Cicumspect, Introspect, Tiny Lil Insects...

In the world of the jaded and the uninspired, we all feel like ants going through life like drones in a line. Money makes the world go round. Well, almost. But I'm still not over how I'm so fucking tied and dried. Remember that day? Remember that way? Yeah, go fuck n smoke.

A poker stick and a bit of coke, I used to read and live my life at the same time. I cried to God for a piece of that world I only read, and he gave me more, and took all in exchange. "Happy now, bum?" Was all he asked.

Will I ever?

When I was a kid, I had asthma and was friendless. Clumsy, uncoordinated, I was the picture of the perfect nerd. I prayed: I'll give half of this brain to gain some friends. And so they came. The musketeers and the wolves, and more. I felt I was happy. Well, I was. But teen years had different aims, and different wants. To guys, it was the boon and the kiss. And I was the Frog. Made excruciatingly worse that I was part of us "three." It was a film in my head: Two hunks and a Pimple. No need to ask whom was whom. So again, I prayed: a LOVE and a KISS, that's all I ask. In exchange, take all you've left in me: my luck, my words, my being ME.

And so she came. And she came. And she came. And boy, did I get what I was asking for, and more. I felt more than happy. Well, for the most part. But growing up had different needs, and wants. To men, it's called The Trinity. The pad, the carreer, and all the benefits that come with it. READ: women.

So again, I prayed: All my life, you gave me what I wanted in exchange for what I have. All my life I thought, what I wanted was what I didn't have. And all my life I yearned for that. Now give me this: My life as you think I should live it. Since you took all I have the last time, I have nothing more to give except what I'll earn in the future. So that I give you. My life as you will it.

Since then, I've been living life one day at a time. There's no need to rush. Me and my wife will get by. God has graced us with a blessing much more than what I promised Him in exchange. In a way, I feel like Faust. Only I made a deal with the right kind of DEALER.

I feel like God has taken everything from me, so that he can give the best of ONE thing to me. And it's just the essence of what He is: LOVE.

Happy hearts day to all. May you find the life I have and live it the way I do. As happy as I can ever be.

Death of a Cat (but he was more than just)

He was my furball, my cat in the hat, my puss in boots, my key to furry friends. He was my companion through my sloth and my joblesness, my playmate when I was bored, my guardian when I was all alone in the night, the feeling of loneliness esp exacerbated after watching a horrifying movie. I've always thought him to be a reincarnation of Lorien, his birthday being on the month Lorien was to be born. Though this thought I kept to myself, not wanting to remind Mamuy of Lorien's "wait."

Ming-ming was a royal cat in a lot of ways. Always watchful of his hygiene, Ming-ming was never dirty, except perhaps a few weeks before his death, the weeks I started working. He was, as I rightly thought, calling for attention, as he promptly started cleaning himself up after I started paying attention to him again. Always disciplined, Ming-ming never pooped nor peed anywhere else except where we trained him to poo or pee. He doesn't snitch food off the table, except at times when the smell of it is unbearably strong, as in the case of: F-I-S-H.

Ming-ming got so humanlike he's even in my friendster!

It was the 2nd day of our ABAY, what I call: hell's welcome for us newbies fresh from product training. I was stressed to death trying to catch up with my call per SR ratio when my cellphone started vibrating inside my pocket. I impatiently turned it off, thinking at first that Mamuy was just giving me a missed call, when it rang again. I went out of the floor to take the call when I heard Mamuy's sobs loudly through the other line. In that instant I thought something had happened to Mamuy. But what she said next shocked the daylights out of me.

I left home with our cat alive and seriously fat-assed and I came home never seeing him again.

Our neighbor's dogs mauled or frightened Ming-ming to death when he fell off the concrete fence bordering our window and the house nearby. Either way, I never saw Ming-ming again, the neighbor telling Mamuy they'd just bury him in their backyard. Although I wanted so much to ask for his body, where would we bury him in our four-walled room? All that came back of him was his collar and his tag, which we even had engraved with his name. The collar is still there on the cupboard, gathering dust. I don't want it washed, hoping that in the near-future, when I'm rich enough, I can have Ming-ming cloned.

When Meow was lost, Mamuy and I felt sad. Mamuy even more forlorn than I was, roaming the streets for a couple of days trying to search for Meow. I felt the same way when we got the news of Lorien. Something in the pit of my stomach seemed lost. And I'm not referring to food I've eaten then digested. Although in Meow's case, attachment made the lost more "real." As we had Meow with us for a couple of months. Meow also fell on that concrete fence where Ming-ming fell.

But back when we lost Meow, we never thought him to be dead, me being the more optimistic of the two of us, always telling Mamuy that Meow would someday come back to us when he's old enough to climb the fence. The news of Ming-ming's death shattered that hope. Then, surely as the sun rising East, I knew then that Meow never had a chance when he fell that fence. What happened to Ming-ming happened to him as well, and Meow being so small. My heart was crushed for poor Meow.

I've never experienced death in the family. Not so close, nor not so real. But three deaths in the span of one year -- I can hardly believe my luck is still holding. They were our budding family, me and Mamuy's. Whatever life throws at me next, I will always count my family that way.

On this day I remember them.

Lorien, first of my heart and Mamuy's. The unborn child of our dreams. She who waited for a breath of life and never got it.

Meow, our little warrior. The fierce kitten who wouldn't let us near him even when he was shivering and starving to death in front of Edsa Central Mall.

Ming-ming, the start of our "pet collecting." I don't know what made me urge Mamuy to pick him up that day we say him downstairs, at the garage of the compound where we were living, but I never regretted that day. I know now that what I felt for him was neither pity nor duty, but destiny.

Our lives are more intertwined than you can imagine. Somehow, my theory that Ming-ming was our dear Lorien reborn keeps on strengthening. Not a week after Ming-ming's death, Mamuy and I had this joyful news.

In the recess of my mind, I will never run out of names to give. I give our cats "unique" names, and I name our kids-to-be the way Ged was named. It is in the naming, Le Guin says, where all power resides, and it is in my names where I derive my faith in an all-encompassing fate. I am never more sure of my future than in this.

This will ring very eerie, but I will repeat it again: For every life, there is un-life. For every certainty, a certain randomness in our lives..

Die Ming-ming did. But wasn't he just reborn from Lorien? And isn't Harion now just Ming-ming's soul again? As Mamuy said: maybe he died to make way for Harion.

Or maybe he never died at all.

In my unpublished book, The Butterfly, the protagonist's mother dies but her soul is never gone but comes back where all life flows from: back to earth. To be the flowers, the grass, the soil beneath the protagonist's feet.

Life I said is beautiful. But never can we experience it more sweetly than when we are in pain. Thus, in Ming-ming's anguished cries before he died, I think upon this:

Isn't it just eerie I wrote all about this today?

As if..

I'm not like all those other writers out there who write for the sake of the "theme." I can't even force myself to write even when I want to. All I'm just saying is serendipity rules my life more fully than anyone can ever imagine.

I'm not even wondering anymore if my life is an unfinished chapter. I know with a certainty stronger than death that it is more than written. It is bound in leather, and gilded in chains, written by the master macabre writer of all time.

And hey, it isn't me!

I Am Jack

It has been two months now since I've started working in the "corporate world" for a "corporate account" in a call center hired by a "corporate client." In these two months that I've been living, working, and burning brows among the legion of the night, I have these experiences to thank for:

1. Having my first salary from a first "formal" job

2. Having my first payslip and looking glazedly at my name on it and the words saying: employee

3. Taking my first call and experiencing what they call "fright night." I am not boasting by any means when I say I am more than well versed in English, but when I took that first "live" call, all the English words in my vocabulary dried up and if I could've just said "habla español?" I would've.

4. Having that dreaded disease of ending phone conversations with: is there anything else that I can help you with?

5. Thumping myself on the head when I stupidly say to customers wanting to cancel their accounts: I'll be more than happy to assist you with that sir/mam! wtfbbq? Jao: inifinitely negative on retention phrases

6. Laughing to myself while forgetting that I haven't switched the mute button and then telling the customers when they asked: what? with: cough, cough. sorry sir/mam if you could hear my seatmate. mic's awfully sensitive.

7. Telling customer's who are impatiently waiting with these stupendically, idiotic words: thank you for patiently waiting sir/mam, please bear with me, I'm almost -- uhh -- almost -- there?!? duh!! Thank you Jao! Wham! Bam! Give me a tissue please!

8. Bearing with customers who belittle you the moment they notice you're not from their shores. Suddenly, the word "bigot" held a new meaning for me.

9. I watched Fight Club again, and suddenly I understood Edward Norton's character, the schizoprenic genius Jack/Tyler Durden's words: I Am Jack's Complete Lack of Surprise. I Am Jack's Smirking Revenge.  I Am Jack's Inflamed Sense of Rejection. You are not your job...you are not how much money you have in the bank...not the car you drive...not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. Suddenly, I understood Jack's dead voice, mouthing over and over: we are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. And I have become one of them. Even cringing when I got absent for one day, on a day I most deservedly needed to be absent bec. I was sick. When back before, my classmates would've considered me to be sick if they see me present in class.

10. I watched Snatch again (before Fight Club) (and yeah, it was a movie marathon) when I felt what I've long felt before. I was born to do this. Screenplays. In my head, hundred of unwritten screenplays pile up, awesome shit that would've blown anyone away have they seen what was reeling on my mind. Whilst I was hearing Snatch's dialouge, I was like: fuck. This is the shit I live for. The words Replica and Desert Eagle point five-oh echoe in my mind. And I ask myself, how long will I stay with my "Replica" and pick up my "Desert Eagle point-five-oh?"

Only a friend can tell. And he has only till next year to do so. Wether or not I be great in my lifetime or not isn't a question. I will be great. Let my words judge me for what I am worth.

I am ready to be judged.

I am Jack's unfulfilled obssession. The all-sighing, all-dreaming, unacting schmuck of the world. And if there isn't anything else I can help you with today, thank you for ringing me up and giving me new light about America, have a very fucking wonderful weekend my dear readers!

I will never ever dial another toll-free number as long as I live.

Hans, and Beggars

I've been having weird dreams lately. And the usual nightmares, of course. First, this really fabulous story about me going back in time to save myself from a horrible death, only to find out I made a grave mistake in the process and set in motion events which actually erased my existence from the present. And the only way I could go back was to appear in dreams to those who knew me before I "erased" myself from their memories and try to make them remember me. Lolx. It would've kicked-ass if it actually had an ending. Sadly, that usual nightmare cropped up and interrupted that movie in my mind. So I guess I'll just have to content myself to imagining who among those whom I knew would've been able to save me. Last I remember, I was visiting some beggar from the streets, and it felt like he was my last hope and I was pinning everything on him. Was I that forgettable that it came to that? Hahaha. To plead to a beggar to remember someone whom he may have beg alms from sometime in his life, haha. Truly pathetic.

And then this dream that had Hans-Christan-Andersen's hands all over it. A story about a kleptomaniac prince who hides his true personality by acting "prim and proper" in front of eveyrone, and then stealing them blind when everyone's looking the other way. Enters our hero, moi, who not only catches him in the act, but shows him for what he truly is.

He had just stolen some really tasty treats (which was really rare. and for some reason, only I and the girl had it) from some girl in the party and was about to get away with his booty when I caught him and whispered to him.

"You could say sorry to the girl, return the candies, and I'll give you mine in turn. Or keep it and eat it. Though I warn you. Those candies have an enchantment. Stolen from the rightful owner, its insides become filled with poison. While if freely given to someone, becomes filled with chocolate that has healing powers. (err. this is a dream. it is corny, but I warned you -- it was all Hans' fault)

Well, what'd you expect a kleptomaniac to do? He swallowed the candies and then dropped dead. The party went into an uproar. Suddenly, guards where all around me. But who's staying for this party?

Not me. My usual nightmare just saved me again from a possible hanging.

So what is the moral of these two dreams?

Well one, that I should be kind to all beggars lest the affirmation of my existence falls to them, and two, that nightmares can actually save you from a much more horrible one, i.e. the cheekiest of the cheekiest.

Lucid dreaming days are here again.

FATE: decoded

Einstein said God doesn't play dice. Well crunch this: for every reasoned, purposeful decision we make, one unreasonable, freak occurence results. For every person believing that they control their lives, there's one event lying in wait to prove them wrong. (and if that isn't so, then why does death get them everytime?) For every life, there is un-life. For every certainty, a certain randomness in our lives.

This then is the sum of our lives, computed based on unsound reasoning and proven facts:

Part 1

We control our life by only fifty percent. The other fifty percent is decided on by fate. This fate decides where our life will fork based on chaos calculations. For those not familiar with chaos theories, this is how it goes: the more random an event is, the more it means it is systematic. From more chaos forms more order.
That is why it is totally impossible to predict the future. Or determine our fate.

Part 2

This meager fifty percent control we have over our lives either increases or decreases depending on the amount of personality and determination we have. The stronger your personality is, and the stronger your determination is, the more likely it is that you will achieve what you set out to do. Such persons have appeared in history, having so strong personalities and such will that even other lives have changed.

Part 3

Whatever percentage of control you have over your life, you lose when you are one of those pieces whom I will call: inevitable pawns. These people are those whom fate has a set job to do. In this case, free will is voided. There will always be moments in our lives when all of us cannot choose. This is a certainty. Though fate is random, it is set on a guided structure. All these set jobs, and all those people born into it, leads into only one thing: the preservation of the universe as it is. So we are free in a sense, but kept on a very tight leash. Stray too far away from the safe structures that keep our universe functioning perfectly, and fate will rein you in.

Part 4

Illusion is delusion is confusion. Those who are realists and believe they are the gods of their own fate attracts less attention from random occurences but increases the chance of it being fatal by ninety percent. Those who are fatalists and resigned to whatever fate deals them attracts more of these freak occurences but decreases the chance of it being fatal. All random occurences can be life-changing or not.

Part 5

Once you take a fork, to actually put your foot forward on that path, the wheels of fate moves in motion and begins its calculations. You will now be struck by a fifty percent chance or more (depending on what you have from part 2) of success or failure.

Part 6

This fifty percent strike will further be altered by other people's actions and decisions. And your side of the percentage will also be altered by other people's actions and decisions. And their actions and decisions are altered also in the same way: by that fifty percent strike and your and other people's actions and decisions. And it goes on, and on, and on. The calculation never ends.

And that is the sum of our lives.

A random ripple effect bound by a structured universe. Cause a wave that destroys this randomness and you destroy the universe.

Haha. This reasoning must be caused by me playing too much calculation-based games (like DOTA).
But who's to say? Maybe we're all just part of a computer program built on mathematics such that we can never achieve a perfect world. Where everyone loves everyone, and where all dreams come true. And if that's the case, then our world's creators are such lousy program writers.

Sanamagan!

I knew today wasn't just going to be my day when:

1. I woke up with a throbbing tootache and one hell of a nausea.

2. I found out the food I prepared for my Mamuy to take was left in the refrigerator, waiting for somebody to rescue it from leftover hell.

3. Even the note I left on the table (you know, the one telling her that I've cooked food for her and even included extras so she should just help herself and eat before she leaves 'coz I don't want her getting hungry while she's at work 'coz I love her so much?) was left unread.

4. On my way to the job interview (yes, improbable as it may seem, I had one!) the sole on my right shoe came undone. So I had to walk a little more careful or it might totally come off.

5. I was late as a result.

6. And because I was late, I was called last to be interviewed. Now, this would've been just fine by me, but when the airconditioning was at full-blast like it wanted to produce snow, I knew that I just had to tolerate all that numbness, shivering, and chattering of my teeth till the interview's over.

7. Right after the lunch break, (the battery of tests were stopped so that everyone could eat) I got a case of mild diarrhea, (from eating at that cheap, Cost-U-Less canteen) and had to rush inside the bathroom to take a dump. Thankfully, the bathroom was clean, had toilet paper, and had the soap dispenser full.

And the best of the worst things why I knew it wasn't going to be my day? (No, it wasn't the diarrhea)

7. I actually passed that interview that begs the question: why do you want to apply in a call center when the course you've finished is Physical Therapy? It turned out so well that the interviewer was so impressed with me he even gave me a chance when I didn't passed the listening exam (for the 2nd time!), and allowed me to take it for a third time.

Well, you ask, how does that translate into how I knew it was going to be "one of those days?"

Well, obviously, when your day isn't going that good, and suddenly something good happens, you know for a fact that you're fucked.

And like clockwork, calamity strikes when it's supposed to strike -- at the last hurdle of the job interview.

8. So there I was, sitting anxiously, waiting for the simulation call, (I've just passed all those grammar tests, iq tests, typing tests, and listening tests, all with flying colors; well with the exception for the last one) when the phone rang. So I pressed that button that they said I should press when the call comes in, delivered the spiel that was given in the manual, and spoke really well, until the "pretend" customer gave the reason why she was calling.

Now, understand, though I expected that the reason why the simulation call was done was to test the applicants on their ability to handle stress and pressure, I wasn't prepared for how I would actually react once the call was made. (I haven't really handled calls like that for long, so I really didn't know how I could've handled it properly. In fact, I haven't handled any calls like that since -- ever) I panicked, stammered, and basically made a fool out of myself.

So naturally, the one who tested me on that simulation call told me I don't have what it takes to be "one of them" yet. (she didn't really tell me in those exact words, but you know me, ever the sensitive guy, it just had to be EXACTLY what she meant) I persisted and asked to retake that simulation test, but she told me: sorry, but we don't do that. I even wanted to go so far as to pose an argument in my defense, but she never gave me that chance to cut in and speak as she just kept speaking and telling me that I should just wait till Monday, and that they'll probably call me if there's no one else left they could possibly hire, that I should just hope and cross my fingers and hope that one of the applicants have an accident, or contract some deadly disease out of South Africa, or God forbid, die, (don't raise your eyebrows! of course she didn't really tell me, again, in those same words. But you know me, guy with the ever active imagination...) and promptly stood up, indicating that her "precious time" talking to me, was up.

I kept smiling, all the way out of the building, and kept asking myself: Why? Why? Why did I put myself again in such a situation wherein somebody will try and tell me I'm no good? Why would I get my lazy butt off my most comfortable bed, forego that maddening urge to start writing my "dream screenplay" (which had been nagging me for days), and waste my whole day on a job search I know I'll never get anyway. (when has fate smiled on me on this one?) (laughed maybe. even sniggered maybe. or cackled. or stomped its feet, rolled on the floor, wept in such mirth it fell dead once it stopped)

And the simple answer to that one is:

I wanted to measure up to Mamuy. I wanted to be other than what I am. A bum. And a house-husband. I wanted to give it a shot and never think back for a moment and say: what-if?

The larger part of the scheme, and what really gets me, is that even our cat agrees that what happened to me was exactly what I deserved.

As soon as I arrived, feeling all gloomy and trying to be upbeat anyway, I picked up Ming-ming, (yeah, we named him the most original name we could think of) put him on the table, and played the "asking game" with him. Now, if you've watched "A Very Long Engagement," you'd know what I mean, and if you're one of the millions who didn't, well here's how it goes. The "player" asks a question he or she would like to have an answer to, and poses a situation that might or might not happen, and say: if this happens, this is what'll be the answer to my question. Like: if she really loves me, the sky would fall down, the earth would shake, and the kingdom, would come!

Well, me and Mamuy sort of developed a deviation to this kind of "silly" game. (what am I saying? of course it's silly! it's a game seeking an answer to a question based on stupid things happening! of course it's silly. and fun. you should try it) Instead of posing a situation that might or might not happen, we just ask Ming-ming the question, and if he thinks the aswer to the question is yes, he'll bite our hands. (and boy, does this cat love to bite!) And if he really thinks the answer is an emphatic NO, he'll look at you and give you a stare that says: would you really wanna know, punk?

So I played the "asking game" with Ming-ming and asked him if I should still hope that I'll be getting a call-back this Monday, when he turned his back on me, twisted his head to one side, and gave me a squinting look that said: (well, just ride on with me, hypothetically, I heard him say it) What? After all that piece you said knowing how fate fucks up your life, how you knew it wasn't your day, how you even felt the interviewer told you: it's either an applicant dead or none, how could you expect me to answer that truthfully, say yes, and still be the cutest, darndest cat I can ever be? No sir. No siree. Ming-ming is not a cat to trifle with the mysteries of life. You're on your own with this one, P-U-N-K-!

Well, gee, who am I to argue with a cat, who does nothing all day but sleep, lounge, eat, pee and shit under our cabinet with nothing but the pitch that: Humans don't own cats, cats own humans? Well, I'm certainly not the one to try.

So I decided to just continue with the list of why this day is NOT my day.

9. I switched on the light in our room and -- nothing. The damn guys living in the other room where the cicuit breaker for the lights was located, had again switched it off.

10. The money I'm supposed to win in the Lotto, still hasn't arrived...

11. The board exam I'm supposed to pass, still hasn't been given...

12. The publisher who's going to make me a best-selling author, hasn't been born...

13. And the God or fate (whichever the case may be) who'll finally take pity on me and give me a break, still hasn't stopped enjoying the "asking game" wherein they ask: what if we did this to Jao, or this, or that? Wouldn't it be so much fun to just watch him flounder and wonder why he gets all these kind of breaks?

Well, wouldn't I just be the luckiest guy there ever was if that ever happened, don't you think, PUNK? (Ouch! Ming-ming stop biting me! You're not the one I'm calling "punk." Seriously feline punk, you're not! Ow! Ow! Ow!)

Me, French Fries

To escape reality, we often drown ourselves in things that would help us get our minds off the "real world" for awhile. For shopaholics, it maybe a trip to the mall; for film buffs, a movie or two; for intellectuals, reading their favorite book; still for others, gimmicking and guzzling booze does the trick for them.

For me, and for many other "addicts" like me, gaming is the way. It has often been said that gaming (arcade, video, online, pc) accomplishes no other purpose than these two: entertain, and waste time.

For a long time, I depended on this "alternate" reality to sustain me. The pains and heartbreaks of my past have led me to the point that I subsisted only to play. I was more than a potato lounging on a couch, I was amoeba germinating, I was a rock gathering moss.

What is bad about gaming as another form of entertainment is that unlike sports, reading, or watching movies, gaming has little to contribute in the way of intellectual and spiritual growth. For the many years that I've been playing, I can only attribute two things positive that gaming has taught me: more coordination (for pressing x & y buttons alternately, simultaneously, extraneously, and any other way posible that can be) and lots of patience (try playing any of the FF series and you'll know what I mean). Other gamers may argue. But what about strategy or RTS games? Don't these games exercise your analytical thinking and decision-making in pressured situations? They may well do, but the case is, often, the only things they exercise are the ones on your arms and wrists as more often than not, average gamers who play these games resort to pre-developed tactics by other "much better" players and do not really develop strategies of their own. These games also have a saturation rate on the amount of strategies that can be developed and learned, and when thus reached, stops being a thinking game but becomes an exercise in futility.

Role-playing games for me are much better in the brain-exercise category. By saying role-playing, I'm referring to those RPGs that are played offline, those RPGs that have deep storylines and complex character developments (like the FF series) In these kind of games, gamers are forced to use their imagination (an activity most kids nowadays do not do). Text-base RPGs are even better in this category! People who play these games use their imagination, create their own characters, choose their own attributes, in short, gives them a life of their own. Creation is the key word here. To create something out of nothing, that is imagination.

Going back to what I'm saying, the reason this whole monolouge started was because I, who have been for so long using games as anesthesia for my pain, suddenly woke up one day and realized that I no longer need this same anesthesia to dull my senses.

I woke up one day to realize that this same anesthesia, though materially important in saving my life post-trauma, have cease being useful to me, and have in fact, become the opposite.

My life as a wandering swordsman and a black hole unfilled is over. I find no more use to be numb to everything around me. It is this precisely that has led me to reject any, and all sorts of subtitutes for the reality that is my LIFE.

What used to sustain me, now kept me from living my life fully. Fantasies, games, and dreams are all so well, so long as they do not encroach on your ability to live your life well and productively.

I've realized that there is more to life than "just living."

There's also living with yourself, and living with those you love that makes life what it is. These are two things similar and intertwined. You can't live with those you love if you can't live with yourself. (for what you've done in your past)

It took me this long, and Mamuy that much patience, for me to see the light.

That is why, though Fate and God conspire against us together, I will never let my Mamuy go.

It is more than just love that's keeping us. It is something which I think is greater than love but has no word to define it.

How have old couples remained married to each other all through those years? Was it simple love? Yes, undeniably, there was of course love. Was it mere patience? Yes, that too, cannot be denied was present in their relationship. Was it just forbearance? Reasonably, that would be included as well. But the sum of all these things: love, patience, forbearance, faith, trust, hope, or whatever...

That -- that is what I'm referring to that me and Mamuy have. The sum of all things that keeps couples together.

It is what has woken me to the truth.

That I am more than just a couch potato in the eyes of my beloved.

I am french fries with thousand island dressing on the sides.

And I resolve to upgrade to a combo meal in a little more time.

So next time you see me, be prepared to see the super-sized new me.

A little thin on regrets, with double helpings of hope for better things to come.

About

Yeah, I'm in my nth time posting online. As you'll probably notice, I have a new link under my "clickies." It's a link to my other blog at livejournal. Please don't read so much into it and think that there's anything there other than what I really wrote.

Disclaimer: as it is my blog, and my point of view, I am entitled to be a little biased, and free to tell the story, the way I went through it. Others (who are in it) may disagree, and they are very free to do so, but as I've said, not everything there is written the way it really happened, or exactly how it happened. It's only a distorted retelling of how I remember those events, how I wrote about it at that time, and how I interpreted them with the information I had at the time of my writing it.

As with my other written works, most of the driving force behind it are raw emotions, quite powerful and likely enough to evoke vivid images of it. I will not be liable for any cases of acquired insanity caused by reading my posts. I repeat: read at your own peril.

I will note in my posts if what I've written is a retelling of an actual event, a daydream wishing to be true, a letter I wrote a long time ago, or just something I plainly want to post. Poems are quite apparent and easy to spot, so you'll forgive me when I don't say: excuse me, but this is a poem, not a rant. (haha, 'coz you might think it's one depending on what poems I post there)

I all wish you a happy time clicking, and browsing your time away. Feel free to indulge in the most guilty pleasure of reading. That of reading other people's letters and talking back at them (or at your computer) for the stupid, silly, sappy  things they're writing.

These are some of my most private thoughts and experiences. Please don't debase it and post a comment like: you stupid negro! you inconsiderate prick! how could you do/say a thing like that? I know i'm probably most of those things, but if you really didn't like what I wrote, can you just at least say it in a nice way. Please do not curse or flame me. I'm really a sensitive guy underneath. I get hurt easily. (haha. naah. just playing wit' ya. wth? say whatever you wanna say and I'll probably retort something of the like to you)

And oh, Lestat wasn't my original favorite when I first watched "Interview." I fell in love with Louis' character more. It was only upon reading "Lestat" and "Memnoch" that I began to appreciate the depth of Lestat's character. Let's just say that there are pieces of each of their character which I can really connect with.

Louis is an immortal able to change with the times, while Lestat is an immortal both hating and loving his being one.

I'm not an immortal like them. But I feel the way they do. Cast away by God for being the way we are, which fate has gifted us anyway.

PS.

you have to read LIVE starting from the bottom going up

otherwise, you'll miss the most beautiful part of my stroytelling.

which is: fragmenting the whole to give a titilating view of a part.

Plus, you won't be able to follow the gist of my posts...

No I aint crazy -- yet. Still, aint I beautiful as I always am?

There is a beautiful line in the movie "Proof" that goes:

"Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X. Let X equal the cold. It is cold in December. The months of cold equal November through February. There are four months of cold and four of heat, leaving four months of indeterminate temperature. In February. It snows. In March. The lake is a lake of ice. In September. The students come back and the bookstores are full. Let X equal the month of full bookstores. The number of books approaches infinity as the number of months of cold approaches four. I will never be as cold now as I will in the future. The future of cold is infinite. The future of heat is the future of cold. The bookstores are infinite and so are never full except in September."

It kind of sums up how I feel. It somehow sounds right to be crazy sometimes.

If that's what it means to be a brilliant mathematician, then I'm glad I suck at math!

It struck me how "Proof" ran so much like my theory on writers and authors. That: there's no such things as brilliant young authors, only old wise writers.

While the formula for greatness in math lies locked in numbers, ours in literature lies in surviving our experiences. It is no strange coincidence that great writers in literature's history produced their greatest work at the sunset of their lives.

I believe there are many young writers who are very promising, a diamond waiting to be cut -- yet only few proceed on to greatness. Why?

I believe the key lies in their struggles -- in the tragedies in their life.

There are those who succumb, those who try so hard to reproduce the "magic" of their "wonder years," and there are those who rise up, and goes on knowing in their hearts who they are.

It's funny. In retrospect, what I thought was "great work" in my HS days now reads like some writer just trying to sound wise. While I feel I know much better now, who's to say what I would think when I'm in my 40's? Perhaps I'd pick up this notebook, read it, and say to myself: Oh, Jao, you presumptous fool. That idea's an old wagon. It's been gotten on so many times that no one bothers to hail it anymore.

But what do I know? I'm just in my "declining years" as the movie happily points out. And why do I care? In my theory, my greatness hasn't even yet started. I haven't even begun to recite my prime numbers. I'm just beginning to learn how to count to ten.

I'll be 40 in about 15 years, maybe then you'll have heard of me -- or not.

Well, it depends on whether I survive whatever life throws at me during these next 15 years, or at least, that's how it goes in my theory. And in the movie, as well as in life, there's no easy way in proving one's theory. Only an easy way in disproving one.

Prove me wrong then, if you will.

Unbreakable

I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of events. A thousand, a million of them, flowing past by me. Like raindrops from a raincloud, like droplets from a sprinkler, I see them going slowly by, halted by time unmoving. In a world that is bigger than me, I fail to comprehend the WHY of things. Why God is such an ass and a pussy-foot for making the world as it is -- crazy, beautiful. Why men search for heaven here on earth and make hell out of it. Why angels fall and defy God, and demons curse men for their free will. Why pain is sweeter than joy and joy blander than water when taken without hardships. I fail to see (for I am that blind) WHY.

And yes, I'm in one of my "moments" again. Surprised? Then why the hell is this thread titled: Crazy, beautiful, Me? Thought I was just feelin' cute and puttin' it on, eh? And why the fuck are you reading this? Get the hell out of my face and outta my life before I break your --

Kidding. Just venting my anger. It doesn't work. Not really. But it's better than breaking your face for real.

You know whose fault it is. The hand that moves and guides us all. Fuck that! The hand that moves and plays us all, like pieces on a chessboard, is more like it.

And for the life of me, I don't know what I'm ranting about if that is such my belief. For believing it to be so would render me helpless against it. So shoot me, He made me the way I am. And He seems happy about the way I'm being me as he haven't caused me yet to contract any deadly disease, get caught in an accident, be shot by a madman carrying a fuckin' bolo, or die an excruciatingly painful death. Or then again, it could be exactly that. I ain't ready for heaven yet, eh highness?

I dreamt this morning that my life is exactly where it should be.

I screamed my head off for the absolute terror of it.

Then went right back to sleep. I might be able to see where it ends.

This thread has now been branded, pimpled, dotted, and painted: ANGST.

Bruce Willis is such a pussy. Surviving a train crash and drowning in a lousy puddle of mud. I am unbreakable too. Go find me my water.

haha, im still feeling a 'lil like December. It's probably the cold...

"Death is a dreamless sleep."

"Then how do we live on?"

"Thru memories. Lots and lots of them."

"Life is nothing but sadness, interrupted by momentary lapses of joy."

"Yet when you find that SOMEONE, it can certainly feel otherwise."

Have I traded cows for a set of magic beans? Have I traded solid ground for a dream? Have I spent my whole life doing nothing? As always, only time will tell. Ironic, by the time I know the answer, it would be irrelevant. But who cares anyway, right?

I found out just now, but what a laugh. Really was ironic. Now that it doesn't matter if I know, I suddenly found out. If it makes you feel any better, we had exactly the same answers. Except for that opposite sex thingy. Further reinforces my sneaky image, right?

It's February, but I'm feeling like it's one of those "ber" months

I thought by now I'd be writing my eloquent "the Hand of God," but instead I'm doing this. Well, is this your work hand? I thought I'd just like to know. Just when I was beginning to think there was a sense of something that really made sense, you fuck it up.

Well, as George Martin aptly put it: The King eats, and the Hand takes the shit.

Well, here goes. *bumps*

Sorry for the abrupt entrance. A rude awakening, and a crappy joke doesn't really make for a good introduction. If you're reading this shit, or perhaps just browsing along, then you're probably one of the few unlucky persons to know me, and perhaps even consider me as a friend, evidenced by the fact that you invited me in your friendster (or vice-versa).

ren·dez·vous (ränd-v, -d-)

n. pl. ren·dez·vous (-vz)

1. A meeting at a prearranged time and place.

2. A prearranged meeting place, especially an assembly point for troops or ships.

3. A popular gathering place.

tr. & intr.v. ren·dez·voused (-vd), ren·dez·vous·ing (-vng), ren·dez·vous (-vz)

To bring or come together at a rendezvous.

dream (drm)

n.

1. A series of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations occurring involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep.

2. A daydream; a reverie.

3. A state of abstraction; a trance.

4. A wild fancy or hope.

5. A condition or achievement that is longed for; an aspiration.

       
        So if you know me, or if you think you know me, then feel free to skim my words and read along at your own pace. I'm not going to stop you, nor even tell you what I mean. I'm just going to laugh at you, at what you think you understand about my words, and say: Till then. Only in dreams are desires met, only in dreams are realities unfounded, only in dreams are we not hurt even by the most horrific nightmare, only in dreams are we truly free...

To fly.

Thus, till then. Until the next time.

And before that, then only in dreams -- a rendezvous...

Where time and place doesn't mean a thing, and cats fly
amidst a vanilla sky.