Day 12: utopia, kurt cobain and a mermaid’s tale


“Cleopatra’s nose, had it been shorter, the whole face of the world would have been changed.”

–   Blaise Pascal


Saturday

9:57 PM

Dubai

Arriving home from work, I took my hard drive and started looking at archive pics of the last three years and saw this photo of my sister Noreen and me – in 2007 – a snapshot taken sometime after Easter Sunday, on a brownout, and we were just giggling and talking baloney over something that I have already forgotten.  What I do remember, though, is we took the picture for the heck of it.  Or perhaps it was indeed a union of sorts.  Extraordinarily forgettable, atypical in all sense.

Then I called Noreen.  She did not pick up.  Only to find out it is already 3 AM in the Philippines.  I wanted to say hello and ask her what drove us to take this picture that night.  I rang again much to my in-born tenacity to disclose irresolute episodes of my blurry past.  I gave up after the third ring and pouted my way towards this entry, not really knowing what to write.  Feeling obscure about the absence of Persephone tonight.  I tried pawing Cleopatra’s feet.  She was busy too.  I wanted to tell her to sip Shiraz with me and talk about masculinity.

10:17 PM

I miss Noreen.

I do not really know her.  In my shamelessly well-articulated patois, every time someone asks me who she really is, I say, she was a beauty queen in college, she knows her way with mathematics and she is a shopaholic.  I could not go on any further because if I did, I would be fabricating.  There was a time way back when I was so frustrated with her for being so rebellious and self-destructive.  She is not your typical Cancerian.  Her moon sign is Pisces.  A double water means the inhabitable seas.  She is a sea foam, a creature of Poseidon:  powdered in salt and breathing in gills.  She can lunge to the deepest pains and stay there for a time.  Sleeping in her pink pajamas that will last for two days, her glassy eyes staring mindlessly . . . praying for her mermaids to come and take her.

At times I just look at her and feel entertained.  Her skin mirrors your erroneous credence.  It is so flawless it embodies the pain, regret and furtive chapters of your own fear.  Noreen’s smile deceives.  It is so beautiful and homey and yet, it begets condolences.  It outshines the emphatic reality.  It is surreal.

I miss my sister Noreen.

Sunday

Past midnight

This unsubstantial night of absolute indolence brought Nirvana to the scene.  My brother in law Alex, disguised as Wyclef Jean, rummaged through my cds and found his high school national anthem – Nirvana Unplugged – and plugged us with his stories of weeping over Kurt Cobain’s alleged death, under Cobain’s repertoire of goodbye, hugging through the recounts of his parents’ divorce and growing up at 14 years old.

I was mesmerized.

Tomorrow seems like an century away and it is almost 2 AM – we drowned in San Miguel beer and vodka – thank God for transatlantic alcohol transfer, and channeled our discussion to utopia.  The gift of love and family.

Amid the swirl of hectic work schedules, the fragile nuisances of Dubai and its pollution – its insufferable consumers – the anti Christs – the Siberian representations in each resident being competitive in more ways than one – WE, Alexandre, Catherine and myself –  inhabited the glorious wrath of the soul, induced in alcohol but very much in love with life, to the remnants of our man-child origins:  UTOPIA.

Catherine, in tune with the world, storied on the same plane, her sisters being her armor.  Perched on discoveries, good vibes but still hoping for the realness of love, she hovered on fate’s shoulder and looked at the moon.  She was high.  She was on top of the world.  She finally reunited with herself.

I, on the other hand, nailed to my so-called compassion and consequently loving squid balls dipped on green seafood sauce, hoped that God tasted the same victual, happy in my serrated mental lucidity.

The epilogue of the night – the early morning – is unadulterated love.  Have you been hurt so bad that there is no other choice but to broaden the gospel of love?

Have you been HURT so bad that you would rather surrender such hurt to the advocacy of LOVE?

I am drunk now.  I am suspended.  I am as whole as the earth.

Goodnight.

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