Confessions of an Insomniac Part X {a letter unsent}

Allan,

I do not know where to start my friend. I guess I should start by apologizing to you for two reasons - the first is for writing you such a belated letter (I am even considering of not sending this to you), and the s
Allan,

I do not know where to start my friend. I guess I should start by apologizing to you for two reasons - the first is for writing you such a belated letter (I am even considering of not sending this to you), and the second is for writing to you in this form. I have to confess that I have found it easier to express most of my thoughts with a keyboard instead with a pen and paper. I can always delete the words that I find inappropriate and there is no need to use another paper and waste ink. I know it seems less personal, Allan, but I hope you will still see the effort that I have put in writing you this letter. I guess I am digressing. Back to the point. I am sorry for these two reasons. I hope that you will still appreciate this letter albeit typewritten and belated.


I am in great debt for the letter that I received dated December 20th of last year. I waited a month for it to arrive. A whole month Allan. Every time I go out of my building, I keep on asking the porter if there’s a letter for me with your name on it… I kept praying that it would come safe in my hands, and it did. I was so happy. It made my day, my friend. Your letter, sad as it is, made me so warm and happy that cold day. And I thank you for that gift. No amount of material thing can ever replace what I felt when I first saw your letter. I keep your letter close to me. Somehow, it makes me feel safe, my brother… grounded to this earth that I am so jaded of. I miss you. I hope you know how much I wish to hear your voice right now, to hold you, and to embrace you and touch you. I miss the short spaces that divide us. We used to have that, my friend. I long for the short distance that used to separate us before. I used to ache so much thinking about that, the distance, the physicality between us that can never be crossed or transcended by anything material. A pain that could only be comforted by our conversations, our silence and by our common understanding that what binds us together is deeper and thicker than the blood that ran through our veins. Now time and space has its grip over us. But I keep hoping that somewhere and in some distant future, I might get to embrace you again, and hear your voice. Life, I think, has such a bad taste in humor, my friend. What she finds amusing, I find absurdly unkind. But who am I to complain for we are all swimming in the same cesspool? I try to find the humor in the irony, my friend. I am only comforted by one certainty, and for this I am really certain… that I will always carry you in me where ever I go. You are always in my heart… ever present… continuing… and alive.

I do not know why I call you brother (for you are more than that). But it gives me comfort when I call you my brother. You have always been my protector, in so many ways. You may be younger than me; but you are far older than me in spirit. Michael and I are like infants compared to you. I hope you do not take offense in that, for I believe that you will always be
my elder brother. Someone who will be willing to punch me in the face when I am too much of an asshole. Someone who will be willing to embrace me in public when I am too ashamed to face life. Someone who will be willing to shed his tears when he sees me shedding mine. You.

That is why I carry you always with me.Believe me, my friend you are changing. The words in your letter can attest to that change. You may not see it but I do. Call me foolish, but I still hold that the universe is not that cruel or random to give you a mountain of tribulations that is more than enough for one lifetime without something waiting for you in the end. I have to believe in that Allan. I have to hope. Or else I there will be no use for me existing in this cesspool we’re all swimming in which we call reality.

Sometimes I wonder why life would do this to us, to you…

I began to have arguments with God(orwhatshisnamewhoeverheorsheoritis). Why? I even gave him the finger one time. God never answers of course; it’s not his style. Sometimes, I think that apathy really becomes him.

I try to be thankful for what I have now. For I know that all what I possess now (little as it may seem) may well be taken away from me tomorrow (or rather me taken away from it). Life may be beautiful (or so it seems), but it is clearly devious and cunning. Maybe that is where the randomness of everything comes in. Maybe that is where evil comes in, the randomness in the chaos.

But I believe there is good in the chaos. A painting (even an abstract one that is made up of colors in chaotic motion) becomes beautiful when it is seen as a whole picture. Details maybe important but it is still the whole picture that matters. The entirety. I honestly do not know why I am saying this, but I had this feeling that I should tell you this.

We are but mere carbon based mortals, Allan; swimming in this cesspool we call life. But one thing is different; we know that we are swimming in it. With that knowledge, we move and we exist. And we try to be happy.


---------- but we hope, my friend…----------


If I ever have all the power in the world to change things I hope you know how much I wish to change things for you. I think I can never truly be happy if I know that the people dearest to me are not.

Never stop swimming, brother. Never.

You may have no control of the earth and skies, or the elements. But you are in control of your limbs. I have never prayed much… I find no use for it lately. But when I do, I always pray for the ones I carry in my heart.

The ones that keep me sane.

The ones that keep me moving.

The ones that keep me from shooting myself.

You are one of them brother, friend, beloved.

Remember that I carry you in my heart.

Always.

Your brother.

March 8, 2006

_____________________________________________________

I never did send this letter. I honestly do not know why. It's been almost ten years since you became my friend on that hill. Ten years. I wanted to go back to that hill where I met you and Michael. I wanted to pay my respects. He{ll}aven knows I owe her a lot. I have made many wrong decisions in my life Allan. So many wrong turns that I have become regretful of. But climbing that hill wasn't one of them. For it brought me to you.

It's your birthday today. But I guess it isn't that important, knowing you. You'd be tending your farm and probably looking at the pond. But I hope that today you'll stop for a while with whatever it is that you are doing. and just breathe... just for a while... and allow the universe to work for you my dear brother.

Confessions of an Insomniac Part IX {usted sabe que quiénes usted es... esto está para usted}

know that life is in front of you - smiling and embracing and waiting...

know that someone is proud of you - of your endeavors, of your hopes and of your dreams...

know that you are always in someone's thoughts - always hoping the goodness to come out in you and flourish...

know that you are good. that no matter how you may always think you are not, you are a wellspring of what is good and true and pure. the universe declares so, my friend. and the universe is never wrong.

know that you are strong. violent forces may touch you, defile you, harm you, cripple you until it all may seem blur, greyish-black, biting the thing you call your soul, summoning forth the darkest edge of reason beckoning unreason... but you stand panting, bleeding and wounded yet undefeated. you are david in the desert. your heart is your sling. your soul, your pebble. and your will is a trebuchet...

know that you are loved. that there are people who care for you and think and hope the best of you. distance does not exist...

know that you are embraced. know that your past is absolved, forgiven, consecrated...

know that now is what matters. now you are here... now you are strong... now you are loved...

know that you are becoming. that what you were and what you are now are together, embraced, post-coital. that tomorrow will be another you and the day after tomorrow will rise forth another you... and the day after that and the day after that... you are a (lovechild)child of tomorrow's tomorrow's tomorrow. therefore, become.

the universe loves you, my friend. i love you...

know that time is a patient lover. ever constant and ever faithful...

know that it doesn't matter how long it takes or how many pitstops you make or which road you take, or even if you actually get there... what really matters is that you are taking the journey...

tomorrow patiently waits for you, my friend .

seize it.

Reflections of an Early Riser

it's 8 am. i am surprised that i woke up this early. the coffee is so warm now, it's not even hot. i like it that way, warm. i've been sleeping on my couch for a coupla nights now. why the sudden fetish for small spaces? ahhh. i don't know. i ask myself the same question.

my rose plant is starting to grow leaves again. sophie b. hawkins is playing in my head... it felt like springtime, on this february morning.....

in a little while i will go to my scared place - the bathroom. then i'll think happy thoughts. {no perve, not THAT kind of happy thoughts. too early. and besides i am not in the mood}. think about the people i love. my goals for today. the people i will meet today... that sorta thing. happy thoughts.

i like the quiet in the mornings. it gives me time to collect my thoughts and clean it up a bit. 'coz i know the rest of the day it will be all in a puddle. i look at the tanka on the wall and i could see all the 37 buddhas in quiet meditation. such bliss. i wish i could be like that, sometimes. multiplied and blissful (all 37 of me). life would be easier for me if there were 37 of me.

1. one doing the work
2. one doing the learning
3. one hedonistic me
4. one philosophical me
5. one monogamous me
6. one polygamous me
7. one agnostic me
8. one atheistic me
9. one poetic
10. one stupid
11. one logical
12. one romantic
13. one serious
14. one easygoing
15. one drunk
16. one sober
17. one to make all the decisions
18. one to clean the flat
19. one to mess it up
20. one to cook
21. one perverted me
22. one holy me
23. one vegetarian me
24. one devoted to family
25. one devoted to self
26. one devoted to friends
27. one bedouin, to go to any place i wish
28. one bubbly me
29. one couch potato me
30. one secret agent me
31. one superhero me
32. one autistic me
33. one quiet me
34. one leftist me
35. one rightist me
36. one moderate me
37. one greenpeace volunteer me

but alas, there is only one me. so i have to live with everything... in one body.

i have to meditate in the shower now.

The Confessions of an Insomniac Part VIII

never a fan

I was never a huge fan of Valentine's Day. Not even when I was in a relationship back then (which was a long, long time ago). I've always thought it was another way for making people spend their hard earned cash for meaningless symbols of love and eroticism like flora, cocoa products, hotel/motel and restaurant receipts, the works. I admire the concept though. But like Christmas and Easter, it has become rather too commercial for me, too established, too automatic. Perhaps it was because I never equated love and eroticism with February the 14th. Or perhaps I didn't care at all. Funny, that I don't remember having a good memory in that day. I'm sure there must be something, but it somehow didn't leave a long lasting impression. Looking back, my best memories were not in this day. I have to admit that I never remembered "celebrating" Valentine's Day with a boyfriend. I think I did, but only once.

and after 5 valentines...

I have been "single" for 5 Valentine's now. Do I regret it? I wouldn't call it regret for it is too harsh a word. Nostalgia maybe. Well, there are moments, yes. Especially when you wake up in the middle of the night with just a pillow on your head and not a shoulder or an arm to rest on, and a blanket and not a body to keep you warm. When that happens, I usually smoke it off with a fag and go back to bed. But most of the time, I revel in my singularity. My solitude. My being to able roam, to let my feet lead me to whereever. But there are moments... Oh yes, there are moments.

what gives?

What happened? Well, I came to a point where I had to make a choice. I realized that I could never, achieve some of my most relevant goals if I were in a commited relationship. Somehow, there was a point when I got weary of all the rituals that were involved in love and sex - the language, the name calling, the fights which can vary from verbal to the physical then to the carnal, the jealousy, the drama (basically), the breakups, the what-happens-after, the familiar faces and placesm the whole nine-yards. It got so annoying to the point of being banal. I took a "breather". And here I am, 5 Valentines later, writing this blog entry.

I cannot say I don't miss it, that I don't long for it. In fact, behind my cynicsm and acidity, I still think that I am a romatic. I may not be the usual romantic turd with the flowers and hershey's bar in hand, but I think I am. I trust that I am. I have been in love. It may not be many, but I know what it is.

Omar's first

I was so young when it happened. And I was so naive, so foolish. It was rapture. And I knew I was doomed in the end. Looking back, I search for memories of my first, and I found out that I hadthousands of them, a plethora of feelings and emotions but never regret. I may have made bad choices in my past relationships, but never the first. Never my first.

I guess that's one of the main reasons why I am still on a "breather". I cling too much on my first. I may have let it go, but it became the archetype in my succeeding relationships. I was looking for the feeling, the rush, the rapture, the violence, the serenity and yes, even the drama. Only to find out later that there is really no archetype in a loving relationship. There is no blue print. A lot may disagree, but hey, this is my experience.

little things

I learned that you make the rules as you go along. That love is about agreeing and disagreeing and compromising. It's also about the being mundane and being sacred at the same time. It's also about being raptured from time to time in moments and places you least expect. Mostly, it's about the small things - the smile, the lashes and eyebrows, the frown, the eyes, the sound of his breathing when he sleeps, the rhythm of his heartbeat that woke you up in your sleep at three am to find yourself that you were sleeping in his chest, the compliment, the criticism, the lesson learned, the unexpected tears, the unexpected fights, the unexpected notes on your desk, the togethernes, the silence... small things... details.

I miss the details.

I had hurt many people in the past. I have found out a long time ago that I wasn't the perfect specimen for authentic existence. Who is anyways? I am probably paying my dues right now. Lady Karma has been kind to me, though. She has, and I thank her for not smiting my ass. I am not made of titanium either. I've been fucked badly by some in the past. I used to hate them, but what's the use? Shit happens.

About a year ago, I sorta fell in love. I did. It wasn't as strong a feeling that I had with my first but I knew the feeling. It was still love. It turned out bad. Lies unfolded. Hopes rejected. Dreams got trampled upon. People got hurt. My heart shattered. Shit happens. Even in love.

the hollywoodification of love and eroticism

I grew up in a culture of Hollywood movies. Straight. A house with a garden and a car. 2 kids and a dog and probably a cat and a pet canary. Sleepless in Seattle. Serendipity. An ocean liner sinking. Sex inside a vintage Ford. Pretty in Pink. Proms. St. Elmo's fire. Casablanca. Falling in love with your boss then making it big in the big city. Finding your Prince Charming. Barbie and Ken. Looking for love in the big city and then finding it in the end... yada yada yada. I have the impression that almost everything is hollywoodified these days. People tend to pattern their relationships with the flicks they see not even thinking it's just celluloid. To a certain degree, it's not completely our fault. When Hollywood and Cupid made a merger, we were never included. We were the consumers. We merely consumed. When I became conscious about it, I realized that I wasn't part of the stipulations. I was always an outsider. I was never in the plot. I was always the "extra". My story didn't fit in.

So, I made a decision. I decided to fuck Hollywood... and fuck Cupid.

I make my own rules now.

the valentine embargo

and on being possible

I have decided to place an embargo on love. There are things that I need to accomplish. There are horizons that I need to conquer. I believe have to conquer it, even if I have to conquer it alone. Don't get me wrong. I still believe in the idea of LOVE {sans Cupic sans Hollywood, that is}. But I won't be looking for it. Nor will I be waiting. I'm tired of looking and waiting for someone to sweep me off my feet. If he comes he comes. If he doesn't, well fuck him. I'm gonna try to enjoy my life, even if I die trying. I heard someone say that the essence of being human is trying. So I will try to be happy. After all, LOVE begins with the self. I still hope and dream, after all I am a stoned romantic. But there is always that possibility that I would never meet the person that would make me want to vomit everything that I wrote in this blog entry. I will always have this naive heart. It will always be a part of what makes me, me. But I won't let it rule over my life, my existence. I believe that I am more than my naive heart. Apart from it, I am also possible.

I will be possible.

never a fan

I was never a huge fan of Valentine's Day. Not even when I was in a relationship back then (which was a long, long time ago). I've always thought it was another way for making people spend their hard earned cash for meaningless symbols of love and eroticism like flora, cocoa products, hotel/motel and restaurant receipts, the works. I admire the concept though. But like Christmas and Easter, it has become rather too commercial for me, too established, too automatic. Perhaps it was because I never equated love and eroticism with February the 14th. Or perhaps I didn't care at all. Funny, that I don't remember having a good memory in that day. I'm sure there must be something, but it somehow didn't leave a long lasting impression. Looking back, my best memories were not in this day. I have to admit that I never remembered "celebrating" Valentine's Day with a boyfriend. I think I did, but only once.

and after 5 valentines...

I have been "single" for 5 Valentine's now. Do I regret it? I wouldn't call it regret for it is too harsh a word. Nostalgia maybe. Well, there are moments, yes. Especially when you wake up in the middle of the night with just a pillow on your head and not a shoulder or an arm to rest on, and a blanket and not a body to keep you warm. When that happens, I usually smoke it off with a fag and go back to bed. But most of the time, I revel in my singularity. My solitude. My being to able roam, to let my feet lead me to whereever. But there are moments... Oh yes, there are moments.

what gives?

The Rantings of an Insom{a}niac

Merquieades Salazar cried over the body of his wife, who was among those crushed. Salazar, 45, said the couple was jobless and wanted to try their luck at winning a raffle with a jackpot equivalent to 19,250 dollars."In the desire to win money, she is the one I lost." *photo and script courtesy of Associated Press

A friend of mine told me about the stampede that happened back in my country that killed more than 80 people. She saw it on BBC. I went online to learn more about the news myself. I read that all of the casualties were mostly middle aged women who come from among the 40% of the chronic poor in my country. There was this gameshow that announced it would be giving away almost 20,000 dollars as prize for it's first year anniversary, plus a house and lot and shit like that. Thousands of people flocked to the place where the show was gonna be held. The organizers were expecting 17,000 people. More than 30,000 people came. Apparently, a steel barricade was broken which started the stampede. Some people say there was someone who shouted 'bomb' which caused people to panic. More than 80 people (all living in the lowest class of society) died a senseless death, all because they wanted to win 20 thousand dollars in some stupid gameshow. A gameshow, like all the gameshows in a country that has a profit oriented mass-media, which capitalizes on the poverty of the masses and "helping the needy" and "charity" and "hope", all for the sake of ratings and sponsorships. Media networks in my country are mostly like their American counterparts - way too centered on the reality (bullshit) marketing phenomenon, hyped on drama in both news and entertainment, exercising selective morality way too often especially when it affects their interests thus, very partisan, very colonial, very stereotypical, and very, very numbers (ratings) oriented. In the media wars for power, supremacy, influence and control, numbers are important.

The ancient Greek philosopher, Pythagoras was right all along. Numbers are everything. Let me give a little exercise just to prove my point, that numbers matter in this shithole of a world we live in.

I live in a country that consists of 7,100++ islands (depending on the tides) that is populated by more than 80,000,000 people, 40% of which live on 2 dollars a day. In my little tropical nation barely 500 families practically own the country's lands of which many members of these so called "families" comfortably sit in their leather (think Italian) chairs in the offices they hold in both the private and public sectors. Interestingly there are barely 25++ media networks operating in my little tropical nation, mostly owned by, who else... look above. Speaking of 500, the same amount in my currency wouldn't last a week. 10 if you convert it into USdollars and barely 7 into euros. If I give 500 to a whore, she'd bitchslap me twice and spit on my face and tell me that I will get crabs or syphillis the next day. If I multiply the same number by 12, you'll get what the average worker would get in a month in my coconut republic, not including the shitty taxes we pay which only goes to my public servant's greedy pockets (which is probably deeper than my ass). 20 the average number of typhoons that visit us every year. If you divide it by 4 you'd get the number of coup d'etat's (5 coups, with only 2 being labeled 'successful') that happened within the last 20 years. 2 is also the number constitutional conventions that were done in this century alone, with another one fast approaching. But still the same faces in the government with barely little additives from grass roots organizations. 0 is the number of representatives from the Communist Party in the Congress and the Senate. (Luckily) 0 is also the number of tsunami incidents. Let's hope it stays that way. 2 is the media network that airs the gameshow that caused the stampede that killed more than 80 lives and injured 300 more. 7 is the rival network. These two networks have been at war ever since the word "ratings" started to mean "profits". 40 is the age of the host of the gameshow who cried in tears in front of the tv news cameras (of both networks) apologizing for the incident. 40 is also the average age of the people who died in the stampede who were mostly women hoping to get the 1,000,000 peso prize of the day. 1,000,000 pesos translates to 19,250 dollars. 51.9 was the exchange rate for the peso against the dollar which was the highest in more than 3 years, which caused the elation of a 56 year-old president hoping for another 6 years in office.

Today there are less than 80 people in my coconut repuclic's population. 19,250 dollars. 51.9 to 1. 32,000,000 people to 500 families. 80 million captive audiences of korean-chinese-mexican telenovelas, news dramas, reality tv, gameshows, home tv shopping, religious networks that spread love AND hate, and 60-second award winning commercials that only give you false hopes for better days to come, as long as you buy their product.

After all the numbers I wrote, you might ask why do I even find the slightest bit of humor in all of this? And what do I have to say about it? Only this, reader of my blog...

WELL FCUK WE ALL.

And I meant that.

If you want me to be sympathetic and turn this into a real bad melodrama shitfest that's already infested most of the televison netowrks by airing them ALL DAY, I have to say NO. I have my own version of sympathy, thank you. And I trust my own version. And I don't need a copy from last night's episode of whatsitsname telenovela. I don't want to pity the people who were affected by this tragedy, God knows they will be receiving a pity fest from all directions. And after six months or so, most of them would be forgotten. Sure there'd be an anniversary special for all who died in the stampede and there might even be a memorial for the 80++ people who died. But who would really remember them? The network? The host? The President? The Senate? The Congress? The Church? You? Me? No one really, except for the people who survived that day. People like Merquieades Salazar who, as much as he wants to, will never forget the day he lost his wife.

You might even think I am this high and mighty asshole preaching in this makeshift pulpit that I call a blog. That temptation is just so hard to resist. But you were thinking of it, weren't you? No use in denying it. At the back of our heads, in the deep recesses of our minds, we all want and think of the same things. I really don't give a shit. But if you'd be so careful to notice and look up above and try to read the funky green pronoun in all caps and underline, you'd figure out easily that I am not excluding myself. I am swimming in the same cesspool as you are. Let's face it. We are all but used toilet paper floating in this ocean of excrement. This is REALITY UNEDITED. And no amount of drama, or 700-club morality, or "reality" tv, or gameshow, or networking scam, or "showbiz" politicking or 60 second award winning commercials from from transnational corporations can cover it up. Reality is knocking on our doorstep. She's trying to wake us up to smell the air and to get real. Maybe if we start there, for once, we might actually get somewhere.

The Confessions of an Insomniac Part VII o ang Pangungumpisal ng Isang Taong Hindi Makatulog {{{2.27 am}}}

Matagal-tagal na ring hindi ako nakakapagsulat sa sarili kong lengwahe. Nabasa ko kasi yung blog ni Oski kanina {dapat matutulog na ako pero binasa ko}, kaya hindi na rin ako nakatulog. Heto na naman ako, nakaharap sa pentium 4 BC na computer, may hawak na sigarilyo, nagta type at nagdarasal na sana di mag-hang ang PC kasi hindi ko maisa save ang latest blog entry ko. Nakakahiya mang sabihin, hindi ako magaling sa Filipino. May isang professor na nagsabi sa amin na karamihan sa mga Pinoy daw, nagta-Tagalog {or Filipino, tingnan mo naman, sa pangalan pa lang, lugi na tayo - di mo alam kung Tagalog ba o Filipino} pero kung mag-isip, Ingles. Bibihira daw ang nag iisip ng purong Filipino {o Tagalog}. Kung mapapansin mo mambabasa {reader}, di ko maiiwasang gumamit ng mga terminolohiyang banyaga. Sampol lang tol. Expletives o pagmumura sa Talapino (Tagalog at Filipino, kasi kung tutuusin Tagalog naman talaga lahat ang Filipino. Di ko rin masisisi ang mga Bisaya at Cebuano kung bakit ang sasama ng loob sa mga taga Luzon) back to the blog (ayan nag Ingles na naman ako!)

CUSSING o PAGMUMURA

shit fuck motherfucker {minsan muthafucka pa nga para hip-hop} sonofabitch asshole punyeta {spanish word} puta {isa pang spanish word} atbp...

Sa pagmumura pa lang, dehado na tayo {spanish din yan dejado}. Minsan natatawa ako pag naiisip ko ang sinabi ng professor ko. Totoo naman. Mas magaling pa nga tayo sa English Grammar kesa sa Talapino. Mas magaling tayo mag spelling sa Ingles kesa sa lenguahe natin. Minsan, ako pa nga ang tinatanong ng mga Amerikano at Inglatero kong kakilala kung pano mag spell ng ganito or ganyan. Biruin mo, si Brown Boi from the Tropics kayang i-spell ang M-E-C-H-A-N-I-S-M at alam ang ibig sabihin ng E-L-A-T-E-D. Minsan nakakatawang isipin, ang yabang yabang ng ibang puti {hindi lahat ha, tandaan niyo, sa lahat ng lugar may ASSHOLE, baka yung katabi mo nga ngayon isa rin, eh} na nakikilala ko dahil lng sa kulay nila at sa kanilang pagiging Caucasian. Maputi, blonde ang buhok, 6 footer {hehe may mga pandakekong din palang mga puti} at higit sa lahat, sa kulay ng mga pasaporte nila. Sensha na lang ako GREEN ang passport ko. Sa loob-loob ko, Spelling Bee na lang tayo o! Sige, ewan ko lang kung di kayo maduling sa kakaisip.

Ewan ko kung saan patungo itong blog entry ko. Gusto ko lang kasing magsulat ulit sa Talapino. Sabi nga ni Juan, "Bahala na". Hahayaan ko na lang na Stream of Consciousness ang gumana.

Nung napadpad ako dito, nag iba pananaw ko. Sabihin nating nagbago ako. Marami nga nagsasabi na nagbago ako. Bagong pang asar sa akin ni NiNa "NAGBAGO KA NA!". Siguro nga. Marahil. Pero kailangan ko. Kasi kung hinde, baka malunod ako. Nung napadpad ako dito, napagtanto ko na ang laki laki pala ng mundo. Syet! {Shaz and Helga, and for the English speakers who read my blog, syet is a Filipino expletive which is a derivative of the English word 'shit', which I believe, I don't have to explain the meaning}. As I was saying.... SYET! Kala ko..... Pero kala ko lng pala. Dami kong inakala pero hindi pala ganun in real life. Tulad nito:

MGA AKALA ni OMAR

1. Mabango ang mga puti o Caucasians

Hindi lahat. May mabaho, may tama lng, may amoy bagong paligo, may amoy na alam mong tinabunan lang ng cologne, may amoy kusina, may amoy post office, may amoy vanilla, may amoy suka, may amoy fried chicken, may amoy matanda {pero bata pa} at kung anu anu pa.

2. Liberal ang mga Westerners

Hindi lahat. Karamihan ng mga nakilala ko kung hindi supahLEFT, supahRIGHT. Sasabihin nung iba na open minded sila pero kung titingnan mo, sila rin pala ang konserbatibo. Sasabihin nila sosyalista sila pero tingnan mo naman kung pano magtrato ng tao. Sosyalista, Komunista, Kapitalista, Kristyano, Mormon, Wiccan, Budismo, Metrosexual, Republican, Democrat, Nader o anuman. Mga pangalan lang yan. Pag tiningnan mong mabuti, lahat tayo nag ooperate sa BASIC INSTINCTS natin - mabuti man o masama.

3. Mapepera ang mga Westerners

Hindi lahat. May umutang nga sa akin ng 30 pesos, eh. Hehe.

4. Magaling mag Ingles ang mga Westerners

Hehe. Spelling be na lang! Kung tutuusin, mas magaling tayo. Sa accent lang sila may partida. Pero madaling gayahin ang accent. Sa dinami dami ba naman ng call center sa Pilipinas... di ba Aisa?

5. Bobo ang mga nonCaucasians

Hindi po. Karamihan sa mga nakilala kong taga Africa, Polynesian Islands, Carribean, at Indian SubContinent mas may utak pa kesa sa mga ibang puti. Oo, may mayayabang din at mga gago. Pero saan bang lugar ang wala? May nakausap nga ako na taga Cameroon {hanapin niyo sa mapa yun, pusta ko di niyo alam kung saan siya, kasi masyado tayong nabighani sa laki ng America, Canada, Australia at Europa}, magandang babae, at may masters sa Foreign Languages. Kayang magsalita ng Ingles, Italian, German, French, at Afrikaans at siyempe yung mga major dialects ng bansa niya. O, sankapa? WHAPPACK!

6. Pangit ang mga nonCaucasians

Eto pangit sa karamihan sa atin, pag di maputi, PANGIT. Kasama ako dun. Kala ko dati malawak pag iisip ko. Sing lawak ng Pacific Ocean. Pero may color preference pa rin pala ako na nagtatago sa subconscious ko. Nang makilala ko si Shaz, nagbago pananaw ko. Ang ganda ganda ni Shaz. Kung straight ako, di ako magdadalawang isip na.... eniweys. {hehe Merci beaucoup mi amore. A bientot dans Maputu, eh?}Nang makilala ko si Shaz dun ko natutunang hangaan ang anumang hindi puti. At nung nakita ko ang kagandahan ng kaitiman o ng hindikaputian, napag isip isip ko, tang ina, kung ako nagpapaputi yung mga kanong kakilala ko nag papaitim. Okey pala ng kulay ko.

Minsan nga may nakausap akong taga Jakarta, sabi niya, ang swerte mo naman at Pinoy ka. Sabi pa niya, ang dami daw naiinggit sa mga Pinoy {whoa! ganun} kasi ang puputi daw natin. Sabi ko sa kanya lika, labas tayo. Lumabas kami. pinagtapat ko braso ko sa braso niya. Tapos tinanong ko kung anong kulay ng braso ko. Sabi niya BROWN! {parang Colgate commercial}, tapos tanong ko anong kulay ng braso niya. Sagot niya, BROWN {di na parang Colgate commercial}. Sabi ko sa kanya, Lighting lang yan tol. LoL. Pero sabi niya, cute pa rin daw ako. Sabi ko naman, BOTOX yan. hehe. {wink*wink}. Seriously. Nagiging proud na ako sa kulay ko. Makikita ko dito, daming mga Chinese at Koreans na nagpupunta sa tanning salons para mag pa Tan. Di rin ako mag mamalinis, gumagamit ako ng whitening agent dahil sa pimple scars ko. Buti naman at nagkaroon ng epekto. hehe. Basta, para sa akin HOT si Djimon Hounsou.

7. DON'T TRUST FOREIGNERS

May kaunting katotohanan dyan. Pero, sa aking experience dito, mas marami akong napagkatiwalaan na hindi ko kabansa. Minsan kung sino pa yung kakulay mo, yun pa ang tatae sa mukha mo. Sabi nga rin ni Shaz, sa France ganyan din daw. Sa mga immigrant communities, mas nagkakaroon pa sila ng problema sa mga kalahi nila kaysa sa ibang tao. Ganun naman talaga siguro. Kasi, ang nangyayari, yung dating mikrokosmos, nagiging makrokosmos.

Ayokong mag enumerate ng mga akala ko. Kaunti lamang yan sa mga kinailanganin kong bitakin tapos ibalik at tapos bitakin ulit hanggang maayos sa isang nararapat na lugar, nararapat na posisyon, nararapat na pagtanaw. Ang hirap kasi makita kung ano ang nasa harapan mo kung may pader na nagbabalakid sa iyo. Naamoy mo yung dagat pero di mo makita. Nakikita mo ang langit pero hidni mo alam kung hanggang saan. Kailangan mo pang tumingala. Pero pag umakyat ka sa pader, o kaya'y tumayo sa ibabaw ng pader, ang dami mong makikita. Magugulat ka. Pwede pala magsama ang Dagat at Langit.

Sabi ng iba kong kakilala na swerte daw ako. Marahil. Pero may nagsabi nga sa akin, na ang swerte ay hindi talaga swerte. Laging may trade-off, ika nga. Kapag lumaki ang mundo mo, lalaki rin ang responsibilidad mo. Sabi sa amin ng isang professor. Pano ko ba maisusulat 'tong nararamdaman ko ngayon? Teka.

Bigyan niyo ako ng isang sigarilyo.... {hithit Omar, hithit}

Ibibigay ko maski puri ko:

~Makita lng, yakapin at mahalikan ang pamilya ko.

~Makita lang, yakapin at mahalikan ang mga kaibigan ko.

~Makakain ng Tocino, Sinigang na maraming gabi, Shawarma, BBQ, Lugaw sa Blummentritt, Jollibee, 7-11 at Toknene

~Makapaglakad sa Quiapo at magpahula at bumili ng pamparegla

~Magyosi sa sementeryo kasama kahit sinumang may gustong sumama sa akin

~Manood ng sine na malakas ang aircon

~Mag-book hunting

~Mag halukay sa ukay ukay

~Mamangka sa Pasig River

~Makapag swimming sa beach {di pa ako nakakarating ng Bora o Puerto Galera *hikbi*}

~Makapunta ng Baguio {*singhot*}

~Sumabit sa Jeep

~Maglakad sa kalye

~Umihi sa daan {pwede pa ba yun?}

~Bumalik sa Palawan

~Bumalik sa Bicol {at maligo in open air}

~Makita ulit si Mike Enriquez sa TV

~Mapanood ulit si Kris Aquino na iniinterview ng reporter at sabihin sa buong Pilipinas {na kumakain ng hapunan} na may STD siya

~Maglakad sa Tandang Sora at Avenida at Escolta at Chinatown at Mendiola at Baywalk at Recto at Makati at Monumento at EDSA

.....................................................................

Maswerte ako. Marahil. Pero.

.....................................................................

Alam mo, ang dami kong gustong gawin ngayon, pero wala lahat dito. Minsan, siguro, kailangan kong sampalin sarili ko at mag reality check. Nandito ako. Naroon sila.

Minsan naisip ko. Nakakaawa tayo. Hanggang ngayon, Indio pa rin tayo. Wala rin pala tayong pinagkaiba sa mga puti. Ang yabang yabang din natin. Away dito. Away doon. Ala nang pera ang gobyerno pero ang gagara ng kotse ng mga nakaupo. Ang daming gutom. Ang daming alang trabaho. Ang daming gagraduate ngayon na di sigurado kung may papasukan. Ang daming naglalakad sa Ortigas at Makati na naka sputing, necktie, long sleeves {kahit sobrang init}. Ang daming gustong magpakasal na hindi pwedeng ikasal dahil hindi sila covered ng constitution. Ang daming kristyano na hindi naman kristyano. Ang daming simbahan na naglalakihan. Ang daming pulubi sa labas ng mga simbahang naglalakihan. Ang daming magsasaka at mangingisda na nawawalan ng pag-asa sa lupa at sa tubig at naghahanap ng kasagutan sa bundok. Ang daming sundalong sumusunod sa mga walang kwentang dirketibo. Ang daming napuputol na mga puno sa mga bundok. Ang daming problema. Parang kang nasubsob sa tae ng kalabaw na sinukahan ng aso na tinaihan ng pusa na inihian ng daga na iniputan ng manok na dinapuan ng langaw...

Ang ganda ng word na 'democracy'. Sabi nga ng kalaro kong si Nining Liit {ibig sabihin may Nining Laki}, WORD LANG YAN. What a word. Hehe. Eto pang isang word para sa mga lahat ng naiboto sa kung pano mang paraan at may armas na binabayaran ng publiko. PUTANGINA NIYO. {Shaz and Helga putangina is an expletive/cuss which is a rough translation of mother fucker/son of a bitch or your mother's a whore in English. It's actually a pidgin of Madre de puta or Puta Madre which means the exact same thing. By the way, I taught our Russian friend how to say it}.

Siguro iniisip isip mo {ikaw na nagmbabasa nitong walang kuwentang blog na to} na nawalan na ako ng pag-asa. Sabi nga ni Steven Tyler J-J-J-JJJJ-J-Jaaaaaded. Di naman. Anger Management lang to. At isa pa. Insomniac ako. hehe. Malaki pag asa ko. Malawak. Sinlawak nung natanaw ko nung tumayo ako sa ibabaw ng pader at nakita ko kung pano nagtama ang Langit at Dagat. Hangga't buhay si Mike Enriquez, may pag asa pa ako. Tol, tingnan mo naman si pareng Mike. Di kaanya anyaya ang mukha pero bigshot Network Executive {WHAPPACK!}. Hangga't nanjan si Kris Aquino na willing maglantad ng kanyang STD sa buong mundo, ok pa rin ako {I love you Kris. pa kiss!}. Hangga't di pa umaabot sa 200 pesos ang pinakamurang Value Meal ng Jollibee, oks pa rin ako {pucha sana di magkaroon ng SUPEROILCRISIS with THEDAYAFTERTOMORROWCATASTROPHE - Omar makes the sign of the cross, spits over his right shoulder then over to his left and looks up to the ceiling and then prays to yoda}. Hangga't hindi pa kasing size ng Champion Cigarettes and Lucky Me Pansit Canton. Hangga't may Eat Bulaga pa. At higit sa lahat...

Hangga't may mga taong tulad nila oski at auch at allan at romel at ramboy at jepoy at dennis at lahat ng mga nabanggit ko sa sa MISS LIST KO... may pag asa pa ako. may rason ako na tumalon ng pader at lumangoy kung saan nagtatama ang Langit at Dagat. GRADE -A- SHIT ang mga nasa listahan na yan. Pag nawala man ni isa sa kanila, grabe kawalan ng bansa ko {at pati na rin ng mundo ko -shyt ang drama ko, grabe yung noodles na kinain ko kaninang hapunan-}

Mag uumaga na. Hindi pa rin ako inaantok. Pero masaya ako. Pero Gutom na naman ako. Inom na lang siguro ako ng juice.

The Confessions of an Insom{a}niac VI {pork chops and fruit salad}

i was talking with a very good friend online and in one of our sordid conversations, the issue of eX's came up. he told me that if he could only buy an amnesia pill to forget all his eX's, he'd buy it. i told him a happiness pill would be better. {like you'd just pop a pill in your mouth and the next thing you know you'd be in a Johnny Depp movie with a midget giving you a nice rim job... wait i think they already have prozac or xanax for that} that way, when you happen to bump into an ex {by accident} with his or her new rebound, you'd get to have the sheer pleasure of seeing your ex {and his/her rebound} wonder who you are sleeping with to have that shit-eating grin on your face. wouldn't it be great? i mean. to bump into your exes and their current rebounds and them seeing you with that big shit-eating grin plasetered on your face? i bet that would be so priceless.

because sometimes, there are just days when the gods of the universe seem to conspire and just give YOU all their godly attention. meaning, you just happen to see an ex (or ex's) with their current partners crossing the street, or eating at your favorite place, or in the bookstore buying the exact book that you were intending to buy etc. and it just pisses you off. that they seem to have moved on and are happy. like nothing really happened. and you're there. still alone. watching them cross the street. eat in your restaurant. and buy books. that is sooo ally mc beal. but hey. that happens. i bet it happened to you {yes you, the one who's still stupid enough to read this blog entry}. well it happens to all of us, i personally think. and then we see them, our formers {everything is past, before, that was} happy. and we ask ourselves, why? why are they happy and i'm not? was it my fault then? so it was me all along. maybe i shouldn't have done this in the first place.

i guess we all get those days {and nights too}. i remember mine. walking for 10 blocks from my house then walking back. yeah, it hurt. like hell it did. i carried it like a cross for months and months. it was hell. that was almost 5 years ago. when i was young (*sigh) and fresh from the dairy farm.

but you know, i'd never trade that experience for anything in the world {not even for a hot rebound guy}, because it taught me a lotta things. for one, it taught me how to survive a break up. that a break up {or a separation or a divorce} is never a single act, but always involves two people. that the blame can not only be put in one party but has to be shared. that in the end it would be useless pointing the blame to the other {because what's really the use? it's over anyways}. that it's ok to be angry or even jealous because i am entitled to. that it's ok to go into this dazed funk when you just want to walk ten blocks and smoke fags and think of him/her and the "what if's". and most of all, it taught me that i can move on. that like any storm, no matter how violent, it too, ceases.

i guess i'm old enough to tell my young(er) peers that happiness is one hard pill to swallow. and like a pill, it can also cause some sort of pain to make the over all pain go away. you can never truly be happy with someone unless you start being happy with yourself. and that is one of the most challenging aspects in the pursuit of living - trying to be HAPPY. it's never easy anyways. i mean, just look outside your window, how the f*ck can you smile with that kind of reality hitting you square in the jaw. i guess like the pursuit of living, personal happiness is also a pursuit. but you don't have to look for it. you just have to do it, i guess. just take the plunge.

what makes me happy right now? i wish i could say sex, but that would be too much of an understatement since i'm not geting any here {i so deserve a brownie right now}. a good book perhaps. that rush that you feel when you have your first fix of nicotine in the morning. a nice hot cuppa java. jose cuervo with a real nice beat playing in the background. indian music. funny movies {even chick flicks}. tocino {homemade}. sinigang with cold rice. sleeping the whole day. but most of all -

f r i e n d s

who needs a pill when you've got them around?

like a good blether [talk] about what you had for dinner and what you had for dessert, amnesia pills, shitty eX's and even possible death with a real good friend can never do you wrong. in fact, it's all but priceless.

The Confessions of an Insom{a}niac V {The One with the Old Man}

I went to the downtown area the other afternoon to do some errands which was mostly comprised of buying some groceries, sending mails and parcels etc.. But whenever I go downtown, I make it a point to visit a {special} friend who works in the area. So after I have finished doing my errands, I went to see if my friend was there. My last errand was the post office, so it was like a 15 minute walk to go to the place where he works. But since it was already 20 degrees below zero that afternoon, I opted to take a cab {I was really freezing my balls already}. And there he was when I arrived at the place, seated on the sidewalk and playing his Chinese violin. I observed that he was still wearing the same mao coat.

*A mao coat/jacket {derived from the Chinese leader's name} is one of the last remaining vestiges of the Cultural Revolution. It's a green generic coat usually worn by Chinese workers and peasants during autumn and winter seasons. It's really sturdy but quite heavy and it has become a sort of symbol for the Chinese ploretariat. Ironic that Chinese Cultural Revolution fashions has recently been gaining some popularity in the faux ghetto and euro trash trends in the west and would cost hundreds and sometimes even thousands of dollars or euros a piece {regular mao jacket would only cost 15 dollars or less}. Funny how a brand name changes everything*

Going back to my friend

I saw he was wearing the same mao jacket all tattered and unwashed and shit. He was wearing it the first time I met him. It was last spring. I remember it clearly. I was doing some random shopping and was just going to some stores without buying anything and was really bored to death about my meaningless existence {which was magnified by the fact that I was doing some random shopping and browsing}. I was really bored and I wasn't wearing enough clothes. Spring in this city is till considered winter in many parts of the world. I was stupid enought to go outside of my apartment wearing only layered clothing. I thought I could pull off a Canadian {well, who was I kidding, I was from the friggen tropics!}. And so there I was, feeling like some little match girl who just stepped out of a sad dreary novel, with out the matches. I decided to go home when I heard this music playing, from this old 60-ish guy sitting by the sidewalk. It was nothing special, the music. I mean there are a lotta people who do that in this city. But he was sorta special. I was just, attracted to him. I stood there, 3 feet away from this 60-ish old man playing an old Chinese tune {the one you usually hear in Chinese kung fu movies}, just listening... taking it all in... taking him all in. There was something about him that made me stop, and move closer; like close enough that I finally decided to sit beside him and smoked a couple of fags {ciggies}. When he finished, he smiled at me. I offered him a fag. He gladly accepted. And that's how it started. Our unusual friendship {if you could call it one}. So everytime I was in the downtown area, I would always visit the old man with the violin. I'd stay with him for like 20 minutes or so, smoking with him {sometimes smoking my cigarettes and sometimes smoking his}, then talking about the weather and how he was and how I was {our conversation revolved mainly on those topics as my Chinese was so limited}.

I haven't seen him for a month now. But when I saw him, he was still the same. Old. Mao jacket and a Russian cap and all. Chinese violin. a cardboard box where he kept the "donations". And most of all, that genuine smile that I rarely see from people these days.

He was cold. I was cold. The only difference was, I was wearing more this time and he was still wearing the same. I was damn sure he was feeling the cold. I was definitely feeling it down to my testicles. I suddenly got worried. He started talking in Chinese. I barely understood what he said. All I kept saying was hao, hao, hao {which meant either yes, or good or hmmm}. He offered me a seat which I gladly accepted and I started to dig out from my bag for my pack of cigarettes but he stopped me, telling me it was his turn to offer me one. We smoked in momentary silence. Then I asked if he ate already. He said yes. He probably did, but I surmised it was about 8 hours ago or more since he had his last meal. So I decided to buy him dinner and coffee. I told the old man that I would be back in a while because I needed to do something. As I was walking towards the nearest food stall, I almost slipped on the pavement. I muttered an expletive {or two} and cursed myself for going to a city up north to work. The cold was unbearable for me {the reason why I don't go out a lot during winter months}. To be honest, I hated the winter. Where I came from, people {especially children} are raving about snow and icicles and snowmen and snowball fights. I was too, when I was a kid. When I got here and experienced my first winter, I realized that I was really a person of the tropics. That the cold was never to be my element. I hated the cold, I hated the snow, and I surely hated slipping on icy pavements. I couldn't even imagine myself sitting outside the street the whole day or just being outside of my warm apartment for the whole day.

Then I felt guilty.

This was a first in a very long time. Here I was complaining and moaning about the mundaness of everything and my sorta meaningless existence, and there he was, my old friend. I felt like a total asshole. a scum. a kakashka {a piece of shit}. When I felt the hot coffee warming my hands, I came out of the daze and found myself again standing in front of my old friend. He was again telling me something that I didn't understand. I told him in broken Chinese that I thought he could use something to eat. He did. He ate and drank the coffee. I was just sitting beside him while he ate. Looking at him. His face was old, even older for someone who's sixty. I realized that gravity has definitely gotten hold of his youth. And probably life, too. His hands were beautiful, though. Old, calloused and a bit dirty but big and beautiful all the same. I looked at him with this fondness that I couldn't describe. And I have never felt this fondness from a total stranger. You could say I liked him. I think I do. Maybe it was his hands or his face or his violin or his poverty {that made me want to save him, which I knew I could not}. I didn't dare look for an answer or even come close to asking myself at that time, because I knew it was meanignless to ask myself something like that. It would be stupid, I think. But I just looked at him. And I sort of cherished this feeling for him. This fondess. Then I thought about me 10, 20, 30 or 40 years from now. I knew I shouldn't have, but I was also prone to these feelings. I mentally told myself to stop and I almost said it out loud. Then I heard my friend thanking me for the coffee and dinner {that was the only word I could understand in his sentence}. I told him de nada. I gave him a twenty and told him to put it in his pocket and not in his donation box because I knew that his boss would be keeping the twenty if it was in the donation box and not him. He smiled and put the bill in his pocket. I just lit another cigarette and so did he. We smoked again in silence.

Then it started snowing. It was a light snowfall. It was white and feathery but very very light. I could almost even taste it under my palate if I opened my mouth a little. It was even beautiful, despite the ugliness of everything. I mean if you are seated on a sidewalk, you'd see everything around you from a different perspective. And for the many months that I have sat there with my friend, I began to see the ugliness in everything. On the pavements lazed with spit, cigarette butts, gum wrappers, sticks etc. On people's shoes. On men's trousers. One women's skirts and stockings. On expensive cars. i could even see boogers hiding in the nostrils of pedestrians. Everything. I could see everything from down here.

I realized that many {if not most} people tend to think that the people who beg on the streets are ugly, and dirty and vile and shit. Sure you'd give them spare change or some would give them the look of sympathy or even prayers, but at the back of our heads we'd still think they're dirty and vile and scum. Like we wouldn't want to have anything to do with them. But the irony is, so are we. We look down on them. Literally. We are standing on the streets, proud and dignified, above them; and them, kneeling or even lying on their stomachs, below us. And all we see are dirty people asking for your spare change. But when you are low, literally sitting or lying on the sidewalk pavement, you'd be surprised to see the same. That there is little difference.

That afternoon nearing evening, the ugliness dissipated to make way to what was beautiful and serene. I looked at my friend and I smiled at him. He did the same. I shook his hand and told him that I was going home. Again, we found ourselves in the same position the first day we met. I, standing. Him, sitting down on the pavement. But it didn't matter now. Because everything was beautiful at that moment, when the light snow was falling everywhere; on the streets, on the trash bins, on cars, on people and their clothes and on our faces. It was like a dream. Or maybe like a scene in some great, yet unnamed film. It was almost sacred. Holy. Like we were being baptized by some nameless and faceless preacher telling us that we were forgiven and absolved of our pasts no matter what was in it, without any questions. That we were beautiful and everything we do or say from henceforth was to be beautiful. We parted ways.

I looked back at my friend before turning for the corner. He was there, sitting and holding his Chinese violin and was ready to play yet another nameless song. He did. He was playing the one he played when we first met last Spring. When I was real cold and was feeling real shitty about myself. I smiled at him before turning for the corner. He didn't see me now. But I still smiled at him. I looked around. It was still snowing. And for the first in a very long time, I was happy that it was snowing. Because everything was beautiful. From above... and from below.

The Confessions of an Insom{a}niac IV

you're beautiful.

and i don't know what to do,

'coz i'll never be with you.

and it's time to face the truth,

i will never be with you.

The Confessions of an Insom{a}niac III {the One with Fernando Poe, Jr.}

I woke up at 3 am this morning with the phone ringing. It was from a very good friend from Paris who, thinking that it was Saturday Sunday, the weekend, thought I just came from a night of tequilla, funky music and reckless abandonment. Well, I wish, but since I had WORK on a SUNDAY, I couldn't possibly stay up all night, ergo the reason why I slept early and was rudely awaken (kidding mi amore, you still owe me a phonecall, by the way). We talked for like five minutes and I wanted to talk more but I was waaaay too knackered and sleepy and bothered (I'll explain later). She let me go after five minutes with a promised callback the next day (I'm still waiting....)

Now, on with what bothered me that unholy hour.

You see, I was dreaming before Shaz (hehe mwah) woke me. I think it was good that the phone woke me because the thing with most of my dreams is that I forget them the next day. I guess waking up with the phone ringing kept the dream fresh in my cerebral cortex. I dreamt I was back in my old uni, all shy, naive, gum chewing, Jesus loving (still do, by the way) and a small-town-boy-with-a-tommy-page-haircut humanities major studying in some school whatshisname near the red light district in Manila. What was weird about this dream was that I was wearing something, hehe (which was a breakthrough considering that most of my dreams could be censored by the MTRCB, FCC and the Vatican for mere exposure, kissing aaaaaaand #@^%$#). Anyways, I was wearing something white, like I just came out of a detergent commercial. In fact I smelled like I just came out of a laundromat. Very Tide Ultra, I must say. There I was, all squeaky clean and whiter than a Klu Klux Klan acolyte ready to burn someone (like some white guy named GWB) when I caught another scent... something ethereal, something earthy. SOMETHING VANILLA.

I followed the scent and it led me to, lo and behold some dude in a white shirt and dirty blue jeans, and a waaaaay cute face. Maaaaaaaaaaaaan the face of this 20 something guy in front of me was a sight to look at. He was I dunno, more than attractive, more than sexy, more of something I cannot pinpoint. Maybe it was the vanilla. Then, like an epiphany, I realized that I knew this guy. This vanilla guy in front me, somehow I knew him. There was something vaguely familiar about his face. Then vanilla guy, sensing my (gawking)awe, spoke to me. His voice was, I dunno how to describe it. Different. I could have creamed in my pants if he spoke my name. Good thing he didn't. Instead he said his name. He said he was Ronnie Poe. FERNANDO POE JR.

Yes, FCUKING Fernando Poe, Jr was standing in front of me, in his friggin 20's with just a white shirt and a pair of dirty blue jeans that seem to cling to his lower extremeties like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention the Vanilla scent that he keeps emitting. Maaaan if this was a wet dream, I never want to wake up (Sorry readers, my dream was all wholesome and soft core, hehe. and besides if it were hard core you'd never see it in THIS BLOG!).

Moving on.

So, here I was standing (more like DROOLING) over the King of Philippine Cinema, the Panday (Blacksmith), while the twenty something Ronnie is smiling at me asking me where MY MOTHER WAS?!?!?!? We we're going to a room (a classroom you perves!), I was carrying his bag, then he asks me WHERE MY MOTHER WAS! AARRRGH. I was drowning in his scent. I was like so close to him. I felt like melting there and then he gives me the MOTHER CARD! Well, I was stupid enuff to answer. I told Ronnie (hehe, we were in first name basis now) that she was attending some conference ( I don't know why the hell I said that). Then all of a sudden, he smiled and started to poke me in my side. Hehe, well, I'm kinda like ticklish on the sides so I was like giggling like a fcuking schoolboy in front of his highschool crush. It was sooo trippy being with him. Then he asked the weirdest favor. He asked me if I could help him change his clothes!!!!! then i started to feel dizzy and stuff, then his vanilla scent was getting stronger and stronger, his face became clearer and clearer, his whole body was coming closer and closer to mine then out of the corner of my eye, I saw my best friend Allan with some anonymous classmate of mine giving me a wink, somehow telling me to go for it, say "YES". I was about to respond to his request when I heard from some distant plane a PHONE RINGING.

Then I woke up and the rest was recollection.

I can still smell the vanilla while I'm writing this blog entry. God, if only Freud were here (like he'd make a difference!). That scent, that voice, that face.

While I was at work, I kept thinkin to myself why I dreamt of Fernando Poe, Jr. I mean, there must be a reason. I thought about the food I ate the night before. I read somewhere that sometimes, the food you eat affects your dreams. This is what I ate. I had pasta with mayonaise and mutton slices and ketchup and mustard and bagoong. Well, maybe that was it.

Still...why Fernando Poe? Was it even him? Maybe it was Fernando Poe, Sr. Well, I'm pretty sure that it was Fernando Poe (either Senior. or Junior). He introduced himself for crying out loud. And another thing that kinda bothered me was I don't know how my dream ended. Would have I said YES? NO? Would I have helped him change his clothes? I guess I'll never know.

Well, where ever he is, whoever he is... I hope he's groovy and serene and happy. And by the way Ronnie, if you're reading this somewhere, hehe, keep the scent. It suits you.

FERNANDO POE, JR. (1939-2004)

The Confessions of an Insom{a}niac II

couldn't sleep

again... maaaaaaaaaaaaan this is so getting old. i've read like 25 stories and i still couldn't sleep. (seriously, i think i need help. )

anyways...

lately, i've been thinkin about the fuck*&g human condition. i mean, it's just unfair sometimes. like i was browsing at this blogpage and reading about this guy who thinks that the world is caving on him just because he has crisis on where to go next month, paris or moscow - to attend a bloody fashion show! don't get me wrong, i like the guy. he's kewl and shit and he doesn't give a flying f&!@ whatever comes outta his mouth. he's filthy rich, he pops antidepressant drugs like smints and mentos, he wears women's clothing and he doesn't give a shit. he has spunk, and one expensive spunk he has. anyways, what i'm trying to say here is this. here he is, filthy rich... man, i mean his fucking hermes bag could alleviate a third world country's debt. and here i am (LoL), fucking dirt poor. hohoho. i'm enjoying this. ok ok. man. sometimes, life is just way too fucked up mysterious. you got rich assed people and poor shitty people, or rich shitty people and poor assed people, whatever. and then you got people in the middle. it doesn't make any difference though. sometimes everything seems so FUCKING hopeless!

just look (i must warn the reader that there will be too many words like FUCK and FUCKING involved, at least in the metaphorical sense. so if you are not comfortable with the aforementioned words, please be advised not to go further, because it will just give you an upset stomach or if you're a perve who likes to use these words a lot for sexual gratification, a good case of blue balls)

the fucking economy is fucked up. the fucking government couldn't even fucking represent the majority of the people who are DIRT FUCKING POOR. the fucking government representatives are dirty fucking rich. and the fucking majority were fucking stupid enough to vote for them. the fucking constitution couldn't even fucking protect me. i couldn't even fucking get married (as if i'd want to)! fucking jollibee value meals are so fucked up expensive (whatever happened to fifty pesos drinks spaghetti, rice and chicken?). fucking lucky me pansit canton looks so malnourishingly small these days (you can even cook the shit in a test tube). fucking people (even rich ones) still eat the fucking malnourished noodles. the fucking tv is showing fucking trash all the time (not that i don't like it, but PLEASE MAKE US FUCKING THINK! AT LEAST FUCKING BALANCE IT A LITTLE, YOU BLOODSUCKING NETWORK EXECUTIVES). fucking floods every year (you have to fucking swim to go somewhere). there are fucking muggers everywhere (they get everything from cellphones to class rings to hankies to designer underwear) and they fucking know when to mug you. fucking can't smoke in makati. fucking networking companies who suck money out of people just to buy a fucking bar of soap. fucking korean novelas. fucking exes (don't ask).. fucking britney pears. fucking latoya jackson. fucking james van der beek (hehe, i wish). fucking venga boys. fucking george w. bush. fucking pat robertson. fucking ratzinger. fucking global warming. fucking bill gates. fucking republicans. fucking democrats (who are closeted republicans). fucking peter greenway (i don't get a shit of what you make). fucking rumsfeld. fucking global war on terrorism. fucking bin laden. fucking dollar and cfucking euro. and fucking yen. fucking greenspan. fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuckaroo fuck fuck. FUCK

there. i'm finished. i think i could sleep now. that was good therapy. maaaaaaaaaan i'm beat. i should call it a night. hey, don't mind what i said above. bah, don't listen to me. i'm just one fucked up insomniac trying to catch the elusive sleeping god of kiribati. i'm off. i'm audi. seeyalatermastur...er... whatever. i should stop this. hehe. fuck. next time i swear, i'm gonna take sleeping pills.

The Confessions of an Insom{a}niac

September 29, 2 am. COULDN'T SLEEP..... tried everything... tried praying... tried smoking... tried watching movies... tried reading... tried writing... tried dancing... tried #$@!^%$(... tried counting sheep... what to do?

well, i did this...

... decided to have a haircut... no barber or hairdresser around, though... so i gave myself one...

after that, took one vicious cold shower, then i finally dozed off.... at 2:45 am beijing time.

about Rilke

Lately I've been rereading Rilke.

He spoke to me once this summer, when I was alone and hungry and penniless on the train, and with the Gobi and the Huang Ho river as my only companions. I read him for so many times on that train ride to Beijing. Two days, he was my food and water. Two days, he told me how to speak with the Gobi and Huang Ho. Two days, he told me how to let go. Two days, he told me that it was alright to let the questions go unanswered. That in my own sweet time I will eventually get my answers. Two days.

Now he speaks to me again. Turns out that I'm not that pretty fucked up. I guess, I have Rilke to thank for.