Half-asleep

Years of radio silence compel me to speak in ways both familiar and far away. Each time I go on these extended writing fasts, the mantra echoes back: "You don't have to. Not anymore." Regardless of where I am or what I seem (in the truly perceptive sense) to be doing, it always comes down to those little patches of comfort that line the proverbial trenches of daily living. I thought I was safe where I was but the statement about "not having to" couldn't be more false.

The mantra was a lie that I always wanted to believe in. That is of course, until such time that the truth behind IDWTMYA became self-evident. Those safe spaces only exist here, in writing. It's a sad irony having to see that the only thing rooting me to my sense of reality is a volume of past regrets and projective fiction. Only half-conscious of their implications, I'd say (and consequently reaffirm) that the two things keeping me afloat are these acts of remembering, and the aspirations that follow them.

The truth? I couldn't stop writing to save my life.

To illustrate where I am in the texts of life, a friend in esoteric circles once read my cards out in response to the question, "Will I ever find ancient knowledge?". "Well...", he said. "You will find whatever it is you're looking for. What you aspire for, you will attain but in turn you will also encounter great misery because of the choices you make along the way." Getting into specifics, the cards spoke of the bearing and greatness of aspiration, drive, and the pains one must bear in order to attain them. These are narratives that are by no means unique to my plight but what I would deem specific here would be the symbols one may draw from each card in the Tarot. There is a certain number of possible permutations for the Tarot, but each hand you draw is yours. They are literally in your hands. Being a spiritually inclined atheist, I found his next statement particularly resonant:

"The cards aren't here to tell you which numbers show up in tomorrow's lottery. We simply need symbols to help us flesh out where we are and what we're doing in life. If you don't like what the cards say, don't pass the blame. You drew them."

Life trajectories are symbolic, and in this particular construct, we plot the course of value and valuation along our relative perception of time. Linear or otherwise. When I was 20, I sought to become a person who both generated and traded in terms of value. There were three things I wanted at that point in time: First was to be in a healthy, loving relationship with a person who I believe embodies the best and most beautiful parts of human endeavor, flaws and all. Second was to continue creating art with tools that seek to inspire. The third and last in that list was to be able to study in a school with virtues I could stand by and believe in.

Two years later, I'm in a loving relationship with someone I never thought existed and I'm playing a Fender Jazzmaster in an indie rock band while doing electronic music on the side for a popular independent label. That's two things off that list of things to do in my early twenties. Two out of three. Somewhere along the way to that third and last thing, life went awry. Things were quiet for a while, but only at the expense of what kept me up and running for years. I took writing for granted, and as a result I took life for granted. Apart from the huge boost in my family's economic standing, I'd say I had a lot going for me. At least for the things I wanted. Those were the cards. My decisions however have not been for the best as of late and probably won't be for quite a while. These cards, my hands.

I fell into a slump somewhere in the middle of my time with City Hall. Either way, as laid back as things were there (or as laid back as I was while I was there), I still got some things done. I regret having left on an abrupt note under circumstances that did not allow for closure on both my part and that of the people I worked with. It was unfair for me to leave them. Having left City Hall towards the end of my contract, the promise of better opportunities in the corporate world led me to question my motives for pursuing the life I wanted. Here I was, a month or so short of a full year working, jumping ship at the slightest hint of being where I want to be in life. That's how the press release went, at least. Unmotivated and uninspired, I was critically underperforming within the first three months of being an associate for a real estate firm. I had an attitude, my boss said. I didn't care much for what he said, admittedly. At that point, I took a sharp turn downward; finding myself sifting through gear classifieds or humor pages on the internet. Looking far and wide for something to compel me to work. Wealth and status within the corporation didn't do it for me. I wanted to be elsewhere, and the longer I stayed, the more I sought for an environment of open discourse. I didn't want to move up the corporate ladder. I wanted to transcend humanity; to live in a world of ideas and ideals. Something to benefit the greater human race. I saw that in social research.

That said, I found solace in the idea of enrolling in graduate school. I was poor from refusing to ask my parents for money, but I'd gladly pay for that extra tank of gas just to get to where my heart took me. I was in a bad place financially and emotionally but I was willing to take a chance on the prospect of learning to read and write again. Soon after school started, the company decided it was in everyone's best interest to let me go. Broke, unable to claim back pay for a month, and with dismal marks in my new favorite subject, the transition to academic life was and still is long and painful.

Looking back at the things I did when I was younger, I put shows together with scraps from my allowance. I pressed and sold my band's records, helped out at every single hardcore show and community initiative from 2007 to 2010 apart from little musical projects I did from time to time. Hell, I even got to tour with my band at that time. THRICE.

That dialogical spirit got lost somewhere. It took my aspirations with it. If anything, I had only hoped to find it here and with this long-winded return, it seems that I've come to the right place. I'm in a really bad patch of land where I am now, but not for long. IDWTMYA was always about my relationship with myself and the rest of the world. As with all relationships, communication keeps things together. To be able to communicate with myself after all this time, I hope to make this work. I'll be seeking professional help along the way as well. So in hopes of preempting further discontent, I'm setting up all my contingency plans.

This has happened before. Not this bad, but I'll only come back stronger. Take this as a reminder. Never lose touch. If my offset up there isn't enough of a dead ringer for my sentiments, to quote Adam Franklin, "never lose that feeling."

The universe is where I'd rather be with you.

Moments last forever when you keep moving from place to place. For the past few months, I've been moving with you. Through windows and glass, through wires and cables, I've never been this sure about the way I felt. I've never been this nervous either but for whatever it's worth, it's only because you're worth it. If it makes me seem desperate to write about this in secret, someday you'll know. That day might be soon. Either way, I'll be nothing but honest. When you read this, I could only ever ask for your understanding. I've spent the last four years of my life in sheer doubt of anyone ever being worthwhile, of anyone ever being close enough to be with, of anyone I could see in terms of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years. I see all of these in you. The world stops and I lose myself in the moment. The universe is where I'd rather be with you.

Weeks ago, I wrote you a song. I recorded it in secret and hid it under a protected link. Several friends knew of this song and on the day I played it, all eyes were on you instead of me. There are about thirty plays on that song right now. One of them, you. Twenty-nine of them know I love you. One of them, me.

For all the things I've been scared to admit, they all stop short of that first kiss. Good morning, you. My name is Francis Maria and I love you, miss.

This is a lengthy entry about the things I write about in Mount Analogue

The gesture in itself is unsolicited. In the spirit of looking to the past with a new set of eyes, I think it's worth a shot though. I've always been self-critical to the point of being vain, this is an instance where the line between the two happens to blur. I apologize for how masturbatory this is going to be.

Since I started writing songs for Mount Analogue, I sought to try and distance myself from the overall tone I used in my former projects. Short of disowning my entire back catalog, I wanted to do something different from what I was (relatively) known for. With what I've been through since the past couple of years, I grew into the mindset that equally urgent emotions need not be as abrasive nor abstruse (regardless if the content is personal) to be sincere and personally moving. At least in my mind, I sought a deeper sense of satisfaction that stays after what the song would otherwise dictate musically. Lyrics that stood alone, for lack of better words to say, something with continuity. Within a short span of time, I've written a fair amount of songs for the band. These are just the ones with set lyrics. The others either lack them or their lyrics are incomplete.

College of Fine Arts and Design

“Yes, you just passed me by. (This is every morning, on the way to work.) We were just perfect strangers. Glances to the side, we painted smiles to say goodbye.” If this was to be tomorrow then kindly tell me where I was last night because if now is our every yesterday, I’d stay in these vignettes of your future my whole life.

I had long found my state of socialization rather stale by the middle of 2010. Meeting people outside the regular circle of indie kids, current/ex-punks and internet nerds seemed like the furthest thing from my mind at the time but when a close friend of mine called me over to Manila for her daughter's baptism, turns out the other godparents were rather interesting people. Regardless of whether or not I was ready to have an entirely new set of people in my life, they were there. Some of them, I've opened up to on a more personal level. Once people welcome each other into (or forcibly enter) the other's lives, that whole relationship becomes interminable. This was written from the standpoint of having just "signed up."

Softer Lights

Old wounds open up to the sight of a photograph and I don't know how to mend myself in the end. You always have to find a way to come back here, don't you? It feels familiar but unwelcome; this feeling, this regret. I'll never find a reason as adequate in my mind but we always have to part like this in the end. The truth is, I couldn't bear the sight of you being lovers with my friends. I wouldn't want to wish you ill but this will hurt you again and your wounds open up to the sight of our photographs. You won't know how to mend yourself in the end.

There was a time when mundane things like cigarette smoke or heavy traffic would trigger jolts of physical pain. Eventually, this started extending to certain mannerisms people had or clothes they wore or certain smells or color combinations. Having had a fair amount of complicated friendships in the past, this would happen often (incidents have been few and far between since then). Detached from the situation and context of my interaction with a former partner, I no longer feel this way about having that same person around. Where I finally come to terms with how things are in stasis, the same couldn't be said about the resentment that resonates from the other. This is about how some ends never meet halfway.

Forever Starts Today

I’m homesick, she won’t be home soon. How far could she travel in a day? Lovelorn, she still won’t be here. How long does a lover have to wait? Believe me, if it takes forever then I’ll take forever in a day. No, we’re not getting any younger but I’d still love you the same way. That’s if I remember how it felt, if I could still recall the taste; that second’s glimmer in your eyes, the scent that blossoms in your wake. We don’t tread on holy ground. We don’t belong here.

My friends often rag me for having "unrealistic standards" (the pre-requisite atheism/irreligion is referenced in the end) with regards to prospective partners. The list is long and I'd rather not have it out in public for fear of being pelted with rocks but yeah, I have a literal list. Whenever that card is pulled, I often reiterate the whole notion that there is a sense of satisfaction in being proven wrong about these people not existing. Having moved here (or in the process of moving, when this was written), I was awarded a new lease on life and I wanted to stake my claim the best way I could; in making the most of the wax and wane of life and living. It's been years since I was stable and for the first time since then, I've been inspired to go out and rebuild, to start new ties and return to nurturing old ones. This forward-looking mindset coupled with the inevitable desire for young love is my way of saying I'm back and I only have the rest of my life to live. Run away with me, please.

A Song For Four Octobers

We only lived so far away; the shortest hour and a half by plane. Watching time go by in islands, I wished I was close enough to say "I'll be with you in the morning, I'll be with you in the dark, I'll be with you when you miss me and I'll never be too far. I'll be with you in the sunset, I will follow through the dawn, I won't leave you when you're weary, even if you carry on." We only have the rest of our lives to know.

It's always been a fact of life until fairly recently, I was always attracted to people who lived far away. To be fair, it's not really because I was a fan of the distance but rather, it was more of a culture thing. Despite growing up back in DC, I never outgrew the sense of alienation I had towards other children. My hometown feels like less like home to me than a place I only see every so often. In retrospect, the familiarity of where I lived does make me yearn but being able to see the people you want to see, to be able to say things in private without a cellphone or a computer, I'm justified in saying this is completely worth it. I don't think I did any of my past relationships justice on account of ill-fated geography. This song is about devotion and a return to my own humanness.

Laura, You're Breaking My Heart

Hey Laura, you’re breaking my heart. Laura, you’re breaking my heart again. "I've never been touched and I've never been kissed, no. I've never been loved at all." "With silence you held me in the moments you left and I've never been loved at all." "It pains me to see you and how you smile when you need to, with soaked sheets and welling eyes." "It happens, I know but I'll see you tomorrow. Tomorrow, years ago."

Abuse has always been a matter I took to heart. Having been friends with a considerable number of people who were abused or raped as children, it always bothered me to see how deep the damage went and how long it went without resolve. These things never really go away and with that in mind, neither will my heartache and empathy.

From An Apartment On Vito Cruz

A quiet station’s meeting for months’ worth of parting, I missed the way we used to talk almost every morning. I would've painted the streets a color close to the sky, in the shades of color we spoke, without any reason why. Because the best thing about you was how you were always supposed to leave, as time wore on thin, so did the tangled webs we’d weave. Move slowly when you turn away again.

In 2009, I was recovering from a prolonged episode of major depression that carried itself over from early 2008. At that point, I had just met someone vaguely interesting and soon after, I was introduced to her circle of friends. Over time, I had grown close to three of them. Unprovoked, the said girl decided to block me on messenger and deleted me from all of her accounts following a date with 500 Days of Summer. Later on, I came to terms with the thought that it just wasn't worth it. I eventually lost track of the other two friends. They tend to chime in from time to time but they disappear just as quickly. It was fun when it was something. Now, it just gets dragging since there's nothing to talk about anymore.

Sisterloves

"Dante lies dead beneath these streets, Dante lies dead between you and me." Scribbled on the ceiling are paintings of the floor, fifteen years spent waiting for fifty years or more. I'm dreaming in the classroom, I'm taking in the view, I'll graduate sooner just to spend my nights with you.

A close friend confided in me about her attraction to a professor, having a slight crush on a friend's professor (one of the friends mentioned in Vito Cruz) I could strangely relate. Long story short, this is about how we'd think about setting the two of them up and living vicariously through the other. They're both literature professors, by the way.

Black Umbrellas

Caught in the breeze, I've been shaking; you're still crying on the phone. My will, once bent, is now breaking like the commitments we set in stone. Spend half a year in love with Europe, a noble host to sidewalk steps. Upon return, be kind and remember that a lover's word never forgets at all. Paper kites shot out to the heavens knowing they don't have much time. With their thin skins, their strings and the north winds, they do what they can to stay alive. Picture perfect in view of the daylight, this is all we have for now and all our chances of reconciling are just like that of sky and ground. I'll be happy the next time I see you, at least I'll try to look the part. When no truths appear self-evident, I'll have no choice but to move by heart. With each pulse and beat, I will find you; knowing you have left your mark. In your yearning, please understand that for all my ends, you were the start of it all.

I had different reasons for moving to Manila when I was younger. On account of being young, dumb and full of love, I let my naive side get to me. I set my life goals around eventually moving back here upon graduation. Certain relationships deteriorated and a number of goals have since been altered or completely scrapped since then. I learned to harbor no resentment towards that whole emotional mess and on a whole, I've started seeing this as the best way to motivate myself into doing something positive. Looking forward, this is about how motives change over time and how you still end up where you want to be regardless of how you got to that same conclusion.

Denise Marie Constant

You’re so quick to fall in love and I’m put off by the sight of you. Next time you’re here, don’t call me up because I’ll never feel the same way you do. So this is goodbye. Don’t sleep to dream of me, sleep because you need to sleep. From time to time, I’ll think of you but that’s the most you’ll get from me tonight. Even if it never comes to mind, it’s not that I’ve forgotten you. It’s just not worth all the sleepless nights that my sheets would have gone through without you here. I was so quick to fall in love. Now, I’m put off by the sight of you. Next time you’re here, don’t call me up because I’ll never feel the same way you do. At least not again.

There was this girl in class that I used to like. Reeling from a previous relationship, we started spending more time together. In as much as I would've liked to deny it at the time, I actually liked her. Not wanting to place her in the shadow of my ex, I commuted my conscious (mind you, conscious) motives to those geared towards plain friendship. Our actions spoke otherwise. To gloss things over, I sunk into the mindset of being at the right place at the wrong time. Before long, this whole thing soured and we stopped talking. Fresh into a new relationship, she rekindled ties with me. Eventually, things led back to that same situation only she had a boyfriend and couldn't make her mind up. By then, I knew better.

Beautiful In French

I once was told that I had the loveliest of eyes that night. The way they glistened then, they were like that all the time. Those nights, those lights; they don’t shine the way they used to. We don’t shine anymore.

This has a lot to do with stars. Prior to my last major breakup, I was particularly lively and I lost that for a while. Ever wondered when I got the glooms tag? When I talk about the glooms, this is when it started, right when that glow started to wane. Remember how stars seem to shine so bright from far away? That's light from millions of light years ago. The stars that shine the brightest, the ones that used to watch over you at night, they're all probably dead by now. This is when you realize that you've become one of those stars.

For A Second, Everyone In Eastwood Sleeps

I wish I knew how to say this, thinly veiled and in common language. Until then, this song will do. If only to tell you how I wish to be with you. The greatest part of the picture is the museum curator and I’m out of place, slowly falling out of favor. This is face value for now but I’ll save you for later. Just don’t hold me at fault for seeing the two of us together. I’ve been dreaming. I’ve just been dreaming.

Picking up on College of Fine Arts and Design, this is about that same situation. A couple of months after meeting them, I randomly ended up hanging out with one of them over the course of an afternoon in Eastwood. She spoke to me about Ceremony being her favorite New Order song and how she listens to Joy Division when she's mad. Thinking about the kinds of people I'd end up meeting now that I'm here, I spaced out and this whole song came to mind. It wrote itself, basically. Probably the least personal of my songs, though.

Ayala Cor. Paseo

With endless sidewalks to a looming office window, we could lose ourselves in traffic and sink with a thousand swirling light streaks. It would seem to make sense of the dense asphalt sea breaking still on each wave for a beach set in concrete. Could I still see you even if the sky blacks out? In parked cars, the haze, the contrails and the sound of you in hours. I'll see you, as far north as it gets in the south; through the wash of the earth, past the dirt and the dismal downpour. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll see you. See you.

I met this girl through a friend and as of late, I've been spending time with her. It's the first time I ever really got to see someone worthwhile on a semi-regular basis. This is all news to me and as time goes by, I find myself wanting to see the person more. It just feels so natural being around her, it's strange to think of a time she wasn't there. Feels like forever, really. I learn a lot from this person and the time is always worth it. I don't mind going home a bit later than usual or going a bit further. This whole thing makes me want to. She makes sense, why wouldn't I?

Last call

I'm not the same person I was when I started this journal. Regardless if I'm more than just a bit embarrassed with what I've written during my peak with IDWTMYA, I find it necessary to forgive myself for having done things I shouldn't have. Having said things I didn't mean and being insincere at some point (to others and to myself for the most part), it all piles up and the expression "having a lump in your throat" doesn't do it justice. I lock up and hyperventilate when these things come to mind. Time, in whole or in part, translates to physical pain. I don't think I have to deal with that anymore. The welcome has long been worn. It's time to go home.

I'm writing this to let you know that I'm letting you go. Not a person, not a situation, nothing direct. In as much as people with clinical depression feel compelled to ruminate, I have to trim away at the fat to keep my heart going. Well, that and my terrible puns but I digress.

This is to forgive but never forget, to set aside but never neglect, to love and never regret.

P.S.

Fuck, I haven't written anything since 2010? Okay, this is out of line. I need to keep myself in check. First step? GET A DECENT INTERNET CONNECTION, YOU FUCKWIT.

You are interminable

With the time I've spent in stasis, I half-hopingly wished that the relevance of this journal would wane over the course of the past few months. Since my last entry, my persona has been no less fragmented. One truth I could step up to however is the belief that these fragments set themselves into a state of constant motion that lies both foreign and familiar to my long-jarred senses. I'm comfortable for once. I am at ease. That feeling when you peak at orgasm? It's like that, just a bit more existential and a little less (just a tad less) carnal. It's been that way since I got here. The alienation, once implied runs explicit. The feeling I used to only get from certain songs or memories has become so dense, it's palpable. The pulse and beat of temporal situation is almost tangible, really. Something I can embrace and walk hand-in-hand with.

How long have I hinted towards that emancipatory tension? Weeks? Months? Years? Far too long. Like a bootlegged M. Night Shyamalan flick, I'm nowhere near where I started. Likewise, I am nowhere near where I should be going. I'm somewhere else, somewhere "safe" and somewhere far. As with all starts, a less-than-noble birth has its pains. I still bear the heartache of leaving that cold, pink room to the care (more like reckless abandon) of my loving dog. A house with a basement and subdivisions lined with abandoned sister houses, all of that feels like a lifetime away. Time, all the time in the world to linger in a city's wake. I miss that. Badly. It's the anguish that comes with every long-term separation. I know it well. I do however believe that something good comes following bursts of emotional trauma.

If anything, the tension only leads me to believe that I've been just where I needed to be until today. Against my better logic, it does feel like I'm exactly where I want to be. Manila is the familiar face of a foreign flag, host to the rise and fall of empires and the sordid love nest of urban decay. Rotting from the inside out, I've come to call this home. I've always wanted to call you home. I've found a home in you. It's only been years since I've last been in bed with you.

Torrents by district

Person most likely to uncover the meaning of life

You have this phenomenal knack for content analysis and for chrissake, anyone who could derive any degree of epistemological substance from a taong grasa deserves a fucking medal. You come up with the craziest points but somehow they make sense. It's uncanny. We should shoot something together someday. If anyone just so happens to discover the meaning of life by way of 'grasism' (the adoption of the taong grasa lifestyle), we all have this lovely individual to thank. You are a beautiful person and that mind of yours makes me want to ride a giraffe standing on the edge of a disproportionately small earth while grazing on the rings of Saturn with a burrito in my hand.

The indentured slavery of temporal narratives

You, it's always you. I'll see you again someday and by then I might have something good to say. Yeah, you're right, I've been scared all this time. I wish to not let this happen again. I hope seeing you clears that up. How long do I have to wait? I hope it's not that long. I've only been waiting forever. I'll wait until forever. I've gone this far and regardless, I guess there's no other way for me to go.

Do you still think of me? I don't want an answer. I just want you to be with me. At least once, I'd like for you to see me as I am. Not particularly overjoyed by your presence, not in pain over always having to leave. I'd like for you to see the me you never got to see when you were with me.

Give me a night in November to show you.

From the ends of convergent trajectories

Before I met my ex, I ran into you on some internet forum. I thought you were rather interesting and it frustrated me to no end, how you were dating someone at the time. Soon enough, we started talking again and I was tied down. Later on, that whole thing subsided and you just so happened to be with someone new. I find the whole play on availability increasingly humorous but at the end of the day, this whole irony would still beg the question, "what if it was you instead of her?"

Perhaps we will never know. As early as that first time you messaged me, up until the first time we met, all through that period of latency we had in between, all I ever wanted to be was to be a part of your life.

I'm now your daughter's godfather and sticking to the belief that real life is stranger than fiction, the absurdity just makes me smile. I guess I'm a part of your life. Just didn't see this coming. I miss you, B.

You, just you.

Friends. I always thought of the two of us as good friends. I don't think that will ever change. We'll always be friends and I'll always love you. Times were different before you came along and whereas I met you by way of life throwing an unassuming curveball my way, you stayed by me. With you, I feel that I'm more than I actually gave myself credit for. I'm a better person than I thought I was and I'd like to thank you for showing me that there's value and worth in the things I say and do. I'd like to thank you for telling me I'm a beautiful person regardless of whether or not I'd say that about myself. Thank you for believing in me. We're good friends and we'll be that way forever.

Thank you for giving me something to believe in. Thank you for being there when I needed you and thank you for being someone who subtly changed my life, whether or not she knew it.

Nadeth, I will always love you. You're a friend I wished I had from the start. I'll see you soon.

Momentary departures from life and living

I've always felt a bit off about receiving any form of sincere commendation with regards to my writing. I mean okay, I know I have a fairly adequate command of the English language but writing, regardless if it's for journal entries like this, disjointed "poetry" or the occasional bag of lyrics, was never something I wanted to do; much less something I'd be good at. Rather, I always saw writing as a sublimation of my frustration towards my lack of talent in the visual arts, mediated by the added frustration of my numerous (albeit lackluster) attempts to compensate by means of musical expression. Looking back, since I believed myself to be less of a literary failure than I am in those two other fields, writing was the only recourse I had. At the very least, I should be able to articulate certain aspects of the images I see in my own head.

I don't know if this makes sense but words don't really speak to me. Not nearly as much as actually being there to experience the vividness of the northern lights or the reassuring warmth of a lover's touch in even the coldest of nights. These are things that go beyond my capacity to articulate. These are moments that exist beyond the realm of words. At least it's that way for me. Not that I'm ragging on literature, though. I've always had an intense admiration for those who could weave intricate webs of meaning with the words they piece together. All I mean to say is that my receptivity towards the language of experience, inter-subjectivity and inherent meaning leans toward symbolic interpretations of beingness, stripped of the limits of a social context.

Long story short, my mind caters to the whole spectrum of one's individual perception of the world and its phenomena, broken down into binaries that spell out narratives by means of the presence/absence dichotomy they create. Single images that create entire life stories, the stories of places, of incidental people and of the objects they interact with and/or create for themselves. All without a single word spoken. I look to presence and absence as crucial forces in the formation of meaning.

All of this happens on an individual level and when I'm pulled back into the wax and wane of my own social context, I walk away with a little piece of everyone else's quiet narratives. That said, a number of select individuals have contributed immensely to the development of my perspective on life.

An adequate summary of this phenomenon is seen in the formation of what I refer to in my own taxonomy as Tristecism. The basic premise underlying the Tristecist perception of life and living is that all humans are situated in that same presence-absence dichotomy. All meaning is fundamentally derived from the absence and more so, the loss of certain values. The subsequent compounding of values and/or the lack thereof forms a series of experiential binaries. Each in itself, constituting part of a narrative structure which leaves itself open to reinterpretation and generative projection. The issue of substance has always been subject to the valuation of objects, at least as far as I know. I could be wrong. This perspective however posits that meaning is not to be derived from what an object is or appears to be but rather from the spaces and gaps that allow the object to be defined in reference to a greater context, much in the manner of a sculptor chipping away at a slab of rock to produce identifiable shapes and forms. Consequently, as objects or phenomena are liable to change, the loss of certain attributes would denote a transition in the composition of these experiential binary strings from one configuration to another, thus laying down the groundwork for another set of narratives to be drawn from and drawn into.

Always moving and ever dynamic, the perspective more than matches the valleys and peaks of shared human experience. With the above stated, let's go into how specific examples of the continuum of shared human experience persists to shape my own personhood on both an epistemological and aesthetic level. More on this in a subsequent entry.

Asleep at a party

Okay, this should be fun. Let's try and derive substance from what may easily be construed as a night of reckless abandon, shall we? Well, it wasn't really a night of reckless abandon but Gimi did have a magnificent wipeout earlier that night and the alcohol did seem to flow on endlessly. Knowing me, this isn't how I usually spend my weekends. Hell, knowing me, I'm not usually one to spend the night at anyone else's house. I'm glad this is how I decided to cap my work week off though.

Since our Theology professor cancelled Friday class, I thought it would be high time for me to sleep in for once. Still reeling from how terrible I felt about Thursday's mess of a seminar-workshop, I really felt the need to do so. Waking up sometime in the afternoon, I felt a lot more relaxed (physically, at least) but just as uneasy about myself as when I went to bed. I really needed to decompress but at the same time, I couldn't spend time with anyone without being much of a drag. Experience would state that I'm a horrible bitch when it comes to transference.

Sad to say, I skipped on lunch with my classmates because of that. Well, okay mostly because my mother asked me to stay home in case she needed to drive out somewhere but that's besides the point. I was invited. Even if I couldn't eat crabs to save my life, I was invited. In retrospect, that's a really shitty way to look at the whole situation because I had an opportunity to take my mind off of things with my friends. Now I feel bad for not taking it for fear of pulling everyone down with my presence.

I guess I really didn't have much of a face to show. Well, either that or I couldn't figure out where my face went, first and foremost.

Later in the afternoon, I took it upon myself to find a more productive diversion. I figured that since a fuckton of my shirts no longer fit on account of my looming gut, I should get a couple of new ones for cheap. I needed to eat anyway, so I left the house around six. When I got to the mall, I didn't see anything that fit particularly well. Really wasn't sure about the sizes and all so I decided to wait on it instead to see if I change my mind the next time I go there. Around that time, Gimi texted me saying something to the effect of "the basic dudes are here, get your ass over here."

I thought it would be apt to make up for the opportunity I missed earlier so I went over to Gimi's. Priscilla was there, so was Dianne, Monica was taking pictures and Kryzl was there as well. We spent a good amount of time talking about random shit. In my case, mostly trying stave off the glooms but I ended up enjoying the night's episode of the Priscilla and Gimi show. I always have fun listening to those two talk about whatever. Maybe it's Gimi's basic-ness or how distinct Priscilla's tone of voice is but I couldn't give a fuck less, those two are always entertaining.

Gimi had a lot of drinks laid out but opted to give me a bottle of scotch which was about a third full at the time. I think I breezed through that third of scotch way faster than I should have. A good few glasses of wine later, we're on to the beer. After fucking around a bit in Gimi's empty pool, I passed out face down on the floor. I managed to get up, though. At least for a bit. At least enough to get me across the house and into Gimi's bathroom. I threw up a bit and passed out on the bathroom floor. Not particularly proud of that but hey, at least I flushed and cleaned the rim with some toilet paper. At the very least, I entertained Dianne at my own expense. ("You made higa sa bathroom floor, that was so cool." to be precise)

I remember going in and out of consciousness for a while. I also remember getting up from the bathroom floor and lying down on the couch in the music room. Didn't notice all the picture taking going on at the time but hey, looks like everyone had fun. Before I knew it, all the lights were off, all my friends had left and I had Swervedriver playing on my cellphone speakers to pass the time.

Woke up and left around 7 in the morning with that whole "WHERE THE FUCK AM I AND WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED!?" look on my face. I drove through a McDonald's to get some food and by 8:30AM, I was eating breakfast with my mother. I went to bed right after that and woke up sometime around lunch to find some of my friends laughing their asses off of things I said the night before.

Turns out, I had been drunk texting/calling people left and right while I was shitfaced. Highlights include the following:

Me: "Hey, I want you to know that I am never loving again."
Kai: "Oh, really?"
Me: "I don't know, maybe not but I will never love again!"

As if that wasn't bad enough I actually drunk called my own mother and here's what came up:

Me: "Moom!"
Mom: "Oh, what do you have to say for yourself?"
Me: "Moom, where's the doooog?"
Mom: "Nasa kwarto mo, inaantay ka. Pati si Burger, inaantay ka. Antagal mo e."
Me: "TELL THE DOG I SAID HI, OMG OMG OMG."

Yeah, typical drunk story but you guys have no idea how much that night meant to me. I love you, basic people. Thanks for cheering me up. Those pictures are hilarious btw.

Sometimes, I find the time to smile.

Regardless of how firm I am with my "faith" in tristecism, I sometimes find the time to smile. That whole data collection thing went far better than expected and should my attention span comply, I should be able to finish my thesis in a week. That's if I do a week-long internet purge, however. I'm throwing the idea around in my mind. It just might work. Either that or nothing else other than this journal.

A number of history's greatest works have been done in less time and if I could do this thesis without corrections and without the aid of an adviser, then I suppose I at least come close to meriting a much better outlook on myself and my own capacities.

Sometimes, I'd like to smile again. Let this be to the next time I smile. Viva la tristesse!

Months of the great gloom

It's that time of the year again. These are the months of the great gloom and I am thus humbled. It is with sincere reverence that I give myself September up until February to reflect on the beauty found in the wake of each year's quiet passing. In perfect love and imperfect loving, I give myself back to the arms that held me up when I could no longer stand. To the concrete, I send my love. To the great gloom, I give these fragile hands.

There is no love here. In love, I am forever alone.

No matter how far life may take me, I send my love.

I've always hinted towards the way I take it as a personal betrayal to not write something down here; especially over prolonged stretches of time. It's been nothing less than devastating for the greater part of the two months I spent thinking I could put that guilt to good use. In hopes of providing myself with a means to facilitate generativity in other endeavors, I went on a "writing fast" of sorts. As a result, my presence on IDWTMYA waned. I was wrong about that whole neuroticism and would like to make amends.

Everyone, I'm back on IDWTMYA. I don't ever want to let this go. I'm so sorry.

If one were to suggest optimism, these words would fall short

Three things. Suggest optimism, stay beautiful and keep moving. I haven't gotten to any single one of those yet and it's getting on my nerves for the most part. Things have been feeling off as of late. My previous entries reflect that rather well. The more distant I am from my writing, the more detached I become with my sense of connectedness to the world. I can't risk this. I am way past that threshold and the dissonance is intolerable.

I have to keep on writing. I have to keep myself together, if only to keep this part of my college life intact. I really don't want to lose myself again.

I really don't have much to say

It is because of a non-singular "you" that I will never love again.

Mine are the saddest of sullen eyes

The Saddest of Sullen Eyes
Summer, 2010

The beautiful never last long. This is the only relevant truth left for us to believe in; at the very least, it’s the only relevant truth I’m left to subscribe to. Transience only takes us as far as the stories we tell and the histories we share. In this, I hope to be a part of you somehow; situated in my quiet passing, open arms and heart laid bare. For the remaining days I have here, may my voice ring anonymously as the trail to love’s fleeting afterthought.

I only have until the fifteenth of May.

I hope you never find this and I hope you never find me. Never say my name, just remember what I had to say. This would be all. Mine are the saddest of sullen eyes.

I don't see you everyday

I chose to be alone for the sole reason of being near you. I never complained about how you were always in love with somebody else, neither did I bother to stake claim over what I felt was then unattainable. I stayed for you and no one else. I stayed close because I knew no better and sat myself closer for the part of you that I always felt would love me back.

Let’s never settle for short stops and near misses, you always knew what you meant to me.

Apartheid

It’s the colors of love that pull us apart; the vested interest keeps us hanging on and we’re best left with restraining orders.

Neutral coagulants

I will love you forever- if only for the sake of art.

Rest assured

It was wrong of me to ever doubt you. In anything and everything, it’ll always be you.

Only in this yearning

I hope you never find what you’re looking for.

Houses with secret gardens

My house’s silent hallways seem so much more peaceful when I’m alone. Every room and corner here breathes with that same serenity; knowing that everything in front of me is mine to spend an eternity with. From the view of my bedroom window, the world has never looked as haunting. You smiled to me and said, “we’re not the only ghosts here.”

Wilson

You have a name. Don’t say you don’t remember.

The social dances of socialist dancers

Your slow, arcing curvature lives on in the poetry of every lingering movement. In every inch of suspended motion, you speak without ever having said.

“Love…” and I quote, “will this be over soon?”

In the calmness of that moment, I stared at you and said: “I never knew limbs could bend that way. I never knew my will could bend like this and never break.”

Without a word, you let go of my trembling hands and continued dancing.

“By the time the sun sets over this amphitheater, we’d still be far from reaching the end. This dance, it never ends. Not for you, not for anyone.”

We have yet to end this awkward dance.

Our lady

Every martyred saint is a lover prior to death.

Commodity fetishes

We’ve made an artform of walking down opposite ends of the same street. The sidewalks here are conveyor belts and we’re the only people who’d prefer to walk backwards. Honestly, I’d like to think we walk backwards in hopes of meeting halfway.

For whatever it’s worth, you’re the best part of this production. I honestly believe you’re the prettiest part of this production line.

Autobahns

When all roads lead to the same place, the drive is always in circles. Close your windows, I know where you live.

On the verandas of empty houses

This place is haunting without you. I’ve been feeling this way since 1994.

Sailboats

Our bridges may burn as bright as the sun but they are sure to end as beautifully as the haziest of Atlantic sunsets.

At the end of November

For the life of me, I couldn’t just let this go.

Central states and peripheries

Have we become mothers to a brood of hungry fascist children? What then has become of our struggle against totality? This all amounts to nothing. If only for this, we all amount to nothing.

Mountainside empires

Ghost towns are peaceful, really. It’s the loneliness of the city that makes ghosts of us all. I can’t stand it. For a city of ghosts, we are by no means peaceful.

False starts

April and May, I’m always yours. This lifetime is ours to own.

...or so we thought

You weren’t who you said you were. That’s exactly who you are. I don’t know why I like you so much that way.

Open arms to clearer windows

Only when I wake to find you here do I realize that none of this is ever real.

New distances

I'd like to think I dress differently now. For all intents and purposes, I'm happier with the way I dress and subsequently, I'm pleased with the way it helped me become happier with myself as a person over the course of the past two years. Considering how anti-fashion and terribly classist I used to be, I think I've gone a long way in my understanding of worn aesthetic and its bearing in reference to one's sense of self. As with all social creatures, humans have the capacity to project themselves by way of a maintained sense of aesthetic.

From an explicit declaration of political leanings to a rather implicit display of preference for a niche group of friends, associates and prospective partners, I believe it's impossible to separate an individual from the commonalities of a preferred context. We derive a unique sense of self via our exercise of reflexivity as we move along a continuum of styles that arise from the culture or set of cultures we're immersed in. It's ironic to say the least, how individuality arises not from a general rejection of external influence as one might commonly assume, but rather from the adoption of a set of relatively exclusive standards that would lump and individual into a narrower social strata which allows for improved mobility in the prevailing power structure. It's not so much about building yourself up from scratch than it is trying to build yourself an environment that allows you to act upon your own potentialities.

I believe myself to be a more respectable person when I dress in a manner I consider respectable. With that inwardly directed sense of self-respect, I in turn feel like more of a capable person; someone capable of acting upon these said potentialities.

I may be well on my way there in terms of getting the approach down but every approach needs some follow-through. I'm not there yet but I intend to get to where I want to be. Ideally, I'll get there while I'm young and well-dressed.



P.S.

Hi, Madel! I am giving you special mention in this entry. I hope you don't mind.

Sometimes, I dream

Sometimes, I dream. From time to time, these dreams don't end well. Sometimes, I don't understand half of what they have to say to me. A lot of times, they only leave me hanging.

Yesterday, I woke up from a rather peculiar dream. It was in an open field with a stage set up for some band I wanted to see but could only vaguely remember. It was on a cloudy afternoon, at a location I couldn't readily describe. I was with friends and had just gotten up out of a tent to find seats close to the stage. I sat down on a chair facing the stage. One moment, I blink and all of the sudden I'm in the same place but I'm facing the other way. I'm staring everyone in the audience right in the face. It takes a while to register but when my eyes start to focus, I see hideous, ghastly faces and I scream as loud as I can.

Everything goes blank.

I wake up in some strange house, with all sorts of odds and ends that wouldn't look out of place in an episode of Tales from the Crypt. It was tense and I felt like something was after me but this was something that never really made itself known to me from within the dream itself.

I'll get back to this later. Sometimes, I dream.