"Patay-sindi?"

“Ang hindi marunong lumingon sa kaniyang pinanggalingan ay ‘di makararating sa kaniyang paroroonan.” How right could Rizal really be? If one’s past is all messed up, how on earth will that take you to the great morrow? Yeah, these were pretty much the questions that nagged at my every brain cell (and emotional flotsam and jetsam) during the Christ’s Youth In Action’s 27^th anniversary just this past Sunday. Who would’ve thought that I’d feel soooo out of place in that little hall filled by the kindest of faces (women were making beso with me and men were patting me on the shoulder or shaking me by the hand…those are CYA traditions but still, I was a complete stranger, wasn’t I?? It’s like being an Asian foreigner around Chicanos hurriedly kissing you as if they were all your lovers…I was dazed. O.o) and the softest of voices? Not me, apparently…no way. I mean, I was (and I believe I still am, however inactive I’ve gotten to be) part of Alleluia Community-CYA back in Elbi…I was exposed to stuff like these: beso here, beso there, pat me and I’ll you pat you back, Monday choir singing, Thursday prayer meetings (or were those on Fridays?), holy mumblings calling out to none other than Hesus, prayers said aloud in English, Filipino, Tagalog, Bisaya, Bikol, Chinese, Japanese, Flemish and only-God-knows-what-else (indeed!)…then why in heaven’s name was I completely uneasy about the whole affair??? Something was terribly wrong…I then realized that I may be the biggest hypocrite I have ever known…which is sad (and I was depressed that whole afternoon) because I’ve always been real…with myself…with others…and then that phrase looms over me, abolishing every hint of meaning in my 18-year old life: OR SO I THOUGHT.

Committing to that organization (which Papa teasingly called “my cult”…it was kind of like that, though…we were an incredibly small number who meet at night, except that we’re faithful Catholics and there was neither a bonfire of any kind nor any human sacrifices) was one of my sincerest moves in life (and I know I made ever so few of those). Gawd, I felt like a new person that time, I did. Agnosticism was not anymore an option of mine (and atheism was so out of the question even before that). Everything changed, and I mean EVERYTHING. I was a dessicated land, slowly murdered by a thousand extended summers…and then revived to life by love, a heavy June shower quenching my thirst, just when I least expected it. It was as what they called it: “a 180-degree turn.” Those days were my most peaceful. I was praying like a saint (trust me, I know…I never talked to Him much before, except when I needed something…it was kind of like occasionally running to a benevolent yet strange friend to borrow some bread). And looking back now, I actually smiled a lot then…I feel sick just thinking about it…but I know how great it was for me at that time, I was basically hopping like Little Red Riding Hood among the woods before she met the grandma-eating wolf. I know how I felt back then…to quote something that I read before, it was like “God’s finger was on my shoulder.” But like I said, that was before I met the wolf. It is true, what they say, that only the things that rocket you to an unbelievable altitude of euphoria are as capable of sending you to the pits of hell, with absolute wretchedness for company. My 180-degree turn wound up to 360…I was back at zero again. I felt like everything had just been an incredibly great lie. But see, that was my mistake: I felt…I always did…too much, in fact. And feelings, life has always taught me, are the biggest liars that put even Jude Law’s Alfie to shame.

Just now, I feel horrrrrrible...more than ever. The possibility that I have been cheating myself is just unbearable…it feels soooo not me, and yet, I’m not exactly sure of the things that I stand for anymore. But I just can’t indulge in any further soul-searching because it feels (there goes that word again) like such a repulsive form of vanity. Besides, it hasn’t done me any good in the first place, considering how much my very own thoughts have caught me dumbfounded lately. But the feeling doesn’t go away…it’s still there, haunting me. It’s like saying prayers only from memory except the ones in which you BEG for a way out of a sudden glitch…like making love to somebody and buttoning your shirt in the morning and leaving without a word…like befriending a seatmate in the classroom and pretending that you don’t know him/her once you’re already out in the halls…like promising to write and not sparing the expectant reader a single word or two, not in a year or two...like embracing an entire “cult” and feeling too attached to them and by the time you meet again, you feel like a traitor only because you can’t hug them or kiss them or pat them the same way ever again. Only because too much has happened in so little time and you can’t help but associate such sadness in your life with the very people who inspired—no, dared—you to believe in something far greater than yourself…only because you felt too, too much…that now, not much is left to be felt…but guilt and uneasiness and abandon and a desperate wish to just evaporate. It’s not their fault…and yet, you know that if you stay too close, somehow, the wounds will have to reopen, mocking you…never mind the pain, it’s the mockery that’s too much s**t to bear.

*SIGH* I guess Edens are NEVER forever. So if at all you find yours along the way, don’t stay too long…you know you have to abandon it after some time, if not soon…perfect places are only for perfect people, if they do exist, which I doubt (and which probably explains why much of this world’s f**ked up). If things are too good to be true, then they might as well be not real at all. No…pinch yourself a million times and if that still doesn’t work, slap yourself or let somebody else box your lights out …but I guess the best way to save some time and effort (and yourself from a lot of self-mutilation, for that matter) would be to listen to your mother. For Christ’s sake, just give the lady a chance! She may sound like L.M. Montgomery’s annoying Ms. Rachel Lynde, but really, she’s as right as right can be (well, unless your mom’s Britney, of course).

What am I really talking about? Me neither…I don’t understand it myself. And yet I knew I had to write this because keeping this all to myself or in an unknown journal hidden beneath all my other skeletons would be to betray the very person responsible for this blog…I know that if I were to be too selfish to admit that I am a person too attached to feelings, I should never forgive myself or even dream of all things real…not when I couldn’t be. I am a hypocrite. And perhaps by accepting this, I wouldn’t be half as much as one. Maybe a community’s not really for me…I owe them a lot, and I mean, a lot…but not coming back does not mean that I’ve forgotten about the Old Man or those kindred souls He’d sent me…no, I’m not such a prodigal child. Kay Kristo buong buhay, habambuhay, ika nga. Once you’ve committed yourself to a beautiful cause, it’ll always stay with you wherever you go. I think I just prefer moving on, only that I intend to pay it forward, somehow…because looking back a bit too long will bring me nowhere…especially NOT to where I oughtta be, uh-uh.

I guess the moral of this is not to believe in everything Pepe said. He was a cat, yeah…but sometimes, it’s good to try trusting one’s own wisdom. In the end, if you fail, you’ve only yourself to blame and Pepe will be spared. Sounds fair to me.

(Hey, Scenesters!) Leave ‘Em Kids Alone.

This season, fashion experts, as greatly dictated on by the almighty “Ms. Haughty Couture,” Anna Wintour herself (perfectly epitomized by the unforgettable Miranda Priestly, the devil that wore Prada which nearly got Meryl Streep her second—if I’m not mistaken—Oscar), have been forecasting guh-rooo-vee trends. From mod to preppie to mod/preppie to mismatched Jap streetwear to more eye-poppers such as Pucci-esque graphic and LSD-induced kaleidoscopic prints (oooohh, I lurhv this season…very hippie)…the runways are anything BUT blah. I can only wonder when those skinny jeans will have to spend another dormant decade in the closet (I dunno, I guess I just love the flared bottoms too much).

Oh, but wait, there’s more. Apparently, Angie hasn’t only been caught toting a Valentino Histoire bag. Her arms were also cradling a beautiful 2-year old Somalian (hope I got that right) who owned her mini-version of the handbag. Not far away, Maddox with his rockin’ mohawk would be glaring at the paparazzi (he’s got to be my favorite Brangelina kid) while the only biological child, Shiloh, drooled her way into people’s hearts (the girl’s got her momma’s million dollar-lips, man). Now, that’s cute…pft, even cuter than their daddy, that Pitt guy. And the most famous Scientologist tyke, Suri, would happily hop along somewhere else in her classy Burberry dress with her equally classy motha beside her, Katie, herself recently sporting wide trousers and mod ensembles that just scream Jackie O. Even cuter. Hold on, though. The Maverick/Material Girl/Former-Like-A-Virgin’s also jumped into the bandwagon. No, she wasn’t seen in mini-dresses and opaque tights with ankle boots (that was Sienna Miller…great chick). She’s also got herself her own diapers to change and milk to feed…not from Guy Richie, apparently…but straight from Malawi. And just when you think it stops there, you also hear about Britney crying over losing custody of her “boo-boos” (well, aside from the “live” Gimme More performance, I mean, LETDOWN, which was her other major boo-boo) and whoa! JLo’s got another bump and this time, it’s at the front…and so has Christina...and my word, Nicole Richie?? I was actually happy to see her growing into a more normal-looking body and I thought that she just stopped all that throwing up but it turns out that the girl only got knocked up. What the eff is going on?? I’m sorry, Ms. Wintour…but it seems to me like the only reigning trend nowadays is a…cute, little baby! Lord, oh Lord. The situation’s just not getting cuter anymore. From pink poodles to bulldogs to chihuahuas, from toy dogs to what, now, CHILDREN?? Ugh, Hollywood’s a worsening freak show. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for love and peace. Make love, not war, hell yeah. BUT when you already think that having kids is another way to keep up with the Joneses, to the extent that you actually adopt clueless, homeless kids from Third World countries, or get yourself impregnated during a most serious health crisis that makes you pass for the Cryptkeeper’s long-lost sister…then…that’s just not so cool anymore, man…far out…gone…out of sight. I’m nobody’s mom but I know that having children is a colossal responsibility, a commitment that should outlive even your Gran’s “I do’s.” Gawd, it’s fun to pick out lovely dresses and toys for your small ‘uns but it’s just no f**king joke. I’ve only experienced babysitting my cousins for a day or so and I know this much: it’s not about playing house or dress-up. There’s nothing wrong with giving unfortunate children a crack at having a loving Tinseltown home. The catch? IF it were only loving. Heck, I remember reading this quote (I forgot who said it): “It’s a miracle if a marriage in Hollywood lasts as long as millk in the fridge” (I think that’s a year, more or less). And these couples aren’t even heading to the altar anymore. No, they just go off to Malibu and come back with a hump (I believe Malibu is THAT beautiful)…and they grin at us, telling us how happy they are and how they’re already as good as married and how they’ll build a home for the poor life growing in regularly measured tummies. Before you know it, the vase flies, things get broken, the big shots troop to the court and they don their darkest threads and biggest shades and use their most heavily tinted cars and justify to the public why “I oughta have the kids!” Poor children, right? Maybe not as poor as those selling sampaguitas back here but…poor all the same.

See, you don’t get yourself children because you want kids. No…you have them because you’re ready for them. There’s a huge difference. You have ‘em because you know that you can love them and genuinely care for them, no matter what. You don’t go toting them around like flashing the newest Vuitton monogram design or the trendiest black-and-white Louboutin wedges. You don’t spend nine months of total labor just for kicks, or sign piles and piles of adoption papers and get yourself your own little United Nations to just haul in more publicity for yourself. You can’t barf all your food out and possibly think that you can actually have another life to feed. If at all you’re sane, you just don’t do this stuff. It’s total bad scene…it’s just sick, man…SICK. Then again, it’s Hollywood. I’m telling you, Somebody’s got to give these freakazoids a Divine Spanking if only to spare the children of their, their…freakazoidness. God bless the children. Mercy…God bless the children, indeed.