Of Time and Pink Ink

"There is no such thing as 'too soon,'" concludes X, the primary character (the gay gigolo who gives a full-blown series of confessions about his romantic entanglements) of the film "Boy Culture." I do NOT know what went into my head that pushed me to watch a movie about homosexual men and their sexual escapades. All I know is that my brother sort of hated me (although he might never admit it, being the self-righteous person that he is, not risking giving the impression that he could be—and I believe he is not—homophobic) for tagging him along ("Lara, do we really need to see the first part? Let's just get outta here, you said you were hungry, didn't you??" with a matching mono-eyebrow and a strangely commanding tone for an assumptive question O.o).

TOO SOON. Too long. Too fast, too furious. Too, too timebound. And yet what is the ticking of the clock when the world seems to stop for that "one, single, momentary moment?" What is the flipping of the calendar when you meet your oldest friend after, say, a decade, and it only seems like you just sat by the swing yesterday?? What's ten years? What is a week?

Time is man's invention. You could be together for five [or so] years, past the four-year itch and everything, but you may still end up parting ways. You could meet and hit it off straightaway and talk from night 'till morning, and decide that you’re for each other "2008 and beyond," only to say a casual “buh-bye” after a month or so just because it didn’t “feel” right anymore. You could be walking down that aisle and go through a twenty minute-ceremony (that’s emptied your pockets too, by the way) and promise someone the rest of your life; fast forward ten years later, and you could be wondering, “what the f**k was I thinking??” Damn time, to hell with watches and first dates, and courtship stages, and eternal vows of love and what have you. No. It doesn't take much experience to say that time is overrated. God never invented the days, did He (or is it a She?)? All He said was "Let there be light," and there was light. He never said "Let there be Monday" and in came *poof* a Monday! Is it Julius Caesar's fault? Or Gregory (didn't he invent the Gregorian calendar??)? Who came up with the "hands of time" whose constant ticking keeps us awake at night, haunting us, chasing us. If there were no time, there wouldn't be words like "hurry," "rush," "late," "early," and oohhh, the most dreaded and yet the most used: "cram," and sooooo many others like it (e.g. “procrastination,” “que sera sera,” etc.).

And yet, the world is hard to imagine without time. It's like...the world...without Baygon. Haha. What am I blabbering about? I HAVE NO IDEA. I just find time annoying, that's all...recently, that is...well, it's not like I can do anything about it. Looking back, the worst (or best, depends on how you see it) thing I did for love was scribbling a thousand letters and tracing through them one by one because my pen lacked ink (and I didn’t have any other pen and it was already too late in the night to get myself another pink one—yes…pink…ink. Told you it was love). I stopped at the very final period and saw my right middle finger—purple and bruised. There was little blood, too. I did not feel any pain ‘till the end because each and every one of those tiny pink letters was for him and him alone. And I thought there’d be no end, I was only too glad to write more letters for him, to paint my finger a darker shade of blue. Now, my finger still has that one scar to remind me of what I thought was forever. But no, for some reason, (and as much as I am ashamed to admit it) I can’t seem to get past those four months filled by so much love and smitten sighs and hate and passionate declarations of “I’ve had enough!” all at the same time. There goes that word again. “Time.” She and the world. It's like Philippines with Gloria...impossible to get rid of (although I'm still keeping my fingers crossed for the riddance of the latter). Just the same, I am a slave to the alarm clock. Once it turns off, I rush to come closest to the normal idea of "living one's life." And if I don't get to wake up on time (which has been happening most recently and most miserably)?? Well, I come closest to "dying" running and puffing on my way to Docla's class ("GET OUT!!!"). Tsk, tsk, either way, time does not help much. And yet, it kind of OWNS us all. Pity.

Lob(by) Notes

“…Sabi ko, ‘Tay, bili mo naman ako ng Batmobile o.’
Pero kakatanggal n’ya lang ata sa trabaho no’n at wala na siyang pera
Kasi kasali yata sa unyon, nagwala sa piketline kaya ayun, natanggal
Kaya gumawa na lang siya ng tarak-tarak na lata ng sardinas
At binutasan na lang at kinabitan ng tansan
At do’n ko nalaman ang ibig sabihin ng pagmamahal”

…Lourd de Veyra (in “Alaala ni Batman”) resounds in my head. Must be one of the most beautiful lyrics of all time. Radioactive Sago Project is a tad underrated, eh? It’s got me thinking about what love really is. That Batman guy in the song gave a nifty example. The rest of the whole “bigkas” talks of personal obsession, though…a kind of sickness (probably mental), actually, that’s taken over a superhero-wannabe (I am reminded of someone…*sighs*):

“…Ngayon, hindi ko na talaga kaya, hindi ko na talaga kaya, hindi ko na kaya
May narinig akong putok mula sa kaibuturan ng aking utak
Bumigay na ang tali, sumabog na ang bulkan, nabasag na ang pula
Kaya ngayon, isang madilim na madilim na gabi
Ako ay narito na sa tuktok ng isang mataas na mataas na building sa Ayala
Ang sarap ng hangin na umiihip-ihip sa aking kapa
Nakataas ang aking mga kamay, nakataas na ang aking mga kamay
Malapit na akong lumipad, malapit na akong lumipad, malapit na akong lumipad
Lipad Batman, lipad, lumipad ka, lumipad ka
Lumipad ka papuntang langit, lumipad ka, lumipad ka
Nakataas ang aking mga kamay, nakataas ang aking mga kamay

E pero, bigla kong naisip, hindi naman pala lumilipad si Batman, ‘di ba
Hindi naman pala lumilipad si Batman
Hindi naman pala lumilipad si Batman kaya, paalam, malupit na mundo
Paalam, mahal
Paalam po, inay, itay, kuya, ate, lolo, lola, paalam po
Lolo sa tuhod, paalam po
Lola sa siko, paalam po
Bantay, paalam
Muning, paalam
Ewan ko kung sinong ‘papakain sa inyo
Paalam po, Aling Tekla
Paalam po, Mang Goryo
Tsaka ko na lang po babayaran yung sukang inutang ko sa yo
Paalam, Junjun
Paalam, Bongbong
Babay, Rose, hoy, babay
Babay Pini
Babay Baby
Babay Pablo, Asis, Rastem, BJ, Jay, sige ‘yan
Wowie, sige pare, Pards, Arwin, ingat kayo
Sige paalam.

Too bad he had to die in the end, just because he forgot that Batman couldn’t actually fly. *smirks* It’s always given me a good laugh, though. Anyways, back to love…I won't be saying that it's "complicated," "painful," yadah yadah yadah yadah...everybody knows that already. I'm only too thankful that as of now, I haven't been going through that same tangled wilderness…I’m just outside it, squinting my eyes, trying to see its core, which is an impossible feat, of course (now, I'm sticking metaphors to it, sheesh).

But heck, Valentine's is just peeking round the corner, in the form of little boys and girls in each other’s arms, holding on for dear life, mocking each and everyone who belongs to the singles’ race. Back in our humble abode, in this sorority house of a dormitory, there’s a current rule that strictly forbids public display of affection. Nope, girls haven’t gone wild enough to be kissing one another (don’t let your imagination get away just yet). They happen to have become too lazy to go find themselves and their boyfriends a nice, romantic spot at the Lagoon or Sunken Garden or God-knows-where-else, that they’ve just settled for our lobby (it magically transformed from a receiver’s area into a gigantic kissing/hugging/petting/necking booth…I am exaggerating, of course, or I just wasn’t lucky enough to see everything for myself…go figure) in which certain “activities” have reached fever pitch. It all started with an open letter that was anonymously posted a week (or two) ago. It was signed by a “concerned dormer” who was condemning such, such…such horrible acts of love and care…*shivers* I’m guessing that the concerned little girl comes from a Catholic school, and is probably single…but on second thought, could actually be attached (poor guy), just “concerned,” y’know. Forgive me for my simplistic and sarcastic remarks. But that is what we oughtta take into consideration: the girl’s “concerned,” man…”disturbed,” most probably…but “concerned,” just the same. How can you be concerned if you don’t want any of it? Such euphemisms that we sugarcoat ourselves with, eh? “Havaianas” for f**king rubber slippers that our lolas only used to buy at the local palengke, “lapse in judgment” for buying votes in the elections, “war on terror” for stealing oil from third world countries, pfft! They’re all the same. Point is, if you choose not to get bothered by raging hormones on the loose, then you don’t get bothered, or even more so, offended. Personally, it’s not anymore a question of morality. I mean, sure, be “concerned” if they’re already doing “the deed” at the lobby, setting a bad, bad example for 300 grown women who actually go to, surprise, surprise, college…oh and did I say UP? If it’s a question of ethics, though, then I don’t see the need for an open letter. People have brains. They have the initiative. They don’t go lovey-dovey over one another just so they can “offend,” “disturb” and make everybody else around ‘em “concerned.” These kids could actually be in love, for all we know. Don’t get me wrong, though. I am not, in any way, defending them. I don’t speak for the lovebirds, nay…for I am myself single and happy at best, single and miserable at worst, but that doesn’t matter…there are some things that must be left unspoken, like your disdain for a dormmate who eats like a pig, for example…or your murderous feeling for the one who always forgets to flush (and I’m not talking about taking a leak, alright). Gawd, give these human beings a break…if they want to eat their lovers’ faces, pity the lovers…if they want to eat their whole plates, pity their stomachs…and if they’re always in a rush to leave the cubicles and end up forgetting “something,” pity the next toilet users. But if you’re gonna be concerned, go straight to your lovestruck offender and tell her how concerned you are, how you’ve been raised to hate such a sight of free love and displays of affection in a world of network wars and nearly permanent environmental damage…no need to hide behind colored ink on paper posted on a door, sounding far worse than a fraile’s sermon…go and give the bad girl some spanking…well, of course, if you do feel that it is somewhat your business, right?

Oh, but I can go on rambling here ‘till my school deadlines and it’s not like anything will happen (well, aside from flunking my majors *knocks on wood*). It’s not like that sign on the canteen door that says “NO-PDA-ALLOWED-or-else-you-go-face-the-office’s-wrath-or-something-to-that-effect” will go away. Hmmm…now that I’m thinking about it, the lobby has been “PDA-free” for the past few days…eversince the “public declaration of concern.” Tsk, tsk, such wusses…apparently, love doesn’t exactly seem to, y’know, “conquer all.” I’m only too glad that Lourd de Veyra can still sing about a dad who makes a Batmobile out of a tin can for his Batman diehard fan of a son...now that is worth concerning. Happy ValenTIMES, mga repa’t rema. Go show some love, for cryin’ out loud. ^.~

P.S. This is my Valentine offering (forgive me for riding with the times, I just couldn’t help it), “Paperbag” by Fiona Apple…nifty song…equally nifty video…all for my little superhero/wannabe (he doesn’t know who he is, of course)…not exactly the happiest tribute but hey, not all love stories (if I’m starting one) end up getting all cheery and marshmallow-y, if y’know what I mean.

I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on, or wish on, or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb
Looking for a little hope
Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine,
And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope
I said, 'Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void,' he said
'It's all in your head,' and I said, 'So's everything'
But he didn't get it I thought he was a man
But he was just a little boy
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love.

Blues Schmooze

The Moon is in her most beautiful, almost perfect shape tonight…and I can’t even relish the sight of her on the deck (it’s like the dorm’s “secret” rooftop). You’re not at all deprived of significant people whom you love and who, fortunately, love you back…and you can’t even be with them when all you wanna do is give ‘em a hug tight enough to kill. Bamboo and a smorgasbord of other bands are coming on the UP Fair kickoff…and I can’t even be totally certain about seeing them (in cases like this, I usually don’t let anything get in the way), never mind that the ticket’s only P85, an eensy-weensy glitch in the wallet that’s worth all that real, face-melting music. Oh, and my roommate’s just told me about Heath Ledger’s death…and I can’t even feel sorry enough for the guy or Michelle or their little daughter. Nah…all because it’s February, and all the professors are chasing after time like a ravenous pack of wolves in search of Paradise (Wolf’s Rain, anyone?). Summer’s just round the corner…but kids are talking about “hell weeks” and “DEADlines” and “suicide” (yep). Life is beautiful…and yet, sometimes, you’re just too busy to actually live it. The “human blues,” I call ‘em…the inexplainable wretchedness caused by your lack of control (or entire bereavement thereof) of the things that happen to you…the same things that you have to deal with yourself. It’s when you’re reminded how utterly powerless you are, when all your life, your parents [and everybody else who has always wanted you to believe in yourself] have all been telling you that “it is you who charts your own destiny…it is you who decides your fate...it is you who makes something happen.” Well, not entirely, but thanks anyway. See, “making something happen” is one thing…“what happens next” is another, and how d’you cope? Well, I can almost hear God saying, “Maybe it’s your call, but it just ain’t your ball, man.” Me: *scowls *…goes back to work. Whoop-de-doo.

Sundae's Already Melted

If Rico Blanco would “drive on a Sunday” and hum along some catchy lines that he himself had written, I’d be singing some of my own: “Shopping on a Sunday, tucked in the mellow pace of life, lalalalalala.” Well, technically, they’re still Rico’s. But I swear the feeling was as light as that song. There’s nothing like going back home with an empty wallet, fully aware that you’ve just made great deals (January’s about to end, there has got to be a googol of clearance sales all over the world. I say, “ATTACK!”), and that those will have to enjoy a long shelf, I mean, closet life. Oh, but the song doesn’t last. Night came and the reason behind my new black flats (because he hated my sneaks) just gave up on me. Fast and furious…yeah, that’s what he is. Darn it, I knew I should’ve had those cute Pony’s, instead. The moral of the story? NEVER dress for somebody aside from yourself…oh, and never get into something temporary when the other one’s pretty much convinced that it’s permanent. Hey, that’s life…s**t does happen…a lot. Oh well, it does go on, too…life, I mean. And so, what do I do? Hum, of course. “Sweet little melodies, I embrace the memories until you return into the arms you once called home….”

Cheers For Fears

It’s 7 a.m. and I’ve just gotten roughly three hours of sleep. But the morning sunshine’s just way too irresistible to sleep through. Besides, I’ve been thinking so hard since midnight about some sick stuff…real hardcore thinking, man, that it’d eventually wind up in my dreams during my shortlived shuteye. And if I don’t write about this now, I’ll definitely lose my saneness (or what’s left of it)...like…soon. So never mind that my eyes are still squinting, refusing to open up. Never mind that my head’s a little light, or if I am currently nursing three sore pimples—two on my forehead and one on my chin—due to obvious lack of sleep (I have been staying up ‘till four since Saturday, no thanks to severely piled schoolwork that was neglected during the holidays). Never mind my personal vow to “never make this blog my diary, as internet should never really be completely trusted, and as vanity should never be one of my countless other sins.” I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve today. I’m typing, and that’s it! Oh…and by the way, a groovy morning to you.

Fast and furious. Yeah, that’s him. I should’ve known what I was in for. It’s hard not to have any strings attached, despite the very fact that I am the perpetrator. Lesson learned? Don’t mess around with somebody who wants something serious, especially if he’s rushing like some modernday, rugged Casanova. I say “Casanova” because he might get too alluring along the way, that you actually find yourself asking if you have indeed fallen for somebody who can’t tell you straight those three sacred words like a man would (just when you thought you were finally dating a man, sheesh)…or even spell it properly, for that matter (well, I’ll be damned). Wait a sec, that ain’t very Casanova after all. O.o And then, all of a sudden, you’re stuck in a glitch…because just when you decided to “explore and expand your horizons,” you actually find your own space shrinking…real fast, too. You’re gonna be all about him for the next few days…or weeks, even months. And yet, you can’t help it, man. ‘Cause you’re way too engrossed…not even in love. Tae, right?

But thank God for other guys with depth, especially the ones who think they’re too cool for Friendster. Then again, there are some profiles worth checking out (yeah, the ones where the spelling’s right)…oh, and I’ve been a fan (I prefer that term to “stalker”) of one just recently. Gawd, I love such depths which I can actually swim in (not that I know how). That fragile, boyish look doesn’t hurt, either. And those hands…GAWD. At first, I’d be sighing to myself, “I think I’m in love”…but NAH. He must be WAY too out of my league…we’re not even friends in (or is it “at” or “on?”) Friendster and I doubt if he still remembers me, too. And then the prospect of declaring unrequited love to someone pops in my brain…and then images of high school, all pimpled, martyred and hurting and everything, come streaming afterwards…and I say, “No f**king way.” Tae nanaman. Again, your space shrinks even more and then you wonder where the hell your “horizons” went. You go and say, “No, thanks…nothing serious for now” and yet, like a little kid getting up on a stool to steal some cookies from the jar once he’s left alone in the kitchen, you actually take EVERYTHING seriously…everything to heart. How many times do I have to tell you to get your heart outta here?? It’s got to take a rest, man.

Every new year starts with a bang. Before you know it, you’re once again being hauled into something strange…and yet, it’s kind of familiar at the same time, which always freaks you out. After hours, perhaps days, of hardcore thinking (when you should be doing that for French 10 or Theater 100), you’ve come up with a theory: it’s not that you’re scared of being single forever. The one thing that threatens you more than anything else is that you may fall in too deep and too fast every chance you get. That seems to be your specialty, see: going crazy over someone who’s just not crazy enough for you…not that you want something in return…you actually need it, man. There are alternatives, though…except that you should never get dead serious with something, lest you get caught up again in a labyrinth that you have actually built for yourself in the first place. If you don’t get your dose of casual fun and keep on taking the things that break you in the end, you’re pretty sure that you may not live very long...which is a bummer, since you’ve yet to own your first pair of Manolos, raise a child or children, and help save the world with love, peace, and of course, art. Just thinking about everything you’ll miss…is a huge pain in the a**…total bad scene. You may want to take some Prozac or mere Aspirin…get involved in something uncomplicated and yet unstable OR something stable and yet too, too complicated. O.o And if love comes, as in the real kind, it’s always when you least need it…and when you already do, it never seems to stay…and THAT, my friends, is the saddest part of what d’you call that again? That most painful four-letter word (you-know-what or it-which-must-not-be-named) that burns your throat, and tears at your heart, and sucks you dry of your best, sweetest words (only to make you eat ‘em again later on), and makes you sick with both the good AND miserable kinds of drunkenness, and makes and breaks you, and drains your wallet…and…oh what the heck, it’s not like you’re alone, right? C’mon, Bianca Gonzalez lost Lino Cayetano to KC Concepcion. Owen Wilson almost killed himself because of Kate Hudson. Jenny lost to Angie. Regina and Samson weren’t mentioned in the Bible. Simoun Ibarra never got the girl, and Vincent Van Gogh lost an ear…and his mind, for cryin’ out loud! So quit sulking and scowling and let’s do this the better way. Sing with me as we toast to 2008. *hic*

Bagong Taon

by Rivermaya

(“post-Bamboo, pre-new, pretty boy from Bicol” days)

Album: It’s Not Easy Being Green

Baby rocket,
Bakit ang panget ng lipad?
Hindi deretso.
Naisip ko tuloy ang buhay kong
Na’ng mawala ka’y
Naging trumpilyong
Paikot-ikot
Hanggang ito’y maubos.

Bagong Taon,
Lumang problema.
Kailan kaya ako
Liligaya?

Super Lolo,
Ba’t ka ganyan?
Nambubulabog.
Naisip ko tuloy itong
Lumipas na pag-ibig,
Paarang luses na
Pagka-liwa-liwanag,
Pagka-iksi-iksi ng buhay.

Bagong Taon,
Lumang problema.
Kailan kaya tayo magsasama?

"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.