Day 35: embryonic deaths



8:21 PM

One of my favorite actresses died today.  I found out about it from my co-everything, Catherine, who just came home from work.  Sometimes it is unimaginable that I am on-line everyday, 24/7 and I still missed this news.  Oh but my heart is breaking. I like Brittany Murphy!  I watched all her movies from Clueless to Deadline.  Her performance in Girl, Interrupted was remarkable and as Drew Barrymore’s best friend in Riding In Cars With Boys, she marked her comedic skills with clarity in my judgment book as uncanny and a surreal actress to boot.

Murphy died of natural causes as the specialists said.  It was actually cardiac arrest.  Why call it natural?  What was so natural about that?  News articles claimed that it was a Heath Ledger / Michael Jackson archetype, which were both related to either diet drugs or impulse prescriptions.  The authorities and forensics are currently boning up her death case.  And currently looking for ways to sensationalize it.

Almost a year after the Ledger death, it is still being boned.  Jackson’s case is still a massive anarchy and it has turned into an event as we speak.  If that is so, it is sad that in the midst of talent, even with the real aptitude of command in most actors, especially in Hollywood, we are still endowed with stories of drug-related deaths.  I mean, if you are pure talent, is that NOT enough to be the king of kings?

Brittany Murphy was a portrayal of sunshine, both on screen and in her personal life.  Her smile is a denouement of negative energy and her presence on screen was memorable.  She was also quite a chameleon.  She can change looks and impressions and can carry any layer of temperament on film.  This is so apparent if you compared her roles as the incestuous manic-depressive in Girl, Interrupted and as the flimsy chatterbox best friend in Riding In Cars With Boys.  In Uptown Girls, Ramen Girl and Just Married, Murphy nailed the rich, suburban It Girl that had to come clean with her search for her heart and universal kindness.  A far cry from her more grotesque replica of darker roles and the awkward neophyte in Girl, Interrupted and Clueless respectively.

Brittany Murphy can inclusively deliver and could have won an Oscar in a few more years had she not passed away at 32.  Such a catastrophe for a young talent.  And someone who was known for her energy, laughing life and altruism.

Goodbye Brittany Murphy.  Say hello to heaven for me.  As a tribute, my co-everything Catherine, salt to the earth Issabel and I watched Ramen Girl on dvd.

9:50 PM

I was in Abu Dhabi yesterday.  I traveled to the United Arab Emirates’ national capital for work and for the death of Christmas.

I snuffed through the greenness of the city and the more tolerable vehicular traffic.  I like Abu Dhabi.  It is luscious, it has friendlier people (the Dubai populace can be off-putting for being disdaining thanks to their cold-shouldered lifestyles.  I being one of them) and an unhurried attitude that eases the mind every now and then.

On my way to work, I received an SMS message from my ex, who now lives in Saudi Arabia, calling me in every possible way that defined fucked up. He was furious at me for not meeting him in Bahrain a few weeks back.  More so, he was frustrated that I did not reply to his paranoid emails and calls after that. My fault really.  I can be that standoffish.

After I received his message of love, I rang him, my nose fuming with dragon fire, already infuriated with the fact that I was called a fucking asshole (which I was but he forgot to say the most beautiful fucking asshole so I had to lash back) for standing him up.  Alright, it was my fault.   I can’t say no sometimes.  So, instead of telling him I only have 2 days in Bahrain and couldn’t accommodate him with my by-the-minute schedule, I emailed him my apologies a day after I flew back to Dubai.  Of course, he got mad.  Who wouldn’t?  Anyway, I dialed him but he did not pick up.  It made me even more vehement!  I figured it was so demeaning not to pick up to confront and/or iron out the possible oddity.  Well, it was mostly revenge on my side of the coin and I did not get it.  I ran to the streets of Abu Dhabi and got myself killed alternately.  For the embryonic death of not being able to confront my ex.  Moreover, for not being able to say how sorry I was.

12:21 AM

Last Friday, I saw one of my favorite friends in the United Arab Emirates, Daniel Sallie. Dan lives in Abu Dhabi, so, we don’t see each other a lot.  He drives to Dubai and meet me for shopping and dinner.  He thinks I am this hotshot Queer Eye for the Straight Guy clone who delivered him from his good ole American Jeans-sneakers-printed t-shirts Look to his newfound penchant for The Classic Look when in fact, I just dragged him to Zara (which was on psychotic sale) and grabbed a few hip looking shirts from H and M.  Call that a fashion consultant / shopping director!  I guess I am fabulous like that.  I get an ensemble and make a statement out of it.  I do have my fancy clothes by the numbers but I mostly wear ukay-ukay (bazaar apparel is that called in English?) and gets away with it.  Seriously.  Toned to the more alternative belief that it is the person who wears them and not the clothes, I think people should parallel their mode of statement to what they believe should fit them.  Not mimeographing every single magazine that has the word COOL written all over it.  Comically, Dan became one of those people I listed as My Creation when he showed up last Friday with the shoes that we bought together and wearing a tight black sweater and shirt that glowed perfectly on his porcelain pale skin.  He was beautiful and like a proud father, I radiated to his elegant bearing that the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Heeyyy. Gawd, I look like shit!”

And I did look like shit, wearing my rain-soaked Lucky Brands and 10 year old hooded sweats.

A military brat, Dan came to UAE from California.  We adored each other instantly.  Around 4 months back, with my incessant official visits to Abu Dhabi, we would go out after work, have drinks and talk about relationships, cheeseburgers (he has a very profound philosophy of burgers that I, who used to work for McDonald’s for years, got a kick out of!), sex (we both love rimming) and almost anything under the palate of catalouges.  Dan is, in many ways, my parallel universe.

In Apres, where I did the already-famous Confessions of An Ex-Drag Queen interview with Elektra, I had wine and Dan had Coke over ice and lemon.  He said, “You are so European.”  pointing at my glass of Sauvignon.

I replied, “You are so American.  Bland and careful.  That Coke can kill you more than this wine.”  It muted him knowing that I could go on and on vindicating my turf and that he’d have to punch me in the face to make me stop.

We talked.  He babbled about his new relationship.  I nodded and told him about Chiz, The Crush and about the Guy Out There who I haven’t met yet.  He talked about the parking in his new loft and how fantastic it was.  I talked about my dandruff.  He rationalized about the graphic wonder of the movie 2012 to which I renounced passionately because I think the movie was torturous.  I rationalized about not having anybody in my life to which he passionately blocked by saying, “Jon, you don’t wait for it to happen.  Sometimes, you have to look for it.  I mean, come on, you are not a debutante anymore.  You are menopausal!”

I wanted to smack his stabbing mouth for being sooooooo true, but I slouched instead and prayed to God he would say something enlightening.  Instead, I said, “There is just no one out there.”


After deciding to slash my wrists when I get home that night, Dan said something that actually killed me.  He said, “Have you heard about the five languages of love, Jon?”

“Deepak Psychotic Chopra?”

“No.  I just saw this one day at a bookstore in Cyprus.  It says, if you want to find love, you have to practice the 5 languages of love.

1.  words of affirmation

2.  acts of service

3.  physical touch

4.  quality time

and 5. gifts . . . ”


And then, like a fire that came from the pit of my stomach, something arrived.  In the form of a spirited comprehension that was unexpected.  I almost French kissed my friend for what he shared.  Suddenly, there was literacy in the midst of all my puzzlement.  A key.  Some hope.

It did not mean anything to me except it sounded so Dalai Lama but it in the course of my little embryonic deaths, the ones that killed my devotion to BELIEVE, a simple 5 languages of love can make the journey a bit more fathomable.  I have been through relationships that made me feel stupid.  Relationships that took away appetite for adventure.  Relationships that wanted to change who I was.  Relationships that I learned a lot from.  Even relationships that I maneuvered to make me feel like a better person only to be betrayed by my own makings.  With the onset of all that, what did I give?  What did I receive?  By the same token, am I still myself after all that?

What Dan has shared may not relive the stronger part of me or reincarnate the way my heart used to be but it is worth the try.  Who knows?  It might turn my life around after all.  I can even tell myself that it is worth a thousand deaths and still call it worth the killing.

What is there to die for anyway if there is nothing to LIVE it for?


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