Saturday

8: 47 PM

Dubai

I like Astrology.  It has guided me through life in a sense.

Back in the late eighties, as a  frail pale boring scared high school student, a friend of mine named Racheljane introduced me to Linda Goodman.  I asked her what the heck was that Bible-looking book called Sun Signs meant and why she loved it so much she is bequeathing it to me?  She simply said, “You’ll understand people more and hate them less,” .  I was fourteen then.  My patience was 2 inches long.

For two years, I voraciously read Linda Goodman.  From there I learned the geometrical correlation of the planets and stars and how scientifically it has inspired the early intellectuals to presume life patterns and ways of nature back in the days when the telescope was still light years ahead.  In Sunday papers back in the days I used to make fun of horoscopes (actually I still do to this day) but I had a newfound respect for “faith” being the directive of my headstrong personality in the midst of mainstream science’s rejection of astrology being an admission of its own inadequacy as my journey to astrology went on.  I couldn’t help it, science, like organized religion, became political through and through, and I began reading astrology to get tp where I want to be:  magic land.  The precession of Equinoxes, zeitgeist, arcs and transits of the planets, the placement of Capricorn in the winter  – all this – consumed my readings, half of them I did not understand at all . . . I was, in turn, still groping for my magic.  And yes, did I get it in the end!

Years later, even with the influence of the more notorious realists and psychedelic writers like Herman Hesse, Ayn Rand, Sarte, Maya Angelou et cetera, I still leaned on my youthful Goodman every time I meet people for the first time particularly teachers, possible friends and crushes, knowing that I have to get to know them first in my head before they lay their cards.  That is judgment to most.  To me, it is validation of astrology’s accuracy: a thin silver line from the universe to a particle of my own star here on Earth.  Through the years, I swear, I remembered zodiac signs more than I remembered birthdays.  Yes, I was such a geek.

At work, working in training and very much in tuned with people, I have always been grateful for my Linda Goodman days.  It did not only open my eyes for all the cosmic readings and new age worship that came my way through the years but it also helped me develop keen judgment based on books and actual observations on people I mingled with day in and day out.  I will use my 50-day writing scheme sharing my own thoughts on this subject that took history to unravel with malice and have caused evolutionary outrage throughout the generations.

So, in my own pseudo-astrological way, I have always believed that . . .

ARIES – are just upbeat.  They are walking misinterpretations because of their hunger for being the first in anything but their loyalty is stellar. Known for their leadership skills, they make great presidents and husbands.  I never liked Arians growing up because of their ability to make you scared with one look, but as I went along, I found their flare for power to be quite useful in the event of unreachable goals and they give tactics to such that are almost, always, correct.  If you are in a close relationship with an Arian, be sure to be just YOU.  An Arian can take it all and there is nothing more annoying to an Arian than pretense.

TAURUS – one of the coolest signs ever!  Taureans are known to be very stable.  They are confident and they have strong convictions.  It is fun to see Taurus people spitting classic opinions against something that they don’t believe in and yet you notice their weakness for the subversive and the uncommon. Most of my Taurean friends are surrounded by unconventional activities and friends.  They have great affection that is not necessarily passionate.  It just comes right out of their natural emotional generosity.  If you are in love with a Taurean, nurture him/her with kindness and loyalty.  You will get it tenfold in return, trust me.

GEMINI – Growing up, I was surrounded by Gemini uncles, aunts and cousins.  I have always thought that my duality in terms of opinions and the wit that came with it have been inspired by my childhood associations with Gemini characters who loved to talk, gossip, make and break stories – the entire Oral Tradition.  They are simply wonderful people!  Dual and energetic, their ideas ranges from the bright eyed Disney fathom to the darkest, most bizarre fun like jumping off a cliff!  Spontaneity is their middle name and their nickname is Fun.  If you are a homebody laced with a Gemini, better start shopping for tents.  Your partner thrives on the outdoors.

CANCER – My mother is a typical Cancer.  She hides things behind her classic smile.  Cancerians are clannish.  They survive knowing that their family is intact and perish if a family member perishes.  I have always believed though that they are the Full Moon People.  Basing from the crab’s character of wandering offshore during full moons, this sign can simply mutate from their usual fine, adoring, caring and familial nature to extreme wanderlusts who can create impossibilities at the strike of lunar mischief.  If you are eyeing a Cancer, be prepared for mood swings and deep passion.  And here’s the trick: stay mysterious and shower them with compliments especially about how special they are.

LEO - Simply irresistible.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps it is their talent for self-promotion and their aim to get above the common heard of humanity.  Leos are basically very isolated even with their tenacity and will power.  They scarcely get into the pool of love but when they do, come hell or high water, they love to the bone.  They are happy to inspire others but can be overly-critical about things that they can’t get a grasp on.  Their pride is their life so if you are rubbing shoulders with a Leo, feed them with your independence but never forget to give a thumbs up with their every endeavor.  I like the sympathy in a Leo and I definitely respect their active mentality especially at work, where most of them excel more often than not.

VIRGO - or the Virgin whose only crime is actually conviction are just authentic.  Virgos are so passionate they actually forget themselves doing something for the better good.  Their discriminating nature can be a nuisance at times but their adaptation to any situation is simply amazing.  They can make an empty tuna can into a killing machine given the chance.  Being eternal virgins all their lives, they make great critics and are fond of anything that comes with nature.  My sister Angeline is a Virgo.  She is an Afro-Asian literature professor in a university but listens to Nirvana after a hard day at work, preparing dinner for her Metal music loving husband and their two boys.  If you are with a Virgo, be intelligent.  They are.

LIBRA - or the Scale are dubbed as the  most indecisive bunch in the house of the zodiac.  I don’t think so.  Their mental capacity is just so high strung with making other people happy, thus, they forget the more important things to do in their life like shop for new socks.  I mean, Librans can be really selfless like that, at times it gets to be irritating.  Like the fabulous Scorpions, they are also psychics and have great reverence for knowledge, peace and happiness.  Their fickle-mindedness is classic but if you are into Librans, be sure to be alternative in your choices as they are very comfortable with change and likes new things to come their way as often as possible.

SCORPIO – forget the sexual intensity and the psychic abilities that this sign is so known for.  They are actually spelled as PASSION and are graduate students of intimacy.  They know how to put themselves in any situation and will persevere to get anything they want in life.  I have had lovers and friends who were Scorpions.  My sister Lourdes is one as well.  I know for a fact that their flighty nature is just a cover up.  Inside, they are pure, mental speedies who can eat you alive with their poison that lingers on and on even after they have gone.  Scorpions are powerful gods and goddesses who are self-destructing, sweet and are peace lovers rolled into one.  If you are with a Scorpio, consider yourself lucky.  I do not want to give it all away.  It is too special to divulge.

SAGITTARIUS – one of my favorite signs not because my father and my sister Kit is one, but they are just simply fun and laughter!  If you don’t know them too well, they may appear insensitive with their outspokenness and artiste stance (most of them are inclined to at least one form of art) but they are, in fact, the most compassionate people in the world.  They also have a lucky streak that works all the time.  They abhor selfish ambitions, bigots and have intense concentration.  Notice how they sometimes don’t listen to you when you are talking to them?  They are actually busy wondering how to make the world a better place, so if you are dealing with a Sagittarian, be at your best Angelina Jolie self and consider moving to Africa.

CAPRICORN – the finest sign on earth.  They are thinkers, reasoners, lovers and makes the best buddies in the world.  They can be really serious at times, thus their sense of humor lies on the dry side – a dark comedy if you may – than the usual slapstick.  They always yearn for something solid and permanent in their lives thus they tend to experiment in a lot of ways either in love, sex or their advocacy.  They are constant learners, celebrating the underdogs more than the born winners and are often swarmed by judgment because of their obsession to be understood.  If you are with a Cap, remember to be comfortable.  They like being needed.

AQUARIUS - or the Water Bearers are born with a sharp head.  They are born politicians and are perfectionists, thus, they are easily hurt when rejected.  Most Aquarians are born talented.  They are so brainy that they can pursue anything and gets away with it.  They are quite rattled with the consequence of love.  It can be quite a distraction at times because they are born to excel – to give their 100% to rearing their surroundings that giving it singularly can be disturbing for them.  Easily overwraught, if you are with them, try telling them to put their feet up once in a while, spend time watching dvd with you and simply enjoy the day.  They like being pampered so remember to be available for some babying for your unscrupulous Aquarian lover.

PISCES - my friend Racheljane, the one who gave me the beautifully tattered Linda Goodman book, is a Piscean: mental depth, sea lovers, perceptive and self-indulgent.  I particularly adore a Piscean because they are natural thespians.  If a Gemini is dual, a Pisces person is multifaceted.  It can be dangerous to some but for me, it is just divine.  Imagine bringing a Piscean to a strip show and then to church the next day?  They are so eclectic it is impossible not to be friends with them.  I always tell myself in times of low self-esteem to grab me a Piscean.  They know how to remind you to love yourself so if ever you are into them, remember to be audience.  They will marry you right off!

By:  Jon Verzosa (future fortune teller)

In loving memory of my wonderful and most beloved friend Gracie Villareal

3:25 PM

Friday

Home

When Gracie passed away last April, Joanne and I thought we would give up our house in Deira and there was a time when we almost did but we thrived on.  Amidst the sadness of Gracie’s death, the financial mishaps and the stress that went with it, we all moved on and with Gracie’s memory and guidance, fought to the grind and relived our lives in this house.

I live in a seventh floor on a nondescript section of Deira, the heart of Dubai where prostitutes rump their assessment at 3 AM and the bakers, fast food, clubs resuscitate their vows of service as long as everybody is breathing.  The traffic, horrendous as it is, hums like a transistor radio, non-stop to destinies over stressful comforts deep into the eyes of the passerby, the cleaning aids, the chic Chanel-dressed people or the unkempt goths and me, the needle in this haystack of a place; waddling in my Converse at night getting anywhere where there is a double shot of vodka or hopscotch-like in my Perry Ellis in the morning to work and earn and save and make a future out of my lethargic self and perhaps, harmonize the residues in the making of the perfect expatriate.

My building is a cream-colored splat of cement overlooking the busy Rigga street.  In my estimation it is more than 15 years old but along the modish apartment complexes and hotels that surround it, it stands a nomadic appeal,  hunchbacked among the crowned architectural havens around him but . . . that is the beauty of my very own habitat;  he looks like me.

In flat number 703, our Mexican and Japanese-inspired flat, I live with these characters I call my bohemian connection to where I headlong as the neurotic substance on their lives. I deem to be flaccid as I have never imagined me being among these hauntingly fervid and nostalgic group of earthlings but then again, I reckon the geometrical patterns of characters as we are all, in fact, suspended 7 floors away from the ground.  Contributing to the fact that we all have different Zodiac patterns, we gather all elements, synergize them and interlace the ribbons of our daily ins and outs from and to the door – the almost-spurious redundancy of events, the homey drinking sessions and even the quickie hellos – thus making the “habitat”  constantly in beat, even more, each flushes, a candid and colorful shade thus making a fresh pump into each others every day pill-popping existence.  Honestly speaking, I have invented a new way of getting rid of my daily stress by talking to my housemates.  I mean, really talking to them and it always snaps the devil out of my day.  Recently.  Always.

OK, before you start scrolling down to the attached pictures of my casa boheme,  let me commend my espoused friend Catherine for inspiring me (and living with me) and for waving her fanaticism in my 50-day project, thus, making me survive the fourth day – rehab style – writing my butt out.  She was an accomplice in my sister’s surprise birthday party last Monday  – and it was an unforgettable one.  The one who actually suffered in the dirty job of cooking and the one whose eyes sparkled when the candles were blown as we all frittered through the night, tequila induced . . . little dark angels of emotional and physical recreation.

Behold, the housemates and their cosmic curriculum vitaes . . .

Joanne – long-haired crisp of a Taurean mother.  Special Service Agent for Etihad.  Laughing partner, smoking bud and wailer to the extreme.  We cry together and have been doing that for the past four years.  Purely dimensional.  It is a gift from God.

Francis - Joanne’s husband – shady smiles, enigma to the conspiracy of hunkdom.  A father of one, of tequila shots and supernatural stories.

Jeff and Jeleen - Love unabound . . . doused in beer and muscled love to perfection.  They are starcrossed sweethearts who makes us remember that there are no impossibilities in building something from nowhere.  Both are torchbearers of cotton candies and flaming roses in the house.  Again, a gift.

Isabelle - mother goddess.  The salt to our earth.  A walking joy and street smart laughter.  She taught me the advent of being free and that it is never too late to wonder and to fall into the boundaries of love.  When I first met her, I knew we will be good friends and in that sense, it held true. She is my mother and my laughing confidante who made sure I am eating well and taking good care of myself.  Such a gift for me at a time when I stopped meeting and having friends, thanks to work and my ever pulsating time table.

Mark - Francis’ little brother.  Gym addict, PS3 slave and all around chatterbox.  Do not make him stop talking – he won’t.

Catherine - one of my oldest friends in Dubai.  My avid fan, co_everything (as we dwell in almost anything especially our lesbianic stance and our ex-junkiness that we are both so proud of!),  an eclectic singer and a friend of our family as well.  She is the epitome of coolness both inside and out.  Dubai will never be the same without her.  In momentous times and times of sloth, we talk it through and inflict each other with positivity and cure our disorders with hard laughter altogether.

Oh, and me, Jon – training director/writer/quasi-esoteric researcher/lover and all the politically incorrect labels that you can name as far as you can count.  I sub-run the house, thus, I am also a leader, a breaker, a memo maker and definitely, everybody’s sponge.  I f*cking love it !!!

So, this the wedge.  And them, the typeset.  We are all busy in this growing and fabulous city called Dubai, who is fast-becoming the new New York and we all, a fraction among the rest of the city’s creatures, live in this creamy, primeval apartment.  We are all different.  We all have tantrums and indiosynchracies and yet we blend into woven colors of purple, pink, gray and yellow; incandescent and powerful.  We recreate our worlds even in the pushes of alcohol and loud music but we are one, a family, a piece.  A masterpiece of amalgamation.  A walking (and giggling) gypsy of a woman, with her earth songs and the constant cling clang of her miniature metals and brownstones . . . so behold . . . Casa Boheme.

6:05 AM

Thursday

I woke up even before my alarm got off with my day calendar muttering its digital voice . . .

1.  Be in Abu Dhabi before noon

2.  Conduct Aggressive Suggestive Selling workshop in Khalidiya Mall and verify Mary Ann, Ahmed and Kenneth for their Training certification.

3.  Staff Accomodation Visit at Musaffa in the afternoon.

Big day !!!

11:21 PM

Back in Dubai from Abu Dhabi

I am so tired I want to  sleep in the hot bathtub but I have to this.  Mental rehab . . .

Abu Dhabi is an hour and a half bus ride from Dubai but it took me two long hours to get there today.  Traffic was so sadistic upon entering the capital city of the United Arab Emirates I actually began fantasizing about sadomasochism.  Wouldn’t it be thrilling to have a love bus in the middle of daylight traffic – all whips and chains – me as the dominatrix in white leather, screaming, “You !!!  You with the blue turban, bend over !!! “  Whaaack !!!

Oh I remember Madonna’s Erotica era.  I remember my then-best friend Eldan and I taking the long bus ride from Sampaloc to Cash and Carry in Makati to grab the last bootlegged copy of SEX (coffee table soft porn metallic book authored and modelled by Dita – Madonna’s alter ego )  from a smelly guy who wrapped it in newspaper.  For 2,000 pesos.  We were both pimply little sissies needing alter egos back then when times were basically spent in schoolbooks, Casey Kasem’s Top Ten and conventionalities.  SEX have moved us from nerdy freshmens to subversive fanatics; dressed in leather, wearing brown mat lipstick and singing Deeper and Deeper:  I can’t help falling in love I go deeper and deeper and deeper . . .  humming the early trenches of being different and dressing pain in sequins and furred tank top, as we squint in real life (squinting is clearly an indication of  wanting to be invisible) . . . to actually fit in.  To be as cool as the varsity players and the rich kids driving their Nissans to school.   Nonetheless, Eldan and I had our own esoteric world of temporary insanities – recording our favorite songs from the radio – reading our fat novels – eating kikiam with rice and we were cool.

Pain is an emotional fucker.

When you start feeling pain – you actually don’t feel anything.  Just pure unadulterated void.  I never had problems with rejection (because I have mastered acceptance) or being bullied around (because I always fight) and honestly I don’t mind being deceived (work has perfected that and well, I get back most of the time) but I have a monstrous problem my own personal battles about being me.   It gives me pain to see myself being dragged to a situation that I allowed myself to be in under clear protest.  I can be really vulnerable and I hate displeasing people, especially people I deeply care for.  And then I begin hating myself for that.  Yes.  Most of the time, I dress my own pain.  I sometimes design the outline and more often than not, choose the fabric as well.  Well, don’t we all?  Well, I do not dress it shabbily.  I am swarovskis and goth eyes and faeire wings . . .

Come to think about it, we do carry our own pain and through the years I have learned to laugh through it – we do get fucked real bad with its metallic and VERY COLD dick but it gets to be easier when you learn to laugh through it.  In its most intricate, piercing moment, I dress my pain haute coutour.

Pain, in fact, is a validation that you have reached the next level of growth.

For three decades I have had pain in all colors, shapes and sizes.  Deaths, unrequited love (the worst!), being dumped (the worst of them all!), professional deceit, friends who deceive you and hiss death wishes behind your back, being lied to, flunking classes, parental disapproval (so painful until you realize that all parents are just scared that their children will end up like them), weight gain (current pain), physical pain (which can be emotionally damaging especially tooth ache), words that hurt (which equals to aphysical beating) and that pain (so inexplicably deranged) of not getting what you want.

When I was younger I’d burst into flames and antagonize everyone and everything around me.  It always works for me.  Inflicting the same pain to the next person sitting next to me.  It was so heavenly.  Until it happens back to you.  You becoming the object of karmic violation . . . or validation it depends on how you call it.   I am a self-confessed masochist so I write and direct my theatrics.  Oh so well.

In times of exquisite pain, I wallow.  I do.  I have been ostracized many times by friends who called me drama queen.  Crucify me.  I have to thank my lucky stars for having a few good friends through the years who found my dramas to be a learning experience rather than a sob fest.  I heard more Pick yourself up bitch! than the usual phony Awww.  For what it is worth, wailing it is the safest thing to do to filter pain.  It is like letting go of an angry dam and gushing it out to freedom.

A rainbow does come after every storm as they say.  I say a mammoth of a man comes out within you after dressing pain in any way you do:  pauper like, casual dining, signature, faux signature, black tie or nakedly dressed to perfection.  Besides pain does make you a learned humanoid geared to be better.  Set to conquer beauty and love that does bring forth pain as its evil partner just like the balance of life in general:  black and white . . . good and evil . . . as we all dance to the hue of pastels and color bursts between them.

” . . . give me life give me pain give me my SELF again . . . give me life give me PAIN give me my self again . . . “

Little Earthquakes, Tori Amos

“We, the sovereign Filipino people, imploring the aid of Almighty God, in order to build a just and humane society and establish a Government that shall embody our ideals and aspirations, promote the common good, conserve and develop our patrimony and secure to ourselves and our posterity the blessings of independence and democracy under the rule of law and a regime of truth, justice, freedom, love, equality, and peace, do ordain and promulgate this Constitution.”

- Preamble of the 1987 Constitution

1: 05 AM

Dubai

Early Wednesday morning

I read an article today called Pinoy Ka Ba? Are you a Filipino?  My mind wandered in this seemingly chilly morning.  I opened my terrace door to let the breeze in and asked myself the same question . . . and then, I remembered my Social Science teacher and how he spitted the Philippine Constitution at us for 6 long months that I, in fact, studied its loquacious content and did my own spittings on paper, thus, garnering a decent grade of 1.5 at the end of the semester.  From there I began reconsidering the study of identity.  Of nationality.  It has been a while since I actually considered myself  “a Filipino”, living abroad for thirteen years,  until recently when former president Corazon Aquino passed away and Typhoon Ondoy rocked its calamitous hands over Manila and wiped out thousands of houses and left the entire city in ruins.  I don’t know.  There might be something about the advent of sadness that makes you grope for origins – for solidified genus.

I am a Filipino.  I was born by Filipino parents, Jun and Nenette.  My roots are both Spanish and Chinese like the rest of the pack or how we Filipinos always claim to be being multicultural or being culturally lame depending on which comes first.  I guess it is clear that in the last century we have been invaded by the Chinese, the Americans, the English, the Spanish, you name it,  thus we belong in an epoch so transparent that it has become “multi”  in a sense and have incidentally transgressed into the term:  Pinoy blood clots.  How I wished I belonged in the more tribal heritage like the Igorots, the Mangyans and the Aetas for which it has been told have been the early settlers of the islands before the more popular Spanish and Chinese came to vent their flock.  I could have introduced myself as someone  whose bloodline condoned ritualized warfare and someone who actually established a plutocratic society before my current self became addicted to Emily Dickinson, cigarettes and McDonald’s . . . but no, I belonged in a generation of Filipinos who proudly acknowledged that being Filipino is being half Spanish and half Chinese.

So where do I go?

My father’s father is a Verzosa.  His family is a second generation full blooded Spanish who settled in Zumarraga, an island northwest of Samar after his cousins found their way up north, in Ilocos Sur, where the Verzosas flourished like ants.  I guess my grandfather’s father liked the sea and as the story went, they became fishermen who became businessmen and who fled the island eventually and went to Manila to score heights of soldierdom during the Japanese occupation in the 40s.  My grandfather was a guerilla – a war rebel.  Now, that is something I am most proud of.

My mother’s mother is third generation Chinese.  They all grew up in the island of Leyte.  Beautiful, fair skinned beauties – my grandmother and her sisters.  They were goddesses with their silk skirts and scented fans.  They laughed timidly and talked murders, bankruptcy, clandestine affairs and sexual conquests behind those fans coming and going to church, walking in the muddy dirtroads of Jaro, their scents swaying along the coconut trees that towered along the salog or the river as they call it, mumbling the gospel – all at the same time.

I grew up in Manila, Ilocos Sur, Leyte and finally, in Zambales, where I spent my bantam days all throughout high school.  A huge green province in central Luzon, the home of  the great Mount Pinatubo, the host to wide open black sanded beaches and noted for its very delectable mangoes.

So, I am a Filipino.  I guess like any other, I belong in a story – an epic of a story – among my forefathers who were both Chinese and Spanish.  A tribe of their own.  And as a quintessential Pinoy blood clot, I walk fiercely in Dubai like any other New Yorker or nap in afternoons like any other European.  I eat Indian food and I simply adore Thai cuisine.  I watch The Filipino Channel every night and have read Franz Kafta and Ayn Rand back in college.  I use my feet to pick up things on the floor and I, more often than not, submit kindly to chick flicks and cry to them too.  I respect people who are older than me and yet I lash back not-so-gently with people who makes me furious.  I speak three major dialects fluently: Iloccano, Waray and Tagalog.  I believe in ghosts and I believe in UFOs.  I believe in my Catholic God.  I believe in common-law marriages.  I smile ferociously towards my enemies and I will kill with glee if anyone hurts my family and the people I love.

I am a Filipino because I can be everything.

2: 23 AM

In my Purple Room

I randomly read The Art of Happiness by The Dalai Lama.

He was not for romantic love and called it a negative thing.  I threw the book, half frowning and slept.

9:45 AM

I was at the Dubai Metro this morning coming to work,  listening to Chris Daughtry and falling in love with Over You, my the song of the season.  I don’t know why I was so drawn to his voice and to the song.  I am not,  in any way, feeling dumped at all, I just like listening to it.  Maybe I like the way his voice heightens and then slows down to a sexy grind in three notes.  It is pure talent I guess.  The way Mariah Carey came out in the early nineties and before she repackaged herself into a shimmering slut.

Then a baby cried from somewhere.  A cry so sharp and shrill it made me frown amid my in love mode with Daughtry.  It cried all the way to my stop.  I turned up the volume of my MP3 but it still did not work.  Apparently the baby was the anti-Christ who did not stop wailing all throughout my train ride and I second the motion: designed to ruin my preamblic foundation to nurture my artistic soul of the day.  I smiled and looked at the sweaty dad rocking the baby back and forth.  He looked at me and winked.  I wanted to tell him, “You are so lucky to have that scandalous child despite the fact that she can derail the train with her demonic hoots . . . You are so lucky you have a demon child that you can call your own . . . “

I proceeded to work and lazed through it.  I made important phone calls, received important phone calls and made sure my calendar is up to date.  It wasn’t.  To hell with it.  As long as I complete my workshops I will be alright.  I should be up and early tomorrow for Abu Dhabi.  I will be riding with my boss, so, that is good for my reclusive austerity condition.  A free ride always works for me.  Transportation in Dubai can kill the pocket and a bohemian as I am, I chose to be an avid commuter.  I like commuting.  It is basic.

7:17 PM

Home

On my way home, in front of my building, I sniffed my very first wintry air.  I think it is official that Dubai is getting cold.  I know this sounds freaky but when I reached my floor I went directly to the terrace, opened the glass sliding door, went out, put my arms in the air, closed my eyes and welcomed winter.

7:57 PM

Home

I am fat but I refuse to be depressed right now.  I just opened a can of beer, smoking my Marlboros and listening (yet again) to Chris Daughtry: good vibes homing nicely in my very own can of open spaces.

I have been coughing for about a month now and I am beginning to worry about dying young lately.  I have been addicted to cigarette for years and . . .   No no no no no I am not getting depressed.

So here is a thought,  if I died tonight, how would everything be?  Yeah, come to think about it – how would the world be without me?

1.  Nothing.  I am a nobody and no one would actually do a commemorative concert in honor of me a year after I died although the fantasy is so ticklish I can smell renditions of Tori Amos and the like being sang by my friends with my big FAT picture on the tube and my goth fans screaming and weeping at the same time.

2.  My readers will hate me for not complying to my 50 day writing plan of action.  It is preemption and that would absolutely suck !  Well, come to think about it, the cyber universe is my “only” reader at this point so I could care less.

3.  My nephews Joaquin and Jed would end up not knowing the beauty of writing.  Both boys are voracious readers at 10 and 8 respectively and I want them to be writers like myself and my grandfather Gavino. Unless I remind Angeline, their mother, to do it for me, then I will be very much prepared for the pearly gates.

4.  My future theoretical lover will NEVER MEET ME and that would be a shame.  I am so special to be missed.  Imagine having a control freak, a poet, a manager, a mother, a Rasta apostle, a love addict and a whore rolled into one?

5.  The industry will lose a real talent.  Enough said.

6.  My mom will never forgive me.  I mean, she was the one who taught me to thrive on and then I die.  L.O.S.E.R.

7.  Chris Daughtry will never have the privilege to know me.  And to touch my thighs for that matter.

8.  My best friends Elvin and Norman will curse my grave for not being there in the opening of our soon-to-be-built brothel in Baler, Aurora.

9.  The Dalai Lama will never have the audacity to counter my romantic self .  He would’ve missed my thesis on Eros and its “negativity”.

10.  I would’ve met God at a time when He is uncertain of Catholicism and divine intervention.

Too tipsy with beer now I need to stop this.

10: 15 PM

I crawled to bed and slept.

11:46 PM

Dubai

Tuesday

SO HERE I AM.  I have come to a complete stop to come back to writing.  My head has been attacked by nuisances of whether or not I should go back to writing or completely go on a creative suicide, the latter of which I am succumbed to be enslaved on gladly for the simple reason that it is the easiest to do:  give up.  I have a day job anyway and have manifested through the burgeoning years of my thirty-six year old existence in this planet THE FACT that I can never become a writer because I did not CHOOSE it.

I decided to write again.

But the big question is . . . about what?

(I have clearly lost my steam of things and my syntax have suffered in years of corporate indulgence)

So,  I decided to write about life.  My life.

No, I will not go down to 1973, the year I was born and begin a David Copperfield-like novel because I have chosen to be random.  Back in the University of the Philippines, we did a lot of free writing;  juggled up and bottled up thoughts and emotional cobwebs  simultaneously exploding on paper.  So, free writing it will be.

A good friend of mine, Catherine once told me, randomness results to perfect good vibes in any situation.  I wanted to believe her completely because, a lesbian as she is, I think Jean Paul Sarte would’ve agreed with her in line with his existentialism.  On the other hand, I would still want to believe that it is all been predestined.  Everything.  Life.  Love.  Sex.  Situations.  The equivalence is totally masturbatory in the sense that it all feels good – and yet indescribably disconnected.  It is universal and yet it is in your own hands.  Delightful and yet bitter because at the time when erotic aesthetics has been wiped down in a tissue (or soiled clothes it depends), you realize you are really – just – alone.

TODAY is a slum.  I had a great night last night celebrating my sister Lourdes’ 26th birthday.  We were all golden, shiny and beautiful.  We drank tequila like mad.  I created my very own tequila sunrise ( a jigger of Jose Cuervo, a lemon thyme squished to perfection and dabbed in the drink, a cup of Tang, ice, salt and my witchaft chants that have said, “Be beautiful like Lourdes knows love,”)

. . .  I think I just said something jibberish but I knew deep inside that I have wished for love within our Mexican painted sala, on the seventh floor of a three decade apartment building in central town Deira, to all of the people who drank my drink and have lushed to the waves of its seductive sinewy spirit.  The spirit of love.  That was last night.  Today, my tequila bug took a home in my head and pounded its mightiest that made me chew 4 Panadols to save my head from breaking literally!

TUESDAY morning I stayed in bed.  Tuesday noon I was doing work emails.  Tuesday afternoon I was at work.  Tuesday evening I was at Facebook, trying to be good to everyone.  Trying.  Sometimes trying can be so difficult and yet I do good. Well, I try.  Particularly today when I swore to the universe that the next day tequila can slow down any temper pace and dwell well into lethargy.  All good.

At 10 PM I was watching Julia / Julie which actually inspired me to walk to my laptop and swore I will write daily for the next fifty days – journal type – wanton and willing and open – and simply work it.  For no one.  Not even for myself but for the simple insane? reason to write about my life.  The same life that are typing these words right now.  The same life that I nourish and sometimes destroy.  The same life I happen to induce myself in.  The same life I love and I hate.  No mantras.  No pre production.  Just life.

And perhaps these fast-typing fingers that perform mechanically . . . as randomly conducted by the melodious trajectory of my brain, which has mutated into a liquid blue mush through years of not reading properly, writing poetry and articles that I end up deleting -  and yes, life itself.  Its mercurial capacity to dictate that you have to get up in the morning, earn money, drink at night, think pensively WHY do you have to be single at 36 or why you did not take care of lovers and made them permanent figures in your life . . . why you need to have your hair relaxed or your shampoo to be TRESemme because your hair is starting to fall off . . . and on and on and on . . . oh, and wondering why 2012 is just so real at this time?

For fifty days I will randomly write my thoughts.  My day perhaps and perhaps save me from wondering why I should not kill myself.

I can’t wait for my heart to stop its plea of sane insanity,

LIGHTER than ever before

and give me a warning that it will STOP beating before I turn 37.

So, here, while listening to a new CD,

I let my dancing sway its feathery machinery – knees knocking,

Bending a little

to deflate the man who recently left me along to wonder WHY he ever had to leave me ALONE.

my friends are dead.

sloshed in glycerin

granite gazes entombed, my smile

falling to the valium that makes a star.

mind lapse, does it last?

he is my lofty midnight

where i see, always, ugliness

in diaper confessions, in sweetness

covered by nuptial seams and in me,

a stigma to my own cavity, radiating

on a wrong scar, jumping up and down

to where their music is a rerun

of my own regrets.   here i swamp them,

into my liniment saviour, pushing them in,

dead, athwart in my galactic palm,

immobile below my red-haired sun.

the day you brought him your food basket,

it became our supper.  it was exquisite.  a girl’s touch.

but then again i had to serve a great siege,

on the wall, mesmerized and calculating,

for he saw his Solar System,

ornamented by your blinding light,

coming from the victuals you concocted

as a silvery witch, its soul perhaps,

dressed in white, here comes the bride.

i will never be perplexed.

a palatable plate and love

is perfect rhyming

for a boy who met God in the kitchen but

right now

in our galaxy, in my Saturnine murk,

our stars must have flown to the tail of your beam.

i may have laugh my damndest,

smoked my best after that night,

but you remained:  walking on the moon,

descending on mirrors to slay my spark

and i

along with one red dot from my lighted cigarette and my voice

trailing off . . . measured the darkness:

under his blanket

where my male tongue gave him spirit,

through his stutter, from his midnight lamentations

that called my name many many times,

to his touch, sharp as they were, and to his cold arms

lacing me by the chest as if saying

i am safe with him in the dark,

without your sun

to hunt the night.

silent purple, the colour of yellow,

below his moustached breath

inverting sleep,

my in-born myopia, an orbiting witness,

to a song of his penis,

serenading previous assfucks from orbiting bodies

like his own, unlike

my own.

silent sleeper, a flash of homicide,

squinting or darting are my eyes

like a syringe to long hallways of hospitals,

his maroon capsule and my childish insomnia,

the eastern secrets of Syria,

urinating through the wounds of his Good Fridays.

no sheepskin.  no latex.  never

my kind.

silent seams, the candled grey,

pillowing and soft, afraid

of being greased by warnings,

an insignia to my bedtime deaths,

his arabian sun and the scorpion under his hair,

the sole religion of my days.

warming the thinning threats,

of the love i cling to and who i call

my devil.

other than me,

i am sure one of them is telling the truth

the candles echo the seams of my shit

and the smoke, viciously talks about

new life into my language.

darkness everywhere.  just mosquitoes

and the darkness and the spoken typhoon

looping hither and thither

tonight.  the night of restored noises

coming from the jaluses, from the neighboring dogs

restoring the little joys of life

upon their magnified enemy – the black night,

the extension of cadaverous thoughts

boxed here and there,

springing out, the candles flicking their last,

the mermaid smoke reaching the ceiling’s sea of whiteness

engulfing my little universe

and its lies.  the children of the rain,

of garlic and onions frying,

of Mondays authenticating the real

joy.