Day 15: anesthetic displays

“So I’m back, to the velvet underground. Back to the floor, that I love. To a room with some lace and paper flowers. Back to the gypsy that I was.”

“To the gypsy that remains faces freedom with a little fear
I have no fear, I have only love
And if I was a child
And the child was enough
Enough for me to love
Enough to love . . . ”

–  Stevie Nicks, Gypsy

6:54 PM


The entire day was forlorn.  The mauve sky breathed rain and the cabs danced to the streets without passengers.  The sound of the city is of static house music, ambivalent and insecure.  I went up and down the elevator the whole day at the headquarters, half hoping I did field work instead.  Ironically, I felt claustrophobic today so there you go . . . I made my green tea and did not drink it.  I received emails and pouted through them.  One estranged bird landed on the office window and I hummed I’m Like A Bird by Nelly Furtado, wishing indeed that I was that bird, not knowing where my home is, not knowing where my soul is.

The entire day was forlorn.  I was too.  My immobile blood survived 9 hours of work eating Penne Alfredo at Chilly’s and monitoring the clock over meetings.  Such highlights of the day.  I couldn’t wait to get to my cab that would bring me home – to ancient history – to upland hysteria – to my little bohemia – to Day 15 whose chief drive is yet to be discovered.

When I finally did, as I was inside the cab, I saw a couple shouting at each other on the sidewalk.  I looked at them and sighed inside.  Love each other please.

And here I am.  Writing about the slowness of this particular Wednesday.  Can it get any faster?

I sighed inside and took my dogeared Beloved by Toni Morrison.  I decided to read.

9:34 PM

My sister Dess dropped by the house and spent time with me before flying to Birmingham.

That gave me quite a lift because she was gawking at her heavy luggage full of winter clothes.  Birmingham weather is 10 degrees tomorrow, so, it was essential of her to play The Emperor’s New Clothes.  It was funny because it was just 3 pairs of apparel and it weighed like rocks. I wondered how her leather boots weighed.

I asked her to eat something before being picked up by Alexandre, betrothed of her highness, but she grimaced and said, “I may burst in my uniform, kuya“.  Dess, ladies and gents,  is 5 feet 8 and a half inches tall and weighs 54 kilos.  There’s no way she’ll ever burst.  Isn’t she the craziest thing?  Who declines on bulalo, ginataang tilapya and crispy dry jasmine rice?  Was she too lazy to eat?  Immensely handsome to pork out a wicked banquet?  Well, knowing my sister and her penchant for organic food, I rested my case.

Dess took a shower and I played R.E.M.          . . .             still floundering the meaning of this very sluggish day.

After awhile, I went to Facebook and took this quiz called What Does Your Name Mean?  I was excited, so, I answered 4 completely bruised questions and pressed the meaning button :  Your name means SEXY.  I almost threw up!

9:59 PM

I think of Dubai.  This is one of the most exciting cities in the world.  In 2008, it was named by the New York times as “the travel choice for partying of the year”.  I so longed to be out in the night – tonight! – and have drinks at Madinat Jumeira, particularly at Bar Zar, where they make the best mojitos in town.  I remembered my friend Eisa around two years back when we were there.  He ate my mint leaves (from my mojito) with his Amstels.  It was such a reprimand to conventional drinking.  I just thought that was awesome.

After a few minutes, I considered going out anyway.  Then I remembered my sister napping in my room.  I had to be here to send her off to Birmingham!  It is a sign. I am broke anyhow waiting for salary day.  I chose to stay indoors.

Oh shit motherfuckerfuckshit !!!

10:50 PM

My friend and co-everything Catherine arrived from her galaxy and spent time with me.  The previous night, she was out on a til morning party with her friends and spent the next day drooped in the office wearing the same clothes.

She slaughtered the couch and drowsed through her epiphany.  Still zoetic to the bone, she recounted how she flung her dispirited body to the kick of Bullfrog (psychotic drink of blended vodka, blue curacio, tequila and Red Bull), brisking to the thumps of music and being fatuous with her friends.  It became the fabulous Bonfire of The Gorgeous Lesbians.

Snaking through Catherine’s allegory of her own version of The Vagina Monologue, I joined her in her world of blue roses and thought about being a lesbian myself.  Mmm.  What a thought.  Well, I had a few girlfriends back in high school and I am basically, a gypsy at heart, so that would not be a problem.  Besides, lesbian sex is noted as the best kind of sex act known to man.  Imagine, two multiple orgasms at the same time?  You do the math.  Now that is something worth being a homosexual woman for.


12:35 PM

The coffee from 5 minutes back is kicking in.

I wonder how long this night is going to be.  I am basically anesthetized.

I think I could use some sleep.

Good night.

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