This photo is some twenty years old. From my ID when I was in elementary. It looks like a mug shot hehehe. A reminder of the past. Innocent days. Harharhar.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Don't Let The Sun Catch You Cryin'
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
Tonight's the time for all your tears
Your heart may be broken tonight
But tomorrow in the mornin' light
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
The night time shadows disappear
And with them go all your tears
For sunshine will bring joy
For every girl and boy so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
We know that cryin's not a bad thing
But stop your cryin' when the birds sing
It may be hard to discover
That you been left for another
And don't forget that love's a game
And it can always come again so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
Don't let the sun catch you cryin' oh no
This is a very special song that came from the '60s. Heard it in American Idol courtesy of Chris Richardson. Beautiful. Beautiful.
Tonight's the time for all your tears
Your heart may be broken tonight
But tomorrow in the mornin' light
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
The night time shadows disappear
And with them go all your tears
For sunshine will bring joy
For every girl and boy so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
We know that cryin's not a bad thing
But stop your cryin' when the birds sing
It may be hard to discover
That you been left for another
And don't forget that love's a game
And it can always come again so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
Don't let the sun catch you cryin' oh no
This is a very special song that came from the '60s. Heard it in American Idol courtesy of Chris Richardson. Beautiful. Beautiful.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Re-energized
It never fails, if I'm low-batt, a sure cure is a trip to the beach.
Back from a three day furlough in Galera. It was my first time to travel alone, as in me-myself-and-Joseph alone. It could be boring admittedly. Although it has its ups and downs.
First day, I nearly fell sick because I don't know why. Perhaps it was seasickness. The boatride to the island was rocky. Had a terrible, terrible headache but I mustered enough courage to bring myself to the nearest bar to get my cure: a glass of vodka. While it did the trick, my tolerance to alcohol went down to something like 300 meters below sea level. I barely made it to my room without vomiting.
The second day was better. Although it began damp from the night's downpour, it turned out okay later on. Sunbathed for the most part in the morning. This was the part that was boring. I could've died from heatstroke and no one would even notice. Good thing I had my cigarettes to keep me company.
I hung out at Mendeluke's resort where I had previously stayed in November. Babylyn was still there and so were her other friends whom I've met last year. There were kind enough to entertain a lonely soul like me. hehehehe. Turned out, it has become a favorite spot for the loners, according to the barbecue lady.
During the night, I stayed in Aki's bar. Chatted a bit with Aki who owns the bar (obviously). Found out that their contract with the land owner wouldn't be renewed so it was their last night.
I was happy to drink by my lonesome and I just contented myself with looking at people: the man-peacocks as I would like to call them, those guys who are buff and would like the rest of the world to marvel at their works of arts which were their bodies; the kikay girls, the counterparts of the peacocks, both involved in the display of their bodies which I think was near to becoming a sport; and then of course, the spectators like me.
But as the night grew deeper, it turned out that I was being watched. A decent looking girl would steal glances (and unfortunately I would catch her) at me but did not progress so much as to come forward and ask my name.
A second girl did wave at me, all-smiles, and drunk (I think). And that's the part that confused me that night, and has been confusing me for the most part: do I exude a straight guys aura? And should I wear a loud pink shirt that says, "I'm gay, okay?"
I just nodded in acknowledgment of her courage, drank my last bottle of beer for the night, and left for my room to sleep.
The night was getting more confusing.
Back from a three day furlough in Galera. It was my first time to travel alone, as in me-myself-and-Joseph alone. It could be boring admittedly. Although it has its ups and downs.
First day, I nearly fell sick because I don't know why. Perhaps it was seasickness. The boatride to the island was rocky. Had a terrible, terrible headache but I mustered enough courage to bring myself to the nearest bar to get my cure: a glass of vodka. While it did the trick, my tolerance to alcohol went down to something like 300 meters below sea level. I barely made it to my room without vomiting.
The second day was better. Although it began damp from the night's downpour, it turned out okay later on. Sunbathed for the most part in the morning. This was the part that was boring. I could've died from heatstroke and no one would even notice. Good thing I had my cigarettes to keep me company.
I hung out at Mendeluke's resort where I had previously stayed in November. Babylyn was still there and so were her other friends whom I've met last year. There were kind enough to entertain a lonely soul like me. hehehehe. Turned out, it has become a favorite spot for the loners, according to the barbecue lady.
During the night, I stayed in Aki's bar. Chatted a bit with Aki who owns the bar (obviously). Found out that their contract with the land owner wouldn't be renewed so it was their last night.
I was happy to drink by my lonesome and I just contented myself with looking at people: the man-peacocks as I would like to call them, those guys who are buff and would like the rest of the world to marvel at their works of arts which were their bodies; the kikay girls, the counterparts of the peacocks, both involved in the display of their bodies which I think was near to becoming a sport; and then of course, the spectators like me.
But as the night grew deeper, it turned out that I was being watched. A decent looking girl would steal glances (and unfortunately I would catch her) at me but did not progress so much as to come forward and ask my name.
A second girl did wave at me, all-smiles, and drunk (I think). And that's the part that confused me that night, and has been confusing me for the most part: do I exude a straight guys aura? And should I wear a loud pink shirt that says, "I'm gay, okay?"
I just nodded in acknowledgment of her courage, drank my last bottle of beer for the night, and left for my room to sleep.
The night was getting more confusing.
Monday, March 05, 2007
The Child Re-Emerges
There's a bitch in all of us. Term it "evil" if you like. I've always acknowledge that part of me: it's the me with reckless abandon, the stubborn child that could never be quite satisfied, or the spirit that cannot be contained.
Sometimes I try. Maybe that's why I discovered the joys of writing or sought refuge in drawing when I was little. I write or draw to free it, to give it form, so I can come face to face with it. It's hard to battle something which is abstract. If contained, I manifest it.
Some people may argue that the child is one's true nature. Over time, it is forced to be hidden, or tempered by things that adults call "responsibility" or "maturity" or "prudence."
But every time the child/bitch/evil in me surface (in any form) it always felt good to indulge it. Maybe I am Peter Pan who never grows old because he doesn't.
Over time, I discovered that there's no escaping the child. It gravitates towards the things it really wants.
This weekend I was in Baguio with ALL of my housemates for Randy's exhibit. I've always wanted to be in that kind of world, where expressing one's self is one's profession; not tempering it and hiding it in terms like "objectivity" or "responsibility" or "maturity."
The child has been quiet in recent months, happy to hibernate in seclusion wherever it finds it within myself.
But not today.
Today the child is enraged. It wants to escape. It wants to swim in dark waters only to remind itself that there is comfort in unfamiliar things. It wants to stare into the sun directly as though it has eyes and wants to communicate. If he finds that opportunity, the child has a lot of things to tell him. It has been a while since the last conversation.
It also wants to play creator and its hands shall be the paintbrushes, the canvas, and the acrylic. It has been a while too since his hands have been stained with color. It looks forward to a rendezvous because it will be both lovely and bittersweet. Lovely because it's good to be finally be doing what it ought to be doing. Bittesweet because it took a long time and the child regrets it.
A fortuneteller once told me that I should pay attention to the things around me. A fortune cookie told me that too and told me that it's where I will find the path to the journey that I should be taking.
There could be happier times in happier places. Sometimes they are hidden. Sometimes they are exposed but we just don't see them. Because we don't want to see them.
Lately, there are signs. I've ignored them before and now they are resurfacing. Sooner, I shall confront them.
And then concede.
Sometimes I try. Maybe that's why I discovered the joys of writing or sought refuge in drawing when I was little. I write or draw to free it, to give it form, so I can come face to face with it. It's hard to battle something which is abstract. If contained, I manifest it.
Some people may argue that the child is one's true nature. Over time, it is forced to be hidden, or tempered by things that adults call "responsibility" or "maturity" or "prudence."
But every time the child/bitch/evil in me surface (in any form) it always felt good to indulge it. Maybe I am Peter Pan who never grows old because he doesn't.
Over time, I discovered that there's no escaping the child. It gravitates towards the things it really wants.
This weekend I was in Baguio with ALL of my housemates for Randy's exhibit. I've always wanted to be in that kind of world, where expressing one's self is one's profession; not tempering it and hiding it in terms like "objectivity" or "responsibility" or "maturity."
The child has been quiet in recent months, happy to hibernate in seclusion wherever it finds it within myself.
But not today.
Today the child is enraged. It wants to escape. It wants to swim in dark waters only to remind itself that there is comfort in unfamiliar things. It wants to stare into the sun directly as though it has eyes and wants to communicate. If he finds that opportunity, the child has a lot of things to tell him. It has been a while since the last conversation.
It also wants to play creator and its hands shall be the paintbrushes, the canvas, and the acrylic. It has been a while too since his hands have been stained with color. It looks forward to a rendezvous because it will be both lovely and bittersweet. Lovely because it's good to be finally be doing what it ought to be doing. Bittesweet because it took a long time and the child regrets it.
A fortuneteller once told me that I should pay attention to the things around me. A fortune cookie told me that too and told me that it's where I will find the path to the journey that I should be taking.
There could be happier times in happier places. Sometimes they are hidden. Sometimes they are exposed but we just don't see them. Because we don't want to see them.
Lately, there are signs. I've ignored them before and now they are resurfacing. Sooner, I shall confront them.
And then concede.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Letter To The Wind
"Profound disorientation," was how the movie "Little Children" described the first encounter between the two protagonists of the films.
"... like being abducted by aliens and returned a few hours after," the movie continued to describe Kate Winslet's character.
I remember feeling the same thing with you. It all happened so fast it felt like a dream sequence, it was unreal. But waking up beside you told me otherwise. Or so I remember.
Like a dream sequence, too, it was over. And soon I discovered, though accidental (but aren't all discoveries?), that it was impossible for us to have anything beyond and more than what happened.
Or so I thought.
But right now I don't know. Truth to tell is, I still haven't figured despite very categorical statements uttered. But words are merely words and actions more often than not, contradict them.
And so I wonder now, like I wondered before, what that last hand-kiss meant. Or the stare during the longest taxi ride of my life to never-land. I was so caught up with the questions then that I wasn't able to act appropriately (defined as not having to do anything considering the factors).
And so I am left with the questions.
Sometimes, I try to forget them. Sometimes, I even try to discourage them. But nothing I guess will make them go away. Even the conviction that it is not right, will not make things right.
If I could, I would tell you of these things I keep inside. Of how that last letter meant only a fraction of the original that I didn't send. That I was, and am, perhaps still enamored by your character, like a piece of art which I would like to make mine just because it is beautiful.
"I was prepared to fall in love with him," I recall having told Ruth, like I have come to a decision but was holding back.
If I could, I would tell you that I think of you at night. Fondly. No pun intended. Of that night you slammed against the gate because you tried to run but was too drunk. Of that kiss. That kiss that put all my past memories of the same kind to shame. Or of how we just slept, side by side, unmindful of the world.
If I could, I would ask you, was there something I should have said or did, that could put your questions to rest. I would ask you too if I am not alone in all these misery of missing you and wishing I don't.
If I could, I would.
But I know, I couldn't.
"... like being abducted by aliens and returned a few hours after," the movie continued to describe Kate Winslet's character.
I remember feeling the same thing with you. It all happened so fast it felt like a dream sequence, it was unreal. But waking up beside you told me otherwise. Or so I remember.
Like a dream sequence, too, it was over. And soon I discovered, though accidental (but aren't all discoveries?), that it was impossible for us to have anything beyond and more than what happened.
Or so I thought.
But right now I don't know. Truth to tell is, I still haven't figured despite very categorical statements uttered. But words are merely words and actions more often than not, contradict them.
And so I wonder now, like I wondered before, what that last hand-kiss meant. Or the stare during the longest taxi ride of my life to never-land. I was so caught up with the questions then that I wasn't able to act appropriately (defined as not having to do anything considering the factors).
And so I am left with the questions.
Sometimes, I try to forget them. Sometimes, I even try to discourage them. But nothing I guess will make them go away. Even the conviction that it is not right, will not make things right.
If I could, I would tell you of these things I keep inside. Of how that last letter meant only a fraction of the original that I didn't send. That I was, and am, perhaps still enamored by your character, like a piece of art which I would like to make mine just because it is beautiful.
"I was prepared to fall in love with him," I recall having told Ruth, like I have come to a decision but was holding back.
If I could, I would tell you that I think of you at night. Fondly. No pun intended. Of that night you slammed against the gate because you tried to run but was too drunk. Of that kiss. That kiss that put all my past memories of the same kind to shame. Or of how we just slept, side by side, unmindful of the world.
If I could, I would ask you, was there something I should have said or did, that could put your questions to rest. I would ask you too if I am not alone in all these misery of missing you and wishing I don't.
If I could, I would.
But I know, I couldn't.
A Parable of Truths and A Lesson Learned
To an eagle, a forest can look like a vast expanse of greenery from above. A tree is indistinguishable from the other. In other parts, the foliage may rise or subside but it remains that, each one a part of the other.
To a snake, the forest is refuge, where there is a tree that presents an opportunity to hide in, a patch of dried leaves to camouflage in, while it waits in the wings until it launches an attack.
A hare sees it differently, it is an endless maze where one must avoid danger at every turn.
To each of them, a forest is different: distant to one, an enemy's ally to another, or the enemy itself to someone else.
Our truths are what we accept and deny. And one must be careful when presented with a truth. It is quite ironically, not always truthful.
To a snake, the forest is refuge, where there is a tree that presents an opportunity to hide in, a patch of dried leaves to camouflage in, while it waits in the wings until it launches an attack.
A hare sees it differently, it is an endless maze where one must avoid danger at every turn.
To each of them, a forest is different: distant to one, an enemy's ally to another, or the enemy itself to someone else.
Our truths are what we accept and deny. And one must be careful when presented with a truth. It is quite ironically, not always truthful.
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