an angry, vengeful beast coming out of hiding. You are made aware of thoughts, ideas and other nuances, which you never thought even existed in your head.

Which is why, no matter how you brag about how you love drinking (and you actually do), you are frightened of it. What will you remind me again tonight, oh dear glass of whiskey sour? What will you make me feel again tonight? –your thoughts before taking that first swig from the glass of your favorite alcoholic concoction.

Last night, in that party with more than 80 journalists, you successfully resisted the challenge of remembering, of “becoming aware” by rejecting even a single drop of alcohol at the first hour. And then you gave in. Clearly, you are not frightened of a little dose of self-awareness, aren’t you? You dared yourself. F*ck reason and sanity, you are doing this.

A bottle of beer, then three; a glass of whiskey; a shot of tequila. There goes the once happy and bubbly Lilith.

“Something bothering you, dear?”

“Nothing. I’m just chilling,” you lied. A terrible lie.

A terrible lie, a terrible lie, a terrible lie. What were you reminded again of, Lilith? Better yet: What emotion, which you weren’t even aware existed, came roaring out of hiding? Why are you suddenly trying to fight the urge to break down and cry?

And while you just wanted to go home and hide in one corner of your room with the lights turned off for all eternity, you kept your calm, kept that visage of a happy, bubbly party animal going from one table to another, trying to be funny, making sure that every single guest is enjoying the night, making sure that no one shares that inner alcohol-induced misery.

And now, you struggle with your hangover, on your bed, typing away badly-written paragraphs of non-sense, preparing to be late for work, keeping yourself from crying over the thought that has wildly bothered you from last night. Never again, you told yourself. Not a single drop of alcohol again. Yet another terrible lie.

This is a part of my commitment to my daily morning writing exercises. Well, apparently, it hasn’t become that daily.

Writing about nothing

I suppose I should be explaining (mostly to myself) why I missed two straight days of my daily morning writing exercises. I suppose I should tell you about my two days in General Santos City, somewhere in Mindanao. But I look at the clock on top of my makeshift bookshelf, its seconds finger slowly inching the minute finger to the 18th…to the 19th…to the 20th minute of eight in the morning. I am panicking. I am supposed to be rushing to the bathroom right now, letting out tiny screams as I endure the freezing water, which is more bearable than having another mark of tardiness on my office time card. Yet I stay here, trying to make a decent blog entry, an installment to my daily morning writing rituals – and I am fully aware that what I am typing down as of this moment are sentences after sentences of pure non-sense.

Which brings me to the question: how can one write anything worth reading, when you are on a mad rush, and with the thoughts in your head still in disarray, still needing to be organized? How do you make time for leisurely writing, when you are at the mercy of real-life deadlines, of Bundy clocks, rush-hour traffic and responsibilities that you need to keep in order to stay alive?

Then there’s another question that popped in my head just now: how do you keep yourself from becoming an automaton, if most of your adult life has become about working?

Finally: how do you make yourself relevant?

 

Why? Because…

Why do I even devote my mornings to writing? Why couldn’t I forgive myself for the fact that yesterday, I missed out on this daily morning ritual? Why, right now, at 8:30 a.m., in my night gown here in my place, I am defying how the Bundy clock back in the office would judge me?

Perhaps, it is from the illusion that some day, maybe some day, an idea, an inspiration, would come to me, and it would be worth putting in a 1,000-pager book. It remains an illusion, yes, and most likely, it may never even come to reality. Yet, I continue to practice my writing so I will be ready in case that time comes. Every single morning I try. Even when I have nothing to practice writing about, I try.

Perhaps because I wouldn’t want to lose the skill I have always had (a skill which, as mentioned in a previous post, I am starting to lose). Perhaps, to temporarily exorcise my inner demons; demons who have been there ever since I could remember. Perhaps  because, even in these quiet mornings, there are far too many noisy voices inside my head and writing shuts them up. Perhaps because, similar to reading, I have always seen writing as an escape; here I can always build my own world, far away from the humdrum of rush-hour traffic,  accumulating unpaid bills, deadlines, and half-wit losers who text you and harass you, and demand your attention even if you have repeatedly implied that, no, I am not interested in you, you loser, please leave me alone.

Perhaps because there is this part of you who is aware of the fact that you are incapable of feeling immense love for people, immense enough to spend the rest of your life with them. And your writing, despite its inconsistencies, is something you know you wouldn’t mind to be with, to accompany you to the ends of the earth; to eternity; till you are old and alone, childless in some distant future; till death do you and writing part.

To the pitiful, stalking loser: Republic Act No. 9262 or the Anti-Violence Against Women act

If you must go on harassing me and stalking me, I will not hesitate to file charges, especially because I am collecting evidences against you. I suggest you go on, get a life, stop watching my every move online and offline, and expect nothing whatsover from me. That’s easier than finding a lawyer better than mine. Below are some excerpts from Republic Act No. 9262 or the Anti-Violence Against Women act. I understand that you are not really a well-informed/bright man, so I suggest you read these.

On psychological violence:

“Psychological violence” refers to acts or omissions causing or likely to cause mental or emotional suffering of the victim such as but not limited to intimidation, harassment, stalking, damage to property, public ridicule or humiliation, repeated verbal abuse and mental infidelity.

On stalking:

“Stalking” refers to an intentional act committed by a person who, knowingly and without lawful justification follows the woman or her child or places the woman or her child under surveillance directly or indirectly or a combination thereof.

Read the rest of R.A. 9262 here.

The ‘tunay na lalaki’ archetype and why we should accept the fact that it does not exist

(This is part of my daily morning commitment to write. It’s an exercise so I could regain/improve my skills again. This was supposed to be written a few hours earlier, shortly after I woke up. But Sunday is Sunday, and a rainy day at that, so it takes effort to get off the bed and set myself up for writing, and not just tweeting or internet surfing.)

We give men too much credit whenever we say “Para ka namang ‘di tunay na lalaki [It's as if you're not a real man]!” We have a notion, if not an illusion, of what a tunay na lalaki (real man) is: emotionally, physically and mentally strong; respectful; gentlemanly; can accept defeat with his dignity still intact; can cry over someone who he has lost but moves on with his life; works hard to support his loved ones and to make a name for himself; goes to the ends of the earth for the one he loves… The list goes on.

The thing is, if there is such a thing (tunay na lalaki), they are a dying breed, if not an always-have-been-rare breed. What we have are Mo Twisters, Herman Cains, Ramon Revillas and a billion of others who remain nameless, buried in obscurity for the lack of ambition to make a good name for themselves. What we have left are men who publicly humiliate their former girlfriends because they are not “man enough” to move on and accept the fact that they were rejected. What we have left are men who equate their manhood to the number of women who have spread their legs for them. What we have left are men who just sit there and blame the universe for their misfortune, instead of getting up and working hard to achieve their dreams. What we have left are men who expect their women to foot the bill every chance they can get, because they are aware that these girls are very much in love with them to let this social faux pas pass.

If our criteria for tunay na lalaki should be our basis, then we should be looking at gay men. From my observation over the years, beki (gay man) friends and acquaintances fit the tunay na lalaki standards: physically, emotionally and mentally strong, and continuously enriching themselves intellectually and spiritually; respectful; gentlemanly; …almost everything in that list. Which makes their straight men counterparts seem very weak.

This is probably why there is a growing number of strong, independent and mostly single women these days. They have come to realize that men who they have known from fairy tales and romantic comedies remain that way: fictional. These women have become very self-reliant; they are working hard to make a name for themselves and support their loved ones; they have enriched themselves so much so that they do not need a man to make them feel beautiful, to make them feel complete; these women have gone through a lot and have done so much to improve themselves that they believe they do not deserve sub-par partners.

As quickly as the tunay na lalaki archetype falls into extinction, the strong and independent woman continues to evolve, defying the idea that men are the “greater sex”. Although women are still prone to losing themselves to emotions and go crazy over the men they love, they are quick to regain themselves or, if not, they arm themselves, from the start, with the thought that the men they love are not entirely reliable, that these men are not the be-all and end-all of their existence.

Do not get me wrong, though. I am not a man-hater, and this personal blog post is not meant to malign men. I am merely stating the facts, based on experience, based on observation, based on what we see on the news.

Truth is, I love men. What is not to love about them, right? They are charming, funny, sometimes good looking, quirky, cuddly, a worthy competition in alcohol drinking (fine, I have high tolerance for alcohol, so this quality is included here), they can engage you in a good conversation, willing to be at the receiving end of a woman’s predilection to pamper his man with sweetness. I love men, yes. But I don’t think I could depend on them when it comes to vital matters, say my emotions or my life. I love men, yes, even after the acceptance of the fact that they will never be the tunay na lalaki that we all expect them to be.

The showbeezzz post

(This is part of my daily morning commitment to write, an exercise, so I could regain/improve my skills again.)

Everyone is whispering behind her back, this pretty showbiz star.

Oh, that’s her who did this.

What an atrocious thing to do!

How can she do that? I pity the man!

After the very public, explosive revelations by her ex-boyfriend (also from showbiz), after the tweets, the Tumblr posts, and most recently a video, the country seemed to have ground to a halt. National issues with tremendous repercussions have taken the sidelines: a personal issue has become a national concern.

People wanted a piece of her. People (including this writer) easily formed their own opinions on the “national issue.”  People were quick to judge, while she tried to remain silent. Seeing how the uproar has caused much attention, seeing how he is getting everyone’s sympathy vote, the ex-boyfriend played the victim role to the hilt. More tweets, more posts, and a scheduled television interview. While the woman, she tried to be mum on the issue. An online lynch mob is starting to clog the highways of the internet, yet she still chose to be silent.

This is what you get for having a public life. This is what you get for dating a man who has always been known for having no respect for anybody. This is what you get for settling for someone way beneath what you know you deserve. She must be thinking.

Forget heartbreak. Forget the fact that I can never have her back (which is precisely the reason why I’m acting out). She won’t have a career after this. He must be thinking.

Amidst all the showbiz circus, amidst the loathing the woman has been getting, no one seemed to have been bothered by the fact that THIS IS harassment, what her ex is doing. But, hey, forget political correctness. Forget women’s rights. Forget the psychological and emotional trauma her ex must be inflicting on her. People have a new public figure they can collectively bully.

And we are a nation of online bullies. It makes us feel good about ourselves. It makes us feel superior over popular figures we secretly envy. Collective online bullying and judging makes us feel that we are part of something “righteous,” some sort of an illusion to cover up the fact that our own offline lives have no significant cause or meaning; to cover up the fact that our own offline lives are nothing but routine and ordinary. We can put more meaning into our lives by joining a legit cause, an advocacy group, or get into activities that could enrich our souls. But no. Collective online bullying is easier, less tedious, and more accessible. The showbiz ex-boyfriend seem to know this very fact, and is exploiting it, the public is egging him on to do so. At the painful receiving end of this is the showbiz girl, who would hopefully come out of this stronger and wiser.

Stalker

Lord, someone has been harassing me on the phone. And he is starting to harass me online. Give him strength to move on and get a life of his own. And be a man. Or I will file charges for harassment. I have saved his text messages, and will use them against him if he goes on with this.

First thought upon waking up

(And so I proceed with my daily morning writing exercises, just so I could teach myself how to write again.)

What usually comes to us upon waking up? What thought? Are they visions that filled our minds during sleep? The image of someone we have been wanting to be with for the longest time? Is it dread for waking up late? Are these thoughts make us hopeful for the coming day?

This morning, mine was mostly fear. Not just because I woke up pretty late and with no luxury of time to do my daily morning writing exercises (yet, I still write). It was fear that I may not be equipped with the right tools for the coming days, months ahead. This realization came to me as my last thought before I fell asleep last night, and it lingered on till now. “You are fucked up, Lilith.” I keep telling myself. It is one of those days when I wish there was some panic button somewhere that could save me from what I dread the most.

I am resilient, a born survivor. I have risen from the ashes several times before. I am amazing. I am AWESOME.

That is what I keep telling myself as of this moment, repeatedly. I may not be equipped with the tangible things that I need (really need) for the coming days and months ahead, but I have me. While I am still not convinced that “me” isn’t enough for the future. But I have gone through a lot, and the “me” that I keep telling about has helped me survive even the most sordid of things. I have me, and a pretty hardcore guardian angel sent by God to me (oh, yes, I do believe so). But for now, I have to figure out how to deal with the problem.

Forcing myself to write

Professionally, writing is no longer part of what I do. Compared to who I was 11 months ago and beyond that, I am no longer a writer tapping away on a laptop trying to beat the deadline. While this has made my life easier (since being a writer has taken me to emotional and mental nadir several times before), this has taken a toll on me. I remember last week, when finally there was something that I needed to write for my work, I sat in front of a blank word document for hours (alt-tabbing to Twitter and Facebook) for hours and produced nothing. My day went on without me being productive. I almost broke down in tears that day. What happened to me? Have I forgotten to write?

This detachment to writing has seeped into this blog as well. Lately, what I have been posting were quotes, lines, verses from people who echo what I feel at that moment. But it was never about me typing out all those raw emotions as what I used to. And in those rare instances that I forced myself into writing, I find them to be of sub-par quality. Even beneath it. THIS thing I am writing right now is BENEATH sub-par quality. It is something that I would be deleting eventually, out of shame.

I have not lost hope yet. This act of blogging and risking being late for work (I still have to take a bath and run to the office) IS hope. Every day, every morning after waking up, I will force myself to write. Even if I’m not in extreme emotional depths (which usually fuels me into blogging), I will write. Practice. I will not try to delete even the most horribly written ones, just to assess my progress. Also, I will go back to reading again (right now, I am reading Douglas Coupland’s “Girlfriend in a Coma”), which helps if one wants to improve her writing.

Starting this day, this first of December, I will force myself to write. So help me God.

The reason why I cannot easily settle…

…is because I want madness, passion, heat.

I cannot go into relationship, a committed one, if it is devoid of the fire that I usually live my life with. I would rather cruise through life single, sporadically dating, than go into a serious, committed relationship that has no heat that could keep it going.

And to quote an old, cheesy movie:

“I want you to get swept away. I want you to levitate. I want you to sing with rapture and dance like a dervish. Be deliriously happy. Or at least leave yourself open to be. I know it’s a cornball thing but love is passion, obsession, someone you can’t live without. If you don’t start with that, what are you going to end up with? I say fall head over heels. Find someone you can love like crazy and who’ll love you the same way back. And how do you find him? Forget your head and listen to your heart… Run the risk, if you get hurt, you’ll come back. Because, the truth is there is no sense living your life without this. To make the journey and not fall deeply in love — well, you haven’t lived a life at all. You have to try. Because if you haven’t tried, you haven’t lived… Stay open. Who knows? Lightning could strike.”

– Anthony Hopkins as Bill Parrish in Meet Joe Black

 

This is the quality of love that I want to get into. Anything less than that would be a waste of time.

Random thought on a rainy Bacolod night…

Earlier, as I was scrolling down my Facebook homepage, I came across a “shared” quote by one of my virtual friends. It had me giggling:

“If at first you did not succeed…try destroying all evidences that showed you tried.”

Funny because no one wants to remember, no one wants other people to know how much effort we have exerted on something that has gone nowhere but to a heartbreaking path to failure. Then another quote (a made-up one) came to my head, which I dare not share on Facebook or any similar venue in big bold black letters…

“All evidences of recent successes can be destroyed by one small and very insignificant mistake. Everything, everything, even those which went beyond what anyone could do, erased, erased, erased. Because of a tiny detail. A tiny and irrelevant one, which, in a saner world, wouldn’t have mattered at all.”

The tiny red and yellow box

The tiny red and yellow box, it dares to be opened. Flat and unimposing this box may seem, its contents frighten you. Its contents will bring you back to praying. Ten Our Fathers, Ten Hail Marys, and a thousand Please Lord Help Me This Time Pleases.

Inside it, futures will be dictated. Lives will be changed. Hearts will be broken. Cries will be uttered.

Inside it, a secret, waiting and wanting to be revealed.

Inside it, a constant reminder. Never again should you trust. Never again should you fall in love hard and very instantly. Never again should you defy everything and everyone for what you feel. Never again should you go against logic.

Inside it, a congratulations to the self. You walked out right before what you felt started to consume you.

And as you start to rip open the tiny red and yellow box, you utter your first Our Father.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

My visual DNA according to the New York Times (and yeah, I love personality tests)

“You live life on the edge of your seat. The more thrills, the better.” Yup. That pretty much sums me up.

Test can be taken here.

“No alarms and no surprises. Silent, silent.”

It was Thom Yorke’s (Radiohead) birthday the other day, so I played his band’s discography on a loop over at iTunes. Then this song from their “OK Computer” album played. I listened to it intently and realized this has become what I have been “singing” in my head the past couple of months. The perfect song.   What does it mean? What does it mean?

Because behind a perky, free-spirited, jolly woman is her dark half. The dark half who has always been with her ever since she can remember. And that dark half has become more apparent the past few months.

And if the dark half finally takes over and lead the way, this is where everything will ever be. Her new home in Pasig. The place for her “final bellyache.”

Lilith and her fascination for candles, aromatherapy oils, incense, potpourri and Radiohead

 

“What Tarot Card are You?” (Mine is the Moon Card)

Came across the online quiz “What Tarot Card are You?” and the result said I the moon card is for me.

You are The Moon

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Moon is a card of magic and mystery – when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.

The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.

…

I haven’t done so much as a writer. Hell, I don’t even consider myself a writer, especially now that I have abandoned that profession for God knows how long already. In my current job, I write once in a while, but not with the same focus, the same commitment, the same organization of thought to even consider it “writing.” I blog, yes. But, as I’ve mentioned a thousand times before here, I don’t consider what I put here as actual writing. These are just words clumsily put together during times of despair, of extreme emotional instability; during times when I am most needed to be sent to a good head doctor or pharmacologist.

And now, I “write” here as a warm-up to what I am about to really write, which is due in a couple of hours.

Why have I stopped writing professionally? Was it fear? Was it resignation to the fact that I can never really amount to anything as a writer? The worst enemy to creativity, they say, is self-doubt, so have I been consumed by much insecurity?

I miss my older brother.

The Ballad of the Sad Cafe

I discovered earlier that we can post lengthy status posts on Facebook. As some of us very well know, this could be the end of Facebook. In any case, I “abused” this new feature by posting an excerpt from Carson McCullers’ story:

“First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world — a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring — this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else — but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself. 

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.”

First breath after coma

Beer and gas

“See you in that world.”

THIS is my favorite memory of you, so far. Light, laid-back, with a semblance of freedom despite the constraints. You have done so much to save me, you were the cure, and you may not be even aware of it.

Then the whiskey-sour drenched Saturday night came. This has left me confused and broken. I have yet to find the words that will articulate every nuance of this brokenness.

We’re 50/50 on this

“I am a moth who just wants to share your light…It’s all wrong, it’s all right.” (Radiohead, “All I Need”)

To see other “Lilith Cash” click HERE.

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