"I am a watercolor. I wash off."

I'm getting married on the 22nd.  Yes, Mel, "parang kailan lang".  I haven't even envisioned myself in a wedding gown yet (not that I'll be wearing one).  This is not to say I am not happy, no.  I am.  I really am.

I trust my instincts.  And they tell me things are actually ok, despite the fast-tracking that has happened and is happening. 

Like I told Joe, once I join the political bandwagon within the next five years he'll be monopolizing the Tarlac real estate scene.  Nah, I'm kidding.  About what?  I won't tell.

***

I'm going to move out and start my blog anew.  Standard reason: new life.  This time, though, "new life" doesn't signify anything near simple, like, say, having found a new "someone" or something like that. 

***

I wonder who among my friends are really going.  Of course if they won't be able to I'd completely understand (or have to completely understand): half a thousand pesos isn't that easy to shell out these days, and to think that's just for the fare. 

I love the movie Closer because it is so raw.  If I go to a psychologist, though, I think s/he'll advise me against watching films like that because I am so much the drama queen.  Movies are movies, after all.  In real life you have no cinematography. 

some lines:

Larry: [on a photography exhibit] What do you think?
Alice: It's a lie. It's a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully, and... all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it's beautiful 'cause that's what they wanna see. But the people in the photos are sad, and alone... But the pictures make the world seem beautiful, so... the exhibition is reassuring which makes it a lie, and everyone loves a big fat lie.
Larry: I'm the big fat liar's boyfriend.
Alice: Bastard!

PANGASINAN 

Less than half a day from now I'll probably be on my way to Pangasinan, with more than a dozen of my family.  It's a short stay at the beach, if you think about it - we booked ourselves for just a night.  But who knows what's going to happen after?  I hear talks of uphill travel - to Baguio, I'm sure - and/or a look at the new SM Clark, which is an hour away from my hometown but a bit far if we go there straight from Pangasinan.  Whichever is okay.  I'm just a tag-along, after all.

To be honest I've gotten less and less enthusiastic about family outings over the years.  And I know why.  I've been the resident ate for a couple of years now - my older cousins have declared immunity from responsibility of looking after the young ones -, and I've gotten tired.  This year I'm hoping I will be relieved of 'ate' duties, even for this summer outing only.  I mean, two of my older cousins will be joining us, and after years of absence, they ought to take the reins. 

DIGICAM

With a bit of prodding I was able to at last convince my parents to buy me a digicam (with an extra memory card to boot), never mind if it's the basic one.  Now I can go crazy taking pictures!  Yey!  As soon as I get back home I'll change my outdated Friendster pic.  Yey again!

I MISS YOU!

I miss my boyfriend.  I miss our talks over the phone (the last one we had lasted for no more than 5 minutes, how unfortunate), and our late-night chats.  I miss unlimited texting.  I miss our morning meet-ups at Starbucks and our Kenny meals.  I miss eating Chickenjoy with him, and having biggie-sized Wendy meals, and going to Katag for pancit.  I miss sitting beside him in our spot fronting the library, and on dry grass patches at the Sunken Garden.

I miss his hugs.  I miss the way he looks at me during lapses of silence.  I miss holding his hand.  I miss taling to him about everything imaginable.  I miss his doodling.  I miss his kisses.  I miss him terribly.  Terribly.

(excerpts)
 

It’s funny but on good days I don’t think of her so much.

In fact never.  I never just say hi when the sun is on my tongue and my belly’s all warm.  On bad days I talk to Death constantly, not about suicide because honestly that’s not dramatic enough.  Most of us love the stage, and suicide is definitely your last performance, and, being addicted to the stage, suicide was never an option.

So we talk.

She says things no one else seems to come up with, like let’s have a hot dog, and then it’s like nothing’s impossible.

She [says] if you allow yourself to feel the way you really feel, maybe you won’t be afraid of that feeling anymore.

When you’re on your knees you’re closer to the ground.  Things seem nearer somehow.

I had my own little celebration today.  I asked my parents to buy me a slice of chocolate cake and one of those miniature spiral candles.  I specifically told them to get me a green candle, but they came home with blue.  Green candles don't sell here, apparently. 

I still have the saucer in front of me (minus the cake, which was delectable, as expected), as well as the candle - slightly wicker-burnt -, my fork and a glass of Coke.  I took the trouble of getting one of our party glasses - you know, those expensive ones used only during special occasions.  Today is special, after all. 

It's already 11:30 in the evening, and 30 minutes from now I'll probably give up hope of talking to someone important.  Or perhaps I'll linger for another 10 minutes or so, because that's how I am.  I think everybody will be better off as pessimists but really, I never got around to being one.  Not fully.  And so I wait, the impossible optimist that I am.  (And as luck would have it, I ran out of load, and my Chikka messenger is going bonkers.  I have no choice.)

I'll console myself and say that this is just another of commercialism's spin-offs, and get sloshed on Coke if possible.  I wish I asked for the whole cake.

Cheers.

VINCE’S LIFE (excerpts) by Vince O. Teves

   “Do you know what day it is tomorrow, Vince?”
   “Of course I do.  It’s our one-month anniversary.”  I gave Andrea’s hand a squeeze.
   “Don’t you just hate it?”
   “What?”  I asked, confused by her change of tack.
   “Anniversaries,” she explained.  “First you celebrate weekly anniversaries, then you celebrate every month.  Then it’s a year and you celebrate with a bang, but right after, you forget about the monthly anniversaries.  Then it’s just yearly anniversaries.  And then you forget about anniversaries completely.  It’s the saddest thing.”
   “We won’t be like that,” I said, not really sure about what I had just said.
   “Really?”  Andrea said doubtfully.  “You know what I think?  I think we should just forget about the whole anniversary thing.  That way our anniversary won’t die a slow, pathetic death.”
   I looked at Andrea again, not sure if she was serious.  She looked back at me, dead serious, and said, “Do me a favor, Vince.  Let’s not make tomorrow special.  Don’t treat me to dinner or buy me flowers.  Let’s see each other, sure, but let’s not do anything.  Let’s not count months or years or decades.  That way, we’ll be thankful for each and every day….  I mean it, Vince.  No flowers, no chocolates, nothing.  Just you and me.”

   The big day arrived quietly.  I called up Andrea and neither of us mentioned “anniversary”.  We agreed to meet in her place that evening and just watch tv.
   I didn’t give Andrea the flowers until before I left.  We spent the evening talking a lot, like we always do; laughing a lot, which we do more.  When it got late, she walked me to my car, and when I opened the car door, I whipped out the dozen pink roses, and greeted her a happy monthaversary.

Despite my parents’ constant indirect attempts to bring me back to the fold of the staunch-religious (attempts which I completely see through, unfortunately, as I am not a nut), and despite being fresh out of a seminar designed to resuscitate faith, I still find myself a repeating grave violator of the dogmatic clause against believing the stars.  Yes, in a sense I am a heretic and should be ex-communicated:  Whereas for others the daily jolt comes from a brisk walk, pathetic ab crunches while still in bed, or a cup of coffee, my wake-upper is a quick run-through of the comics page of the newspaper – at the top of which is the day’s horoscope.

Reading the horoscope is not an entirely bad thing.  Well at least for me it isn’t.  The sarcastic argument that relying on such “psychic readings” is laughable stands, of course.  I mean, that you share the same fate with 1/12^th of all human beings is quite absurd, if not altogether discouraging.  But why should anyone take things to that level, knowing that such heightened fatalism and dependence will do nobody good?  The way I see it – and the way I treat my daily dose of Aquarius/Capricorn predictions – astrological forecasts are a minefield of think-twice thoughts, of adages.  If the reading doesn’t apply, then it doesn’t.  Think outside the box.  More often than not there are things implied or directly stated in what most dismiss as ridiculous that will do everybody good, if only these are taken with a bit less arrogance and more intelligence.

A LENGTHY POSTSCRIPT

Today’s paper provides a rather amusing reading for two personally significant star-signs.  I’m throwing in a foreword:  I straddle the Aquarius-Capricorn line.  As I am born on the 20^th of January, I am caught in a tug-of-a-war between the two signs.  (Sigh.  I always cause confusion, star-sign-wise or not.)  This year I swear I am an Aquarian, if only for the fact that most astrology what-have-you’s say so.  To play it fair, though, I read Capricorn, too. *grin*  As for Scorpio, even a nut can deduce who that person is. Hehe.
 

Scorpio:  You’re so rational in your dealings with loved ones that they may start to feel you do not care.  Work on demonstrating the depth of your emotion.  Romance is in the personal touches you add.
 

Capricorn:  Being needy isn’t always a negative.  Today, it could be your strong point.  If everyone were self-sufficient, this world wouldn’t work at all. Depend on others, and let them depend on you.

They are almost uncanny, I tell you.  I have always been pathetically needy, although with the help of some “tough love” (as I fondly call what I was subjected to) I was able to dramatically curb that annoying characteristic.  Lately I never fail to sashay the words “self-sufficient” in front of every conversation I have with my beau, primarily because I am proud of my transformation.  However, as crappy literature tells us, the past will not cease to haunt.  I admit there are still times (although these are far apart and last for no more than an hour) when I revert to feeling irrationally alone/unloved/insignificant – usually happens when I get frustrated because of thwarted plans, an unanswered message, or after a brief, brief conversation.  I consider them bouts with negativity, honestly.  But come to think of it, there is truth in what’s been said about my sign.  Dependence really isn’t all that bad when it is kept at a minimum.  Nobody IS self-sufficient.  Haha.  I am not so “self-sufficient”, after all – and that’s okay.

With regard to the second sign, if I’d be asked to describe my beau, the first word that will come to mind would be “rational”.  Oh yes, he is very rational – to a fault even, at times.  That is precisely why, as said about Scorpio people, sometimes I get into a fit with him.  A couple of nights ago I told him point-blank that as I am incurably romantic, there are instances when I would like to hear him tell me that he needs me (and all those cheesy lines).  Not that he doesn’t make me feel that way, no.  He is very sweet, don’t get me wrong.  I do think it’s unfair of me to ask for more when I feel so loved.  Perhaps it’s a girl thing, or a quirk of mine, that I am so verbal and so sometimes I expect the same from people.  I don’t know.

I've been putting off asking for media intervention for a couple of weeks now for fear of being found out.  It's irrational, my fear.  There's such a thing as confidentiality in the media, right?  Besides, I find it hard to believe that our phone line is being (or will be) wiretapped, mainly because my small dignified family is just that -- too concerned with being non-scandalous -- that nobody would think I can be the mole that will contribute to the hastening of a public official's incarceration.  And the fact that my clan is too deep in political shit and my family's rubbing elbows with local politicians but never getting in the way strengthens the whole argument that we'd be the last people in the country our dear vice-mayor is going to be suspicious about.  All in all, I shouldn't be scared.  Nuh-uh-uh.

On the other hand, who wouldn't entertain irrational fear when it is a high-ranking public official (with ties to one of the oldest and most powerful political clans in the locality) who is involved?  We've heard of merciless killings and abductions.  Of informants being found out and tortured and killed sooner or later.  I have history backing me up in my cowardly retreat, yes?   

Variations on the Word Love
Margaret Atwood

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.