Footprints. That's it. It's the footprints they leave behind as they walk out. Some leave footprints so immensely deep that when you run after them to try to lasso them back, you fall in and are left to wait. For Time to finally help you out of it. Then you see the light again, but in an abject, circumspective way. The pain from the fall does not cease, constantly insinuating you of its existence with sudden jabs. Or its tiny voice that damns you into eternal introspection. It throbs in you, dully but surely, loud enough for only yourself, the only one who cares, to hear.
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December 25, 2006
0100 ... Fireworks audible but nowhere near visible. New Year will be better, I suppose. Caught The Polar Express on HBO tonight. Enjoyable, my favorite part was the rollercoasteresque train tracks. Some theme park (is the film even a Disney film? I don't think so..) should make a ride for that. Or, I just need to go to that theme park in Japan (if my memory serves me right) that is home to the world's biggest rollercoaster. Oh, Hero Boy, if only things were made real as easy as a moment of shut eyes and the phrase "I Believe" repeated thrice! Conductor: The thing about trains - it doesn't matter where you're going; what matters is deciding to get on. He winks at Hero Boy. What if you have another thing about trains? What if you have a phobia, like your lover died in a train accident and it fucked you up for ever? That was just an example. How can it not matter where you are going, of course you would want to know where you are going; you would want to avoid ending up worse than before, you would want to ignore the tiny voice of hope in your head saying the Maybe It Will Work This Time, and the Listen to Yourself, You're Being Paranoid. They say what does not kill you makes you stronger but what does not kill you is also bound to eternal devouring (devouration? devour?) by said victim, a.k.a. You. Case #1: (Result of knowledge of not knowing where you are going plus your fantastic stubborness plus unrequited bullshit screaming to be requited plus your romanticism plus impossibility) You get on, get off screwed over. Repeat N times. Case #2: (Rare) (Result of knowledge of not knowing where you are going plus your fantastic stubborness plus unrequited bullshit screaming to be requited plus your romanticism minus impossibility) You get on, get off screwed over. Repeat N times. After N times: you get on, get your unrequited bullshit requited, get your romanticism as reality, die a happy motherfucker. So, Conductor, what happens then? What if the journey is not all Existentialist where there is always something or someone accountable for every single action, what if the slate Isn't blank, and is actually something you go through, not fill up yourself while you stomp all over it? That is scary, Mister Conductor, and fortunately for you I will not be getting on that train, and besides. Not all trains (or any, practically speaking) will bring you to the North Pole and show you all you have to fucking do is fucking believe and you'll get what you fucking want (Emphasis was necessary, pardon). Sidenote: Why use "train" for this metaphor anyway? It sort of messes up everything (evinced in your now apparent confusion after reading above paragraphs), what with journeys on trains being something you Go Through and not Make. 2349 Maybe I should not have stayed outside the house dressed in a skirt and shirt until after midnight, because basically I became the noche buena (midnight Christmas feast, Filipino [maybe Spanish as well, I don't know] tradition) of the mosquitoes within the vicinity. My Christmas eve consisted of a digital single lens relfex a tripod the stars and a great deal of walking around waiting. For twelve minutes to pass so I could release the shutter, for the star trail photo to process, for my phone to beep (which it did not), for anything interesting to happen, for the too-joyous season to be over, for I am growing a habit of not finishing my paragraphs. Maybe you should start finishing them, that would be fun (a.k.a. the commenteralaanonymous has been very quiet). With the lack of access to an open field, maximum zoom in was required to eliminate sillhouettes of trees and (the very annoying) electricity/phone lines. Hence disappointing result: Psh, it was not brilliant or anything but I stood around for half an hour waiting for it to process and what not. I think my father and I are going down to one of the fields in the estate on the 31st. Or the mall by the bay to take photos of fireworks. Christmas day was Money, Food, Useless sincerity-void presents, I like my twenty-thirty-something aunts and uncle, Yes aunt's boyfriend you can in fact use the EZ-Link card for the buses, Yes the Night Safari is pretty damn boring ... et cetera. On the way to the party two cities away, the radio station we were tuned into in the car had a little Christmas set. The DJ, a woman with a low, fifty-something voice, mentioned an editorial from the New York Sun and I perked up because it was a Christmas set and that could only mean the letter to The Virginia. Virginia O'Hanlon, who asked if Santa was real. I listened to the letter being read out while I stared out into the street below the car, hairlines of gray, white, black, a little brown, moving up and down. After I had stared long enough the corners of sidewalks and the street looked two-dimensional instead of three, because of the blur of color. I found this very interesting. December 26, 2006 2330 Most adorable child actor would have to be Jonathan Lipnicki. (circa Jerry Maguire ONLY) I saw a commercial for Jerry Maguire earlier this evening and that made me pop the VCD in. Jerry Maguire is the movie where Tom Cruise is still charming and charismatic and Renée's skin does not look so stretched from religiously gaining weight for Bridget Jones' Diary and then promptly, remarkably, losing it all afterwards. Have not been going online for god knows what reason (not that I can sign in to MSN anyway), I shall call this phase the Notepad Phase because it the only thing I talk to, it is what I hide behind, live communication is once again intimidating me and I repel it like two like poles do, I am like Joel freaking Barish. I pour my stupid heart out to this stupid white glowing screen and I hate it for not being able to convey what my fingers are screaming at it, have you noticed how bad these little black pixels are at this kind of thing? They fucking suck. All Tahoma size 7 does is make it look pretty. All Bold will do is make it fatter. Oskar, how about if these little black pixels were fantastic interpretative dancers and could rearrange themselves to show exactly what I mean? So, right now. Am extremely upset because accidentally rejected a call that came in while typing a text message. Because Rachel is the only one who calls me. And I need to talk to her so I can whine and she can make me laugh BUT I FUCKING REJECTED THE CALL FUCK HABITS AND FUCK CHRISZALDY FOR LAUGHING AT ME FOR WHAT JUST HAPPENED. Have finally found Beck's cover of Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime, now I need not go to the Pirated DVD to listen to it (it actually has the whole soundtrack, which is an unusual feature). I had to join Esnips for it. Beautiful cover. I need to figure out what to submit for the school paper. My teacher who is very insightful and I appreciate very much told me he wanted to read something on the paper that Wasn't bland, and this puts the pressure on me that I have to go all Jerry Maguire and write a five-page "misson statement" for the school. Or something to end world hunger. Or be like James Blunt with his amazing support for Doctors Beyond Borders. Or inspire the whole country to stop rallying. Or make the whole country realize that they are the problem, not the president (Stop fucking rallying, you activist fuckers). Suggestions welcome. (Not that I think this will actually initiate communication on the tagboard or commenter, you just scan/read and close, yes? Look at me, I know you so well!) Yes, of course, my dear country, amending the constitution is the way to go. What did the People Power Revolution do? Oh, hello, look at us, we are so powerful and mighty we drove our own corrupted but successful president out of presidential seat. And what did that do afterwards? Oh, hello, look at us, we are so powerful and mighty and we think Democracy means going against every single decision the president tries to make to better the country. The Random House Webster's Dictionary says: Democracy: A government in which supreme power is exercised directly by the people or by their elected agents. Hear hear, you crazy rallying losers who further humiliate yourselves by speaking fluent Broken English on national television! As a result of that, she tries to keep you off the bloody streets (that you block with your idiocy thinking screaming and burning photos of the president and holding up placards will miraculously boost the country's economy) by initiating the idea of a single-house parliamentary system. But Arroyo's critics see the move as a naked power grab, noting that by invalidating the current term limits, it could conceivably enable Arroyo to stay in power as Prime Minister after her term as President ends in 2010. i. Power grab?! If this actually was her intention, do you (presumably jealous/judgemental) critics even realize what a huge favor this is? Is there any other candidate to replace her? One opposition senator, Panfilo Lacson, called last week's political maneuvering "nothing short of constitutional rape." ii. Well that was a nice little witty statement. I am sure it will definitely make you look clever and bold and worthy! The amendment also antagonized powerful business leaders and the country's formidable Catholic Bishops Conference, whose president, Angel Lagdameo, called the House's gambit "illegal and immoral". iii. You are the Catholic Church. You are so supposed to lead people to God, not lead people against the president. The political affairs of the country is out of your league, you should be focusing on the personal affairs of other people who are lost and need to find their way back to God. iv. I believe the Vatican has actually told the Church not to involve themselves with Philippine politics? v. Immoral, seriously. Immoral is turning a blind eye to the poverty that makes up this country (if you want statistics - percentage of population in poverty = 26% ; a mere 1% less than Africa). Immoral is the people in poverty themselves considering being a Squatter a job. A job. Immoral is judging the president because of a rumor that she arranged vote fraud during the election. Immoral is the two nuns who knelt before tanks. That was not inspiring, or a sort of miracle, or even charming. That was very, very ugly. Immoral is the fucking Church using the rosary to chase away a dictator. Free will, you say? Exercising "free will" does not make it any less immoral, or airheaded, or selfish. And in this case, free will is like a Pandora's Box for Filipinos because they have a tendency of grabbing as much of it as they can, setting it on fire and in turn destroying the whole land. It's a whole buffet of Free Will and at this rate they will overstuff, bloat to the size of fifty whales (Pun intended [although I don't think you will get it I am too easily amused] ha ha) and eventually explode into lipids of poverty, corruption and pollution, making it inevitable for the Philippines to keep its title The Basket Case of Asia. For another, say, two decades. vi. Illegal? Who is in politics here? You or the politicians? (Excerpts in gray from "One Step Forward, One Step Back", TIME Asia, December 18, 2006) December 27, 2006 2222 Marisol was watching Playhouse Disney while I desperately tried to get an Internet Connection this morning (to no avail, it has been affected by the earthquake in Taiwan for some weird reason). I watched two adults wearing colorful clothes narrate over-animated stories, as cheesy as the three children. In the big Playhouse full of toys and cardboard box cars and costumes and paint and every single kind of ball in the world. I cringe at the narration / talking in general, which is anything but natural - tones of voices rocket up and down. Sort of like Ben Affleck on steroids (think the really bad film Surviving Christmas)... Okay, the children I understand. They are at the most six years old and to be on the Disney Channel at that age is The Shit. But the adults? Their wide grins and exaggerated facial expressions are so facile I could imagine them having the exact same expression advertising for terrorism. The man calls a bright yellow softball a baseball, plays the part of the Fairy Godfather, has dreadlocks and matches a red shirt with a green checkered polo. The woman is Kindergarten-teacher Sweet, dons a red turtleneck and a flower-patterned skirt, cracks a joke at the end of the show ("Actually... I just thought of another rolling game! *punchline pause* Roll on Home! Ha! Ha! Ha! HA!") that was so bad the response of the rest of the cast ("Ohhhhhhhh *gesture for Well I'll Be Damned [a sideways elevating punch]* ") looked rehearsed like cheesy American-Dream-Family-Cereal-Commercials. Not that it wasn't cheesy to begin with. It always depresses me, seeing people like these on television, because I always get the feeling that they hate it. Think the music video for Evanescence's Everybody's Fool, when Amy's poster sweet smile vanishes the milisecond the camera stops recording. December 28, 2006 2313 Rachel saved me by calling today (paraphrased) Oh you know, my dad told me that he thinks you should pursue journalism. Wow - wait WHAT? You let him read my blog?! No! It was first on the site history, so he probably just - Oh he just found it and clicked. Okay, fine. Laugh. What did he say? Laugh. first of all, he thinks you're a little weird. Weird! What a vague word. Laugh. Nothing in specific? Which entries did he read? I don't know. But it wasn't too long ago. Should be pretty recent ones. Anyyywayy, but he said that what you write has substance and stuff, and you have a lot of ideas. Laugh. Tell him thank you! Ideas! Everyone has a lot of ideas. It is just that ideas are... like baby lions, which need to be awakened by their mother's mighty roar in order to live. In our case that awakening would be inspiration, et cetera. What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: that photographic mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the world. It is that synthesizing spirit, that "shaping" force, which prolifically sprouts and makes up its own worlds with more inventiveness than God which I desire. If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward, the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is that kind of madness which is worst: the kind with fancies and hallucinations would be a Bosch-ish relief. I listen always for footsteps coming up the stairs and hate them if they are not for me. Why, why, can I not be an ascetic for a while, instead of always teetering on the edge of wanting complete solitude for work and reading, and, so much, so much, the gestures of hands and words of other human beings. Well, after this Racine paper, this Ronsard purgatory, this Sophocles, I shall write: letters and prose and poetry, toward the end of the week; I must be stoic till then. I read Sylvia Plath from notebooks such as this and wonder why I even bother writing. December 29, 2006 2334 The mass of words I have written the past year shocks me. The time I spend amassing it also shocks me. The outrageous thought I have put into it shocks me even more. My apparent motivation, which is unknown to me (or being denied), is what shocks me the most. This journal, which I had hoped would serve as some form of communication, has only mustered a morsel of it. Why? Personal, you say? Well, I am talking to you. I know you. Chances are, I wanted you to say something. So, instead, this past year I have lived in the past, anachronism in full blow; and on the Benefit of the Doubt that you do read, and care and all that pathetic emotion that makes us all human. With this benefit came the company that I so desperately craved for, like a lone little girl dressed up in her best Sunday dress having a tea party with her dolls that stared blankly at its teacup, or blankly at the wall. These imaginary friends are the best thing she can ever give herself. I found solace in locking myself up in my room with my trusty laptop and archiving mundane details of this sudden standstill in my life. I bucketed the overflow of thoughts by pouring it into a blank white screen, 9, 11, 15, 7, 20 KB at a time. To keep myself from completely combusting with it. This is how I draw on my slate, this is how I will remember this time in the future, I cheat and use pencil before drawing the final piece in black permanent pen. Says Chuck Palahniuk: "That's why I write, because life never works except in retrospect. And writing makes you look back. Because since you can't control life, at least you can control your version." I think no one ever grows out of the imaginary friend phase. The friends just sort of shapeshift into their conscience, or a journal, or their pet cat. Take me, for example, I am sixteen years old an you are mine. December 30, 2006 2227 Truly Julie, in another day. You know it really isn't far away that I'm longing to be with you. You'll be waiting for another sun, but that's when things begin to come undone. There's sense that's running in the air, and that's the time that you should never dare. Running away you can't pretend, up to the door and back again with me. I know. Running away it drives me wild, even someone who makes me mild like you. I know. There's a place where everything is free and everyone is just like you and me like I've never seen before. But I would never ever wanna go, to a place unless you told me so, then you said that you wanted more. There's sense that's running in the air and that's the time you should never dare. Jam 88.3 earned my attention today by playing Death Cab for Cutie, and then earned my respect by playing Electrico (hence the first three paragraphs). (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) My reaction was a little delayed, I was doing the usual sightseeing/brooding ritual in the car while successfully naming every song that played on the radio, and suddenly the guitar riff to Runaway started playing. Thought: And that's Runaway by Electrico. Subsequent thought: IDIOT YOU'RE NOT IN SINGAPORE THAT'S ELECTRICO. ELECTRICO, ON A PHILIPPINE RADIO STATION. FUCKING... EXPRESS A VEHEMENT STATEMENT! Subsequent action: *sits up in one very quick violent move* Subsequent dialogue: AHHHH OH MY GOD THAT'S ELECTRICO A LOCAL BAND I MEAN LOCAL AS IN SINGAPORE YKNOW [insert long fading trail of disbelief+surprise+excitement] If I had a / bothered making a MySpace account I would have dropped a comment on their page. That reminds me, Hip City is with Rachel! And that was the Happy Moment. I think. I need to find a substitute for the word "happy" because it is a word that my brain associates with colorful cartoon lands like the land of Care Bears (ew) or Unicorns (ew) or Lisa Frank or Happy House (brands that completely abuse the colors of the rainbow) and other relations that I believe actually stun the brain development of a child. Let the kid watch the Discovery Channel. Or at least The Magic School Bus. Art Attack for the artistic ones. Today This slow internet connection is the ultimate test of patience, am in the midst of a project that is a feeble attempt at expressing feelings, preparation for emotional blow beginning around nine or ten p.m., wondering why boys like wearing thick headbands over their thick hair, and how in the fuck they can actually dismiss it goodlooking, the bang of fireworks, trying to enumerate anything at all credential that I have done this year, trying to enumerate the reasons why I miss people. |
