MY BOYFRIEND IS THE MOST AMAZING BEST-EST MAN in the ENTIRE UNIVERSE.

Such a happy surprise! Yay! Thank you, thank you!

JOHN IS EVIL.

Before I head on to the city for the halloween extravaganza, I just have to say that my boyfriend is an evil, evil man.

I don't think I've ever been prohibited to do something I REALLY want to do in my ENTIRE life.

Normally, I would just ignore what people say and do what I want anyway, but my boyfriend is a hypnotist who wields the power of mind control. He is EVIL. Plus, I am held in place by my palabra de honor, because unlike my boyfriend, I am a GOOD person.

Root of dilemma: a concert.
Circumstances: promised the EVIL boyfriend that I would go out with him and his friends on the day of said concert BUT ONLY because I thought there was no way on Earth I'd be able to get good tickets. But as it happens, my friend is giving hers up, and is willing to sell it to me at a bargain.

But my boyfriend is EVIL.

EVIL, I tell you. E-V-I-L.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM.

TV is not working. I am going crazy. Bored and crazy. JR is a huge pain in the butt. Got more than a dozen missed calls today. Phone on silent because strange people keep on calling me and it's getting annoying. Scream. Shout. Nothing.

Head racing in too many different directions at once. Sweaters and jeans. Plotlines and deadlines. Fears of failures and mediocrities and intimacies and exposures of souls. Head hurts. Brain is turning into mushy gray substance resembling day old regurgitated food product.

Bored enough to explode. Or implode. Something.

Walked up and down Austin, now I'm going to the city. Excuse the ditzy entry, but it must be done. People, I want to SHOP.

JEANS. Serious jeans. Jeans that will cup and stretch and conform and flatter until the apocalypse. To be extremely specific, I want the Mod Fade (Stretch) Paper Denim and Cloth (in either vintage or dark wash), the Diesel Daze in 796 or 845, or some bootcut Sevens. Or really dark flared Miss Sixty's. (Jeans are on sale at Bluefly up to 75% off, yay!)

I also want, nay, NEED sweaters. I want the white cropped cable knit, and the sheer and sexy but warm lavender mohair. And a fuzzy black angora with flared sleeves and an ivory cashmere ballet wrap with the deep v-neck. And a soft baby pink lambswool. And something in fleece. And lots more. Some 35 hangers must be filled -- I've packed all my summer clothes away.

And coats. I want a long black vintage shearling coat with white furry trim. And something with eye-popping color. Like dark pink-y violet. Or wine. Or olive green.

And shoes. I want the black round toe with ankle straps and a nice pair of dark brown boots with side zippers and a skinny 3 inch heel.

And dress pants. I want the charcoal wool Martin fit (petite) trousers from Banana Republic, with the chunky cuffs.

Of course, this doesn't mean that I'm about to go on a shopping rampage, we all know me better than that. I buy things one at a time and then sneak 'em into my closet, hehe.

Seriously though, I have such a particular image in my mind of what I want that it's hard for me to find anything anywhere, IN MY SIZE, except for the jeans and the pants. Either they're MUCH too big (Err, it's a turtle neck, not a turtle face), or they just don't exist. Grrr. On the upside, this specificity in my head is probably the only thing saving me from death by retail.

Bored and Shameless

My story (called Dinuguan [Blood Stew]) was published. Yay. Happy happy joy joy. To top it off, the image they chose to accompany it in the layout was very nice. Very strong. I couldn't have chosen better.

The story that preceded mine was also noteworthy and very interesting. It's called "Me and My Dick Against the World". It's accompanying image features a cartoonified green and purple penis perched atop a globe. Very appropriate, under the circumstances.

Even in times of triumph, life always has a way of reminding me NEVER to take my self too seriously.


***

I MUST GRIPE about people who, after finding out that you're a writer (ooh, I can use that word now, can't I?), ask you for a sample of what you've written. To be recited. Now.

Asking me about my work is okay. Asking me about the things I've written is fine. But asking me to recite a poem or story, off the top of my head, verbatim, just because you're too dumb to come up with a remotely intelligent topic to impress me/the people around me just makes you look incredibly stupid.

Honey, I am not a wind-up doll. Nor am I an entertainment system. And yes, I actually read the books they assigned in college, AND THEN SOME, because I am a book-loving GEEK.

Go back to talking about the weather. Sometimes being boring is better than being an idiot.

Yes I'm bored. But that's only half of it. *Insert smile here*. Anyway, from the bulletin boards of friendster:

1. NAME FIVE [5] OF YOUR FAVORITE PIG-OUT FOODS.
chocolate chip cookies, oreo cheesecake, pan de sal, original Lays or Ruffles, Twix.

2. HAVE YOU EVER HAD A MAKEOVER?
sure.

3. NAME ALL MEMBERS OF THE BEATLES.
Paul, John, Ringo and George.

4. WHAT'S THE LONGEST TIME YOU'VE STAYED OUT OF
THE COUNTRY/WHERE?
Here in NY, 10 months and counting.

5. ONE THING YOU'RE GRATEFUL FOR, TODAY.
my unique perspective of the universe.

6. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE HIGH SCHOOL MEMORY?
Oh god, I don't know... there are so many... maybe the shock on people's faces when I cut my hair in junior year.

7. WHAT IS THE MOST INSANE THING YOU'VE DONE
FOR/TO YOUR CRUSH THAT HE/SHE MIGHT NOT/MIGHT
KNOW ABOUT?
I did a lot of stupid things in my BJ phase. I don't think I could pick just ONE.

8. WOULD YOU EVER JOIN TEMPTATION ISLAND?
Maybe if I didn't have a boyfriend and I was just pretending to be in a relationship... then again, NO.

9. DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE QUOTE? WHAT IS IT?
No, I don't actually. Quotes don't stick long enough in my mind to become favorites.

10. MY FIRST HEARTBREAK HAPPENED WHEN I WAS…
Err, next question please.

11. DO YOU HAVE ANY WEIRD PREFERENCES? WHAT ARE THEY?
Nothing weirder than usual, I would imagine.

12. WHAT IS ONE THING YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND
ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX?
One thing? how can I just name one thing? Seriously though, I think we're giving them far too much credit by making them seem so complex. Ego, people. Feed the ego and everything else will be fine.

13. WHO IS YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Trix, JR and Rij, Carms, John...

14. NAME ONE TV CHARACTER YOU'D MOST WANT TO BE.
Actress na lang, puede? Angelina Jolie.

15. IF YOU WERE FAMOUS, AND WERE TO BE A GUEST ON
A TALK SHOW, WHOSE SHOW WOULD YOU CHOOSE? WHY?
Umm, I don't really watch talk shows.

16. GIVE YOURSELF A PORN STAR NAME.
Portia Padilla... haha. Sorry, ma'am.

17. DO YOU HAVE ANY WEIRD SLEEPING HABITS?
sometimes I scrunch myself up in a tight ball.

18. WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO DO THIS SUMMER?
Beach, beach, beach. It's all about the beach, baby.

19. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SONG RIGHT NOW?
Cynthia Alexander just because I miss her.

20. WRITE A LINE FROM ANY SONG.
I have seen
I have been
to places far and deep in my mind
only to find
comfort in your strangeness.

21. DO YOU KNOW AT LEAST ONE DISNEY SONG BY
HEART? WHICH ONE?
Hmmm... I don't think I know any disney song in its ENTIRETY by heart.

22. DESCRIBE YOUR DREAM HOUSE.
garden, sunny, windows with a beach view.

23. YOUR TYPICAL SLEEPWEAR:
big shirt.

24. WHAT'S IN YOUR BAG?
lots of paper, a pen, wallet, metrocard, key, chapstick.

25. WHAT'S IN YOUR WALLET?
credit, atm and debit cards, library cards, extra metrocard, no cash.

26. HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR WALLET
RIGHT NOW?
Didn't I just answer this?

27. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PAIR OF SHOES?
Right now, my knee high boots.

28. TELL US ABOUT ANY OF YOUR BIRTHDAYS.
Oh God, birthdays... I think the most memorable was the year I had three birthday parties. One of them was supposed to be a surprise (something Jaime cooked up), the other one I planned myself, and the other one just sort of materialized out of thin air. Drunken master philosophy plus I'm a free-faller plus chocolate mushrooms at 4:20. Sigh. the good old days.

29. WHAT ARE THE FIRST FIVE THINGS YOU WOULD
SPLURGE ON IF YOU WERE A BILLIONAIRE?
Beach-hopping around the world, huge house in Manila for my parents, a literary/education fund for underpriveleged children in the Philippines, trust funds for each of my siblings, and a library for me.

30. WHAT IS THE WEIRDEST/FUNNIEST NICKNAME ANYONE HAS EVER CALLED YOU? Ate Mita-e.

31. NAME THREE [3] OF YOUR FAVORITE CARTOON
CHARACTERS.
Dexter, Sponge Bob, and Didi (because she's like Kyra).

So it's the caribbean in December. The Dominican Republic to be exact. In a hotel called Bahia Principe San Juan in the Amber Coast, to be even exact-er.

Seven glorious nights of beach-ing in the middle of winter. Blue sea and golden sand, hot sun and an ice-cold drink. Yay me.

I had to go to the Dominican Republic consulate to get myself a visa -- one of the consequences of not being a US citizen. Interestingly, it seemed like only a handful of people spoke english there. Even if you ask them questions in english, they'll answer you in spanish. And they have an accent that my ears aren't used to.

I was the only one in the VISA office, so the whole process didn't take very long. Passport, 2 photos, US visa, I-20, completed application form (also in spanish and I'm not sure they have an english one) and that was it. Regrese el martes, estara listo para entonces. And adios. Smile. Leave.

I'm currently neck-deep in reading material. Grace Paley, Katherine Mansfield and Edith Wharton. Yes, I'm on a female literary binge.

So got to go. Hasta luego.

Two stories of mine will be published by strawberry press, a small alternative company, in the November issue of their magazine. Their magazines are given out for free at St. Mark's Bookshop (located, naturally, at St. Mark's, the heart of all things, err, unusual).

Yay me.

It's hard enough to unravel insecurities in the space of someone else, harder when they are questioned and shot down. I don't like feeling so inadequate, so weak. I hate it that I have to expose myself like this, but I feel like I have to. So that I can step away from it, and leave it, and move on.

I wanted my hand to be held along the way, because I'm so scared. I seem so scared of so many things right now, I know. I see it too.

I just don't want to be the outsider. I don't want to be the one that's so faraway. I don't want to feel that way and this makes me feel that way. In this space it doesn't feel like you are mine. And I can't help the pain from coming because I can't help but wonder why it's me out here. Shouldn't I be the one inside with you?

Maybe I feel things too much, too deep. Maybe I'm too selfish. Maybe that's wrong, but that's who I am. I need to hold what's inside, not to take or to own, but just to see and feel what's beneath the surface. To feel deeper than just bodies and shells. I've never settled for anything less, I don't know how to settle, or if I can.

Don't worry I'll deal with it, and eventually I won't feel as I do. Only please remember that dealing isn't easy and I'm doing it for you. Someday I will be over this, and the mess will disappear. Until then I can only hope that you don't turn away as I try to walk through it. I'm trying to understand, but I'm not numb. I could use your hand.

I don't mean to impose, but this girl might need a best friend too.

Thinking, just a little.

Reading my entries last November. Nostalgic.

so i'll walk the plank and i'll jump with a smile
if i'm gonna go down
i'm gonna do it with style
and you won't see me surrender
you won't hear me confess
'cuz you've left me with nothing
but i've worked with less
and i learn every room long enough
to make it to the door
and then i hear it click shut behind me
and every key works differently
i forget every time
and the forgetting defines me
that's what defines me -- Dilate, Ani Difranco

BABBLING AND RAMBLING.

As most of you may know, when I post non-entries that take the form of non-poems on my blog, I am most likely bothered by something -- something that's eating me up, which is why I can't post anything coherent, because I find myself halfway consumed by cannibalistic thought.

In the past few days, for some reason, I had this notion to open up my bag of insecurities, and like Pandora openning her box, I think I released some things that should have just been left in hibernation.

I've been grappling with parts of myself I never noticed before. I've asked my questions, answered some, but somehow, it didn't seem to help. I've been left lying on the floor, stuck in the space of my box, and I couldn't seem to find my feet. I wanted to be raised up, but I guess it's time I raised myself.

I didn't know that green was a color in my prism, but it is. I didn't think I would find empathy for people I used to love to hate, but I have. I didn't think I would be wrestling with proofs of pasts and other lives, but I am. I didn't think I could live in a compartment, but I'm living.

I didn't think I could be so much like them.

After living on a tightrope, it's strange to feel the ground beneath my feet. It's suddenly hard to walk. There's too much surface and nothing to fall from. There's too much to run to, so much space to run, in every direction, that one wonders what keeps anyone where they are.

Sigh.

It was the somedays that we pinned hopes on
days and days that floated up and never got here
like balloons let go in the afternoon sun
bearing notes scrawled in childish script
taped on, tied around with a little red string

we tacked on our little hearts
to helium shells that would never come back
somedays that travel far, far away
scraping the bottom of a cloud
colliding with a little wing

along the way we thought
they would meet god or his angels
and they would read the undecipherable letters
made by hands that hadn't learned to write
and they would understand
like santa claus

that's why we scrambled off our feet
i suppose
to run and walk and fly
leaving circles of lives
chasing after that someday
taped on, tied with a little string
to a balloon

chasing after god's reply.

The Apology

I never used to care. I do now. And that makes all the difference.

It was so much simpler when I was playing the game. I always knew how it would end, how far it would go, what to say, what to give. I was in control. Take me on my terms or not at all.

So this is how it must feel to be on the other side. This is how it must feel to have no terms, to gamble with the thing held dearest, to be so scared of losing.

I am so sorry.

Do you remember how restless I always was? How I could never stay put, how I wanted to follow the stars? I was the moment that could never be caught.

And now I am still. So still I can hear myself breathe. So still, I feel the blood course up my veins.

The moment is gone, it seems. it died in the stillness. Now I find that I must learn how to move again. Every step uncertain.

To want to change the world, and then to find yourself changed instead.

I am so sorry.

I WATCHED KILL BILL.

It's someone's head run riot... like a very well funded student film by a talented director with his own aesthetic universe.

You might not want to to bring your family. Blood gushing wildly out of someone's decapitated body is not everyone's idea of funny.

But I liked it. More to the point, I saw it before you did.

Because every word you pin down to paper is an exhalation of the soul.

Every experience that inspires you is another breath imbibed.

And that is how you live.

For a writer, there is no other way.

Do you remember when we were all mesmerized by who we were and we clung to each other so that the happiness wouldn’t escape through the spaces between us?
Cases of beer for beer-whores.
Bags of things for the never addicted.
A red car without a bumper.
Shoes that were always too tall.
Packs and packs of cigarettes. Enough for a month on a regular day.
Except we never have regular days, never regular months.
We were invincible and we would rule the world. Every single corner.
We were different, we were special.
We were rebellious and anti-establishment. Who felt the noose too tight, who danced to the another rhythm, or never danced at all. Hiding behind our parents’ wallets, hiding behind our youth, because tomorrow we could end up growing, fading into the things we said we hated.

Do you remember trips under the moon? Lying on the pavement out on the street to watch the stars?
Do you remember who I was?
Smiling. Poet of a cause. Special. Empress. I have forgotten.
Help me, I have forgotten.
I’m everyday now. I’m always and forever.
Wasn’t I the moment that always flew past?
Why you’re with the one you’re with.
I am the one he’s with now. I am, I am, I am.

One more step, I tell myself, to wherever he has to go. One more step into the crowd. One more step away from my tightrope. One more step, honey, just one more.
Where did I come from? I, the dust of stars.
Tell me please, I have forgotten.

My bitch rating has gone down ever since I got a boyfriend. Remember the "how much of a bitch are you" test? My score used to be like 60+% or something. Now it's:




Also sort-of-interesting factoids:
* The bitchiest age group so far is 29 year olds. 29 year olds average 42% bitchy.
* Women who like the taste of beer are more likely to cheat on their boyfriends.
* Canadian women are more likely to consider themselves successful.
* Girls with tattoos like authority less.
* Girls who sleep with married men are more likely to forget their friends' birthdays.

Back to work.

At six

I watched the lizards crawl to the floor for a kiss. My nanny said it was because the bell for the Angelus had rung. Even lizards had to pray.

And so every day they crawled down and crawled up again. A once a day pilgrimage to the chaos of wooden beams and marble, of feet stepping over and sideways, of mice and falling toys, of drops of sweat and saliva. Because their lips had to touch the ground and atone for their reptilian sins.

And what did they pray for? A fat fly for their next meal? Little lizard eggs? Salvation?

If you prayed, but didn’t know why, did it count? If you prayed and didn’t know to whom, will anyone hear it?

Do you remember how rosary beads slip off the string? Another Ave Maria floating on the tip of your fingers. A rose up to heaven. Remember me? Remember me. Please.

Will they rain on her as she sits on her throne, I wondered, or will they fall gently at her feet? The stems must be devoid of thorns for her. But who feels for the roses’ stings? Who will prick the flesh? Who will bleed?

Dios te salve, Maria, llena eres de gracia, el senor es contigo.

Grace. Am I graced?

Will she hear the hundred ave marias as she sits where she does? I am praying. I am praying for a little sister. I am praying for a bike. I am praying for the lizard that prays more than me.

Aba Ginoo Maria, napupuno ka ng grasya, ang panginoon ay sumasainyo.

The Lord is with you. With you. Always. Even in the bathroom, my nanny said.

I am a child, a child, a child. I am the president and the queen and the little boy who lives down the lane. I am the buyer of 5 cent gumballs and sugar powder.

I am a child, a child, a child.

I am playing with jackstones and the little sandbags.

Her face is kissing the floor. Like the lizards. She is wearing a strng around her neck. Like a rosary. Maybe she is praying. Another Ave Maria, another rose.

Another red, red rose.

The Weekend.

Saturday:
1. Lunch with John and his mom. We had dimsum. Then John's haircut.
2. Did some work on my paper.
3. Went to a club downtown. Yes folks, a real club, where people actually DANCE.

Sunday:
1. Paper procrastination-stress routine (stressing about my paper = I can't concentrate on actually writing it = procrastination)
2. Cooked.
3. Watched movie on John's computer.

And yes folks, that was all. Paper has now been passed (was due yesterday).

Oh yeah, we got a printer... which means my life has just been made easier. I have to go the library sometime this week to borrow/return books... ugh, another paper looming in the horizon...so soon...

Oh yeah, a bunch of former classmates of mine are going to watch Ani Difranco in November. They're getting their tickets today and they called me up to ask if I wanted to come, since they know I like her and I wasn't able to watch her the last time she was here. Unfortunately, I can't watch her AGAIN. They're planning to go on the 22nd, and I already told John I'd go with him to a couple of birthday things. I asked them if they would consider going on the day before instead, but they can't, for various reasons. Oh well. I guess I can go next time she's here....whenever that is.

Sigh, sigh, sigh.

The Secret Poetry Room has been revived, yay. I don't know who's handling it now, but that's such good news. First meeting is tomorrow at 3. I think it's going to be at that little hole of a cafe near Max Fish that serves the Vanilla Marble Cheesecake. Most of us hate the crowd in that place, but we all love that cheesecake, so we're going way early, before it gets invaded by pseudo-philosopers and noise-music makers and all them other narcissists in artists' clothing.

I am trying to look busy. I'm pretending that I'm working on something life-alteringly important. I am summoning a huge "Do NOT Disturb" sign to linger on my forehead. Begone stupid people, begone. And take your moron friends with you.

Dream Jungle has landed. Please purchase Jessica Hagedorn's latest book in seven years, Dream Jungle. Available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, the shop at Asian American Writer's Workshop, and hopefully, your nearest bookstore.

Grade for yesterday's practical exam...drumroll, please...B+. I didn't suck all that bad after all.

Link, links, links.

Kabalarian's Name Analysis.
BookBlog's Gender Genie: is your blog female or male?

I am floating on a cloud, I am at peace, I am happy. I am, gadamit.

I think I get it now, the root of all this emotional upheaval: I feel normal. A standard-issue human being. And I've never felt average in my life. Horror of horrors, I feel freakishly ordinary.

Someone save me. Oh God, when will this end?

That's all the time we have for today, folks. Tune in next time to see more of Wanda's psychoses. In our next episode: wailing, groaning, and gnashing of teeth.

I suck.

Second bad day in a row. This is so depressing. I cannot write the way I want to, I feel like I'm gasping for air inside my skull. Everything seems so meaningless right now, the things I've been working on seem so stupid and inadequate. I feel so incompetent. I feel so invisible.

I tried to call John at work but he's not picking up. He's probably in a meeting or busy or something. Besides I don't really know what to say. "Hey, I'm feeling inexplicably depressed, how are you?" sounds idiotic, even to me.

It's so strange. I'm in a friend's house, surrounded by all these people, but I feel like I'm alone anyway. I can't really communicate with them. All they do is small-talk, forever and ever amen. Or pretend to be cool by recounting the kinds of alcoholic beverages consumed in the last 48 hours. Or feed their own egos by describing the random "babe" they asked out, a "babe" who probably doesn't give a rat's ass who their dating, as long as they themselves aren't date-less.

I can't tell these people about the thoughts that are running in my head, or about the things that matter to me, because they will never see the point. They will never get it, and they will drown in their pseudo-hispter lifestyles without ever knowing why. They are the people who find themselves in the middle of the quest, except they themselves aren't searching, because they are too much of mindless zombies (sheep) to even realize that there's a quest to begin with.

These are the people I avoided in Manila. These are the people I used to love to hate. And now they are my friends. I WANT TO SCREAM.

Yes they are nice, but one does not live on niceness alone. At least I can't.

If only I could get my old creative writing class back (Okay, so I was wrong, YOU are the best class in the world). Now. Please.

In despair, I thought of calling up Pat but didn't because I figured she had class. So, boys and girls, I turned my back on the fact that I have a dwindling bank account and made a call to Manila. Called up Trix, ranted for an hour, felt slightly better. Texted a bunch of people to go online and they did! And they were online until 1-2-3 am (Manila time), even if they had work/class/important stuff to do the next day.

Manila friends are the best. Yay for people who get out of bed, go online and message me even when they're sick and feel like dying (Beens), or who herocially ignore the need for sleep (Carms), or who send me paypal money for international calls (JR), or who tell me that I rule (hehe, Rij).

Yay for people who know what to say, who know the right buttons to push, who can ride on my trains of thought, who bravely answer all hypotheticals, who aren't afraid to bring Kierkegaard into a conversation, who ask the questions that have no answers, and who just plain GET it (Tipan).

Now I'm just making myself homesick.

If I were in Manila, right about now I would be calling people to meet me for an afternoon drink just to talk. I miss that. I miss having the knowledge that there are people out there who will drop whatever it is their doing, no matter how important it is, just for me. I miss having the knowledge that there are people out there who will brave mind-numbing traffic (from Katipunan to Paranaque) on my whim of a text message. I miss feeling special. I miss feeling important. I even miss feeling pretty.

But most of all I miss feeling like I really matter -- not for what I can do or for what I've done -- but simply because I am who I am.

Ugh.