Chapter 11: BooHoos, Exits, Television and Waiting for Pablo the Typhoon


“If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then there’d be peace.”
― John Lennon


One of the best things about working on television is recognizing times when things have started to slow down a bit.  Everything is a seeping abundance of stress and last-minute-changes one must be strong enough to bite the bullet of risk.  Throughout the process and if gifted, one can easily manage to outwit its claws and if weak, simply die of repugnance towards a business that squeezes your creative juices, use it for a minute air-time and truthfully (it’s true what they say about showbiz in general) make you only as good as your last successful work.  Also, working for television will make you forget a chunk-size of your daily problems because it will NEVER give you enough time to think about them anyway.  The hours are crazy, the people are multi-coloured and ideas are sliced into quarters that one must not fail to even remotely consider calling in sick when there is a live show or an important interview must commence immediately.

Television changes lives.  It is a dictator in itself and satirically, a great companion when nothing else makes sense.  It changed mine.  It made me forget.  Most of all, it made me come back to writing and took writing seriously for the ninth time in my cat life.  There are days and nights when I think it is the real God but coming from someone who can’t even decide why he was born the way he did can be demeaning.

So maybe it’s time to hunt God’s coven.  Or maybe not.

I switched on the television but did not find God.  Instead, I floundered on my resting time and decided to write a term-paper type article that should overlay the hideous sin of sluggishness.  Like I said, one of the best things about working on television is recognizing times when things have started to slow down a bit.

So let’s take it slow.  Finding God can be tasking if not nauseating, so let’s miniscule this at its utmost merit.  Working for television and learning to like TV takes a strong gut.  Tonight, I throw my scrunchie to let my shoulder-length unconditioned hair fall and take its arithmetic to reality checks, personal boo hoos and well, to look for a bit of realness in this crazy crazy time of typhoon expectancy.

Let’s fucking real life this.



His name is Pablo.  He is a super typhoon.  His gush of wind comes from his blood – the blood of disaster and untimely death – and he is, without a doubt, a single man who thrives to resist the lustful hymens of illusory women served in plates of his universal vastness.

As I am not a woman, never will be but will forever be, well, a storm in many proportions, perhaps I can befriend this typhoon called Pablo.  Who knows, we can even be lovers in my extraterrestrial plane where I live (and has lived) for many years for the simple reason that I am more alive when I am hallucinating.

But before he unfurls another tempestuous story in my so-called verbally inconspicuous life storytelling, let me tell you about Capri.

So there I was, just barely a few months back, in a cafe called Afters:  a colossal little place for little colossal conversations and little big dreams.  I am with my friend Capri and we, well, we being the effective word to use at the moment, clamours for storm to disorient ourselves with bouts of why the rain was as strong as he was and me, as drifty as I got.

For one thing, we are both Capricorns – we rule the house of the zodiac with minimal effort, because yes, we are untaught with shame and semi-quirky with stretches of psychosis and call it nothing short of normal – and he was in love as much as I was in love with – him being in love.  But was it so?  Was I compelled to this arena of self-consciously being in love? As my friend was?

Once upon a time, sometime in 2009, in more pensive setting, my ex Paolo told me, chuckling, “Do you remember that time when we used to associate our relationship to that of the Na’vi, from Avatar?  I really used to think that I was a  remotely controlled biological body mixed with human DNA with that of the native population, the blue monkeys, and that our world happens every time we are together . . . which barely happens because we both work late . . .  “

“OK and?”  I asked, meddlesome and investigative as usual.

” . . . and then I realized we are not in that world anymore.  This is the real thing.”  He ended his sentence by winking and sticking his tongue out as if to say . . .  I am just joshing . . . as if to say I mean what I am saying . . .  as if to say I am inflicting protection on you, Jon, because I am getting out of my make-do world of cinematic associations and really really really getting this done rightfully . . . as if to say Stop your dissections Jon and BE WITH ME !!!

(Sweet, huh?  Well, my thoughts are sweeter because I am writing this right now and NOT him)

And there – my gravitational pull.  Henceforth, when in love, stop rationalizing.  Your peripheral cautions always comes in handy because it makes the human in you and it keeps the patterns relevant but being in love at this point is all about partaking to the music that both of you create.  It could be anything but what matters most are the movements that are conceived by compromise and from the hip fun of bonded titters that should remind both that love is the one driving the car.  Neither of you is allowed to handle the wheel unless love is failing to cope through the intersections.  To put it simply, that’s when peripheral vision takes the centre stage.  It is called sensitivity.

At that exact moment, I knew that love should free you anyhow and relationships, be it an old one or a fresh one, brimming melodically with its initial thrills or an age-old union for that matter, should be treated with bohemian abandonment and loads of laughter.

Not anymore.  I guess.

*** *** ***

. . . and so I listened to my friend Capri exacerbate my newfound odium on love and its sons and daughters, one of whom was my friend who was so bright-eyed I wanted to shut his switches off and make him realize what a big whooze he was.  But eventually I fell in love with his superfluous infatuation with the big LOVE and somehow, yes, somehow, I withdrew from my usual vinegary discernment, grabbed my virtual pom poms and with arms outstretched, bawled Ready? OK !!!



“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”
― Margaret Mead

By some means, I tugged my selfish body out of my whim and my listening prowess – yes I can listen to you but think about 22 things at the same time, AND yes it is a gift! – took its celebrated occupation as I thought about exits and how exiting has provided me with delicious stories to tell.  So, let’s put on Muse’s Butterflies and Hurricanes and presuppose Typhoon Pablo wipes our good life away after he hits Philippine landfall by 4 AM tonight.

That’s three hours from now by the way.  What if?  What if it’s the end of everything after tomorrow?  Should I give up or should I just keep chasing pavements?

red sky


“Oh I can see you brought some herb for me, Natty Dreadlocks and Rasta near land. Nyah Binghi Cudjoe are coming over the hills. Say in time like this we must live as one.”

– Black Uhuru

My answer to this is this:  will I even live to tell what unsettles me?  An incommodious persona that can look quite unreal because my personality is a cross between a brawny librarian to that whore in the street.  A well-made equivalence to someone who is not even an intellectual but a life-fucker.

What worries me and how can I tell the world?  This is my question.

Just recently, I became friends with actor (and philosopher) Rafael Rosell and our conversations coasted from his one-year celibacy to finding his retribution towards materialism and simulated pleasures to the world corrupted by the intractable money system.  It was a very Zeitgeist slash Rastafarian movement treatise between two cleric-student flip-flopping to whoever takes the role first.  Dancing through all this, I was transported back to days when my old friend Jonathan McTait would exchange emails back in the 90s about God, Tori Amos being an angel of God and hijacking the sun, the moon and the stars above like it was our very own universe.  Many years, a corporate life abroad and a life in show business later, I found myself awestruck with an old self that still was there.  In these talks with Rafael, I actually saw myself watching a watchtower knowing that I am the watchtower.  Beside it was a thick THICK cloud being blown away by old feelings and strangely, by my own hands violating my current flaws in judgment and perhaps, credence?


How do I correct my existing synthetic everyday life when I only have 3 hours left to tell the world that in this age, in this self-made continued survival, I could’ve been a beekeeper instead of running stories for television?

That I am actually a hermit?

That my thoughts, more than my actions, matter too?  And that my actions, flighty as they are, matter more than my thoughts of murdering you piece by piece.

That irony is intelligence?

That I would rather be taken gladly than to offer something lopsided like my idea?

That I still believe in love and that’s beyond repair?

That you suck!

That in between these words is actually someone who still believes in peace?

That I don’t believe in YOU.

Because I actually believe in ME.

I can glare in the eye of this storm.  In a sense, that makes sense.  I finally closed in on a Chapter 11 of this supposed book.  Well.

Note:  My friend Capri is still in love.  I am, in all my bitterness and conflicting psyche,  ‘still’ very much happy for him.  Love is love.  And it is nothing without you.

I am quoting.

Intramuros by Rico Navarro


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