Day 1: creative suicide

11:46 PM



This is where my calendar begins . . . This is where I will start all over again . . .

And 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-faux 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.  Maybe later I will decide to kill myself anyhow, so why not write NOW?

But the big question is . . . about what?  I have clearly lost my steam of things and my syntax have suffered through years of corporate indulgence.  But I still have words.  I think I can still write sentences.  Tell stories.  My way.

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 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 witchcraft 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.

day 1 002

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 you are in your 30s, happily gay and SINGLE 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?

Is the end really near?  Am I beginning to see myself clearly now?  Will I find love in the end?  Will I become a monk somewhere in the mountains of Abra?  Will I see myself all over again the way I did back in college when it was all about “the search”  for your true self?

Will I be me again?

For fifty days I will randomly write my thoughts to save me from wondering why I should not kill myself.

day 1 001


About this entry