I don’t know where it’s coming from. Where it’s exactly located in my desirable body (allow me the luxury to say). The pain I feel for the past two days have rendered me immobile. The bad part of it is that I don’t know what causes it. No, I didn’t bother to seek professional medical help. If I am to write down the causes of this pain, doctors are number two down the list. And I can’t even think of number one, so technically they’re number one. Huh!
February 28, 2006. I’m not in Gateway. I’m not in
Tip-tapping on the keyboard, I tried to cart myself out of bed. But what is there to write? 1017. The Edsa I celebration that became a caricature at 20. Nah, this blogging is becoming a responsibility that social significance seem to be the order of the day, I notice. Why can’t I just write about peanut butter; or how I lost my keys, or the day I missed growing my hair longer than a millimeter I almost went depressed? Or the night I craved for bulalo so badly I traveled all the way to Retiro, only to end up eating bland kare-kare.
I know why. Something’s bugging me and writing silly things is a cover up. This is not to say that I wasn’t writing asinine things in my previous blogs. I simply think that I’m having a cover up. Writing about inane topics is trivial enough. Using it for insincerity is worse.
I am in a post-valentine contemplation. If you’re the romantic type, you can now imagine the pain I’m going through… ahm, I mean the pain that I am right now. Add to the fact that I have constantly abhorred dramatic conversations and topics about love and its romanticism. Now it seems that I have surrendered to the musings on how love could turn one’s world upside down, in an enjoyable way. Yes, honestly, I kind of miss it so much. I am not the bully that I so religiously tried to recently characterize myself, after all. My long-time crush (That word is so 70’s, like chancing.), Casanova, was right in saying that the reason he was attracted to me is because in spite of my bully image, he knows that inside I’m a marshmallow. No wonder he keeps coming back for more of ole little sweet me.
Pero may bf ka na, ‘no! Kasi daw hindi na sya makapaghintay.
Can’t blame him. I think I’m going to be like this for the rest of the century.
Last Saturday I met an old acquaintance in Malate. Cute guy. An eye candy. He’s been through some rough relationships, too. And many times I have seen him in Malate wearing a long face longer than Celine Dion’s. But that night, he was in that radiant countenance. I thought I was talking to Mother Teresa. He is now engaged with a theatre actor-director whom he pointed at sitting amused at the distance. His lover’s face reflects the glow that was in his. I kinda miss that sunshiny feeling as well. Everything seems good and perfect… birds chirping as cherry blossoms bloom amidst humid
Twenty four hours before meeting Eye Candy, Doc Hieronymus Bosch texted me that he’s also been recently hitched by somebody from Pagsanjan. Darn it! And I thought we were supposed to stay single. Some friends…
Two days ago I met a law student in a bar. He started texting me forward messages. I don’t read forward messages. I hate it. Or maybe I’m just not excited with any texts coming from him at all. I think it’s more of the latter. What was wrong with him? Nothing. Something was wrong with me. Ecto said I was carrying too much baggage. I think so, too. That’s because I don’t travel light.
This baggage had cost heartaches for some hopefuls. There was that boy I once mentioned in one of my blogs who kept on texting, all of which I systematically ignored. He ended the harassment with impact: ITHOUGHTYOULOVEME. Then there was this guy who, upon stepping out of my apartment, said IWANTTOKNOWYOUMORE. I said, ok, then I closed the door. Oh, sorry, sorry… I forgot to give him my cell number.
So I went back to sleep.
Yesterday, another law student. May hung-up. Super. Rollo said I have grown impatient. Yes, I was impatient alright. Dati I was the epitome of patience. I have been patient with a 20-year old when I was 27. We lasted eight years. Now he is still around for comfort and cute moments kahit may joa na sya. Then I was patient enough to keep a live-in partner whose drunkenness landed me in an island police station. That was after I did a Sisa-Basilio scene along the beach. My patience made that relationship last almost seven months, one that could have simply lasted three. Even less, considering his proclivity for no-holds-barred adventures. So much about patience. I’m not about to baby sit again.
A week ago, Ecto was pestering me over text about true love. What I like about Ecto is that he never surrenders in bringing up things I so detest despite the threat of fire and brimstone. And what he likes about me is that I’m not one who would agree so easily. But this time, I tried to be fair; not that I concur to his queries. I just want to shut him up. I did agree with him on the possibility of true love… BUT… I was quick to add that true love is only for those who deserve it. Reminds me of my college theology professor who posited that boys want their girls virgin. But they go about town devirginizing them. Same with our innate craving to be truly loved. But gays, the male sub specie, are innately unfaithful.
I guess, for a time we found true love and been loved truly in return. It’s true relationship that’s elusive. Love. Relationship. Ambiguous topics I’m not prepared to touch upon. Maybe for my Ph.D. thesis. You don’t want me to be overwrought.
Between the lengths of this blog let me drop some quotes that picture what lovers, true or false, depending on how much we feel for them, appear before our longings:
“I guess we all have our first true love. I guess we all have the
magical person forever etched in our mind, the place where dreams and reality converge, allowing a lover to walk through our door… Peter was the lover for me. He was a hand that held my sorrow and hugged me in my sleep… And finally I face the truth. The Peter of my dreams and the Peter of real life are two different beings. I am sad that they must at long last become one in my mind.” (
Or, as Rollo, my poet housemate, sent me via text during my troubled times:
“We fall in love not with the real person but with an ideal of that person as we want them to be.” (Fenton Johnson, Scissors, Paper, Rock)
Perhaps I began to brood for the feeling of being in-loved again when, for the past two weekends, I was watching movies one after another. First was
Last was Aeon Flux. It was a comic strip as a movie, or was it a movie as comics, vice versa, I can’t figure it out. The producers could have saved millions using cardboards as actors and nobody would see the difference. As a movie, it was a picture in search of a motion. Towards the ending, Ryoichi and I had a good laugh. There was this flying data center resembling a giant female contraceptive. In it was a 400-year old guardian who used to be an acquaintance of Aeon way back, ahm, 400 years ago. While everyone’s being cloned out of old age, he was harvesting signs of old age (in his case very-very old), deprived of even an ounce of collagen. Worse, everyone was wearing sleek Versace while he was damned to wear haute Gaultier. So he gave Aeon the license to bomb the flying diaphragm while he’s in it, saying he was tired anyway. Oh, grandpa, with that costume, you should be.
MTV should keep to making mtv’s.
One commonality between these three movies is the concept of undying love. Damn it! I hate the idea. In these movies, love lives on. Fuck! In reality, in my case, my exes’ love for me has already died. Mine still lives on. Fuck! Now I feel such a sucker for openly admitting that. Fuck! (In this blog I resolved to speak French thrice)
You mean, Aeon, even if I get cloned I would still pine for the twerp?! Nitta Sayuri, honey, you are one lucky girl. That guy knows what he wants. You. As for my exes, they’re still trying to figure out who they want. Me? Maybe not. And yes, Ennis, I wish I know how to quit them.
Oh well, this turned out to be an insignificant blog, after all. I should have commented on 1017 instead. Or I could have stayed in bed and begin reading a good book. But that would be running into Catch 22 since I can’t say a good book is a good book until I finish it. (I wish my student read this since he’s been asking what Catch 22 is. I’m showing off.)
As for the pain…er, what pain?
No comments:
Post a Comment