Happy New Year everybody!!! May 2005 be much much MUCH better for all of us! Ü

To have end as to start
How happy I would be
To hear someone's heart
that beats only for me

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot?
The world forgetting by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.
Each prayer accepted, each wish resigned.
       -- Alexander Pope

Having It All

"That's the key to having it all. Stop expecting it to look like what you thought it was going to look like. That's true of the fall line and it's true of relationships."

-- Candice Bergen's character Enid in SATC


Sometimes you have to go through pain to realize how wonderful it is not going through it. Sometimes you can't demand even if you honestly feel it is due. Sometimes you can go through the motions but only if you don't lose sight of your intentions. And when you lose your way, it doesn't mean you'll find the same route.

Perhaps no one has the right to complain nor the privilege to be content. Who are we to say that a person is better or worse off than we are? We can only empathize. We can only imagine. We can only learn. Everything is in a state of change. Things will not always be how they seem, not even us.

It all depends on how you handle the change perhaps.



"You have no right to demand for Him to fulfill His promises to you. He gave you so much, what have you done with what He has given? You have to stop complaining and start being accountable for the decisions you've made."

-- paraphrased from an advice given by a nurse to her "patient" friend



While eating fried chicken strips for dinner in a posh condominium unit I don't own, I was reminded of the transience that is my life and how at any moment it can either move forward, regress or end in an instant. I was reminded of the reality of my situation (and my friend's too); how each day counts, how our attitude about it makes a huge difference.

If the best things in life are free, the "good" and "better" things must come with a price. If good things come to those who wait, the "better" and "best" things probably don't. And what about the bad, worse, and worst things? Wouldn't these come to those who wait as well? Wouldn't these come with a price too?

If patience is a virtue, what virtue would it make to be patient with patience itself?

Perhaps the real goal is to shift from a state of transience to a state of transcendence, a shift from perhaps to yes; to stop expecting and to start seeing it for what it is.


So up there on the 10th floor with the view of the river at night, the metropolis in a dormant state, the cool December breeze lifting away the smoke, the catharsis of heartfelt conversation, in those blameless moments of freedom, I felt like we had it all.

Gift Giving

I used to be superstitious with gifts. I was told that one should always tear up (and destroy) the gift wrapper so that in the succeeding yuletide season, more gifts would come in. This was torment for me because I took pride in skillfully taking out objects from their meticulously-sealed packages. Despite following the superstition, I found myself receiving less and less each year. Not that it's a bad thing, but it wasn't a good thing (for the less fortunate) either. I found myself giving less and less each year as well. Blame the economy. Blame China or the euro.

Like everyone says, "it's the thought that counts." If this is the case, then the trend of thought means counting less. But rather than the thought, maybe people should say, "it's the person that counts." Then, by this we could easily count the number of friends who've greeted us a merry christmas, who took the time out to send us a text message, a phone call, an email, a peck, a kiss, a hug, other forms of physical or emotional intimacy at the very least. If we're luckier, nay, more significant, then maybe we'd get a little trinket, a great gift, cash, or a hearty meal aside from animated conversations. Our love for our friends should not only be counted in the material sense, but in everything else besides. And it should not only be during Christmas that we remember each other -- it should be a year-long affair. It's the need to remember and be remembered during the season that leads people to getting affective disorders and/or depression. Fcuk it I say. We should be emancipated from this contrivance of expectations.

Note: That being said, I apologize to all for not having come up with presents during our annual group Christmas party today. My sense of time has not yet been re-established and I don't know if I'm running on daylight saving mode or in the midst of a 24-hour evening like in Sweden. I can't believe it's the 24th right now and already I'm feeling as if it all went by so fast. Tomorrow people will be working again. *sigh* Nonetheless, it was fantastic spending the eve before the eve of the nativity with you all. At least on my part, more than just a gift, I (or we) gave you (the remaining 4 in Pomodoro) something "memorable" for the holidays. The best part of it was that we weren't tipsy and it wasn't done out of mercy. It was quite a public display perhaps, but it would be a gift you guys would never EVER forget. Tee hee

Usurpation

Perhaps you'd like to travel
in search of completion.
It is hidden somewhere
in the empire of me.
My desires throb, embole
when the truth becomes fragile
each time you ask for it.

Blood is scarce like water
in the empire of rivers.
You may man these vessels
pursuing opposing directions.
My heart beats, shifts
the measures of fibrillation
with every systolic thrust.

My name becomes merely a word
stripped off its meaning.
The more you utter it
the more I hide under my skin.
I resist your touch, begin
when the counting adjusts
an inch for each stolen breath.

Pursue it I say, pursue it.
Let your longing for me
fall prostrate, resign.
Let your hands fumble intently
with this masterful incubation.
I hold the truth that you seek.
Discover your need to pursuade.

The travel comes to a rest
after you discover my weakness.
My name is reconceived
from bones and empireal remains.
My emotions infarct, reveal
the truth that flows immaculately
with each memory of usurpation.

Did you miss me? ;)

"When it was over, all I could think about was how this entire notion of oneself, what we are, is just this logical structure, a place to momentarily house all the abstractions. It was a time to become conscious, to give form and coherence to the mystery, and I had been a part of that. It was a gift. Life was raging all around me, and every moment was magical. I loved all the people, dealing with all the contradictory impulses. That's what I love the most -- connecting with the people. Looking back, that's all that really mattered."

--excerpt from Waking Life

There are people in our lives we are destined to meet, and there are probably the same number of people we were NOT supposed to meet. Some friends come and go, some family members and relatives we get to share ourselves with more significantly, and perhaps a few strangers find their way into our lives and change our perceptions forever. Nobody knows if these social interactions are random occurrences or borne of divine or cosmological intricacies, yet one thing is certain, it is we who choose how deep each relationship goes. It is we who decide how much of an influence each character partakes in our lives.

There are people we meet and instantly find a close connection with. There are people we meet who irritate the hell out of us without any rational excuse. And then there are those who come across as impertinent to our continuing development towards self-actualization.

But like all relationships, first impressions don't usually last and we are often left with the task of nurturing the friendship that would make it last a lifetime. These people who stand the test of time are, in my opinion, those worth keeping. Not to say that I don't have acquaintances or "networks" who are important in the other aspects of my life or how the brokendown intimacy that results in uncomfortable situations need not be prolonged. Again, it's our choice who to keep and who to let go of. (Ahh ... letting go ... what a b*tch it is to do!)

Sometimes the boundary between "close" and "closer" can be indistinguishable. I mean, I've had friends who were very close to me then after some time became just acquaintances. Some we kill off, others leave without sufficient closure. I guess it's the natural cycle of relationships: what you lose, another person gains. We all contribute to the lives that we touch one way or another and it need not necessarily be positive at all. This is why I strongly feel that all people are partly responsible in fucking up somebody else's life. It's the norm. It's, like, an unspoken prerogative.

There are moments of lucidity, however, when we see the picture in full detail, where we see the people in our lives in gray scale and it suddenly makes a lot of sense where they stand. Remember these moments because these are your unimpeded thoughts of pure objectivity. Wisdom or truth springing from your subconscious. Excrement coming from unadulterated emotional constipation.

For all its worth, I am grateful for all my friends, but I'm even more grateful, nay, indebted, to those people who've stuck by my side all these years and have been there for me in mental sickness and psychiatric health. For those times when I hadn't been as lucid as I wanted, when my tongue had lashed out the truth in its most offensive flavor, when my despair had left me asphyxiated in unwavering stubborness. You know who you are Ü

And to my new "cyber" friends and other resilient readers -- I'm truly thankful for your honesty and unbridled intellectualism. Such are rare these days. Ü

PS - I hope it's me talking and not my manic self. Hehehe

pitch and toss

“Satan, being thus confined to a vagabond, wandering, unsettled condition, is without any certain abode; for though he has, in consequence of his angelic nature, a kind of empire in the liquid waste or air, yet this is certainly part of his punishment, that he is … without any fixed place or space allowed him to rest the sole of his foot upon.”

-- Daniel Defoe, The History of the Devil



This isn’t working for me right now. All the explorations I’ve been doing for myself, constructive or diametric, keep bringing me back to the same squareness that is my life. I don’t want to live like this, running away from trouble and waiting to be prepared before going back. (There is not enough preparation one can do for oneself.) I’ve been immersed in different situations that I thought would sober me up, make me more stable, yet I still find myself drowning in the abysmal trenches of the darkness. The pain has become excruciatingly palpable and I’ve run out of ideas on how to appease the need to forget. I’ve tried wearing myself out with music – all kinds. I’ve tried basking in the artificial light of the night, but to no avail. I need an empowering sense of purpose. I need to kill myself yet again though I worry how many lives I have left to live. These are not disposable and there is no reset button for me or for the kids who grew up in my generation. Constancy eludes me and like a radioactive isotope, my moods have become extremely volatile with its own lingering half-life.

It’s closely becoming pointless. All of it.

So, for the next few days I’m shutting myself out from my computer, from my music, from movies and fair weather, from everything synthetic. I’ll shy away from the internet to deal with this squareness squarely in the face. I’m changing again into something amorphous at the moment. It’s terrifying really. I don’t know how it’ll go, but if it helps me forget, if it helps me become more adaptable, then it should be for the good. I don’t even know where to set foot but it’s just something I have to do.

It’s 10:30am. The foray towards another aufklarung begins …

Is this not love?

This is not me

" Lately I find myself out gazing at stars

Hearing guitars like someone in love

Sometimes the things I do astound me."

-- Like Someone in Love by Bjork

It's 2 in the afternoon and I haven't slept yet. Maybe it was the cafe latte I drank last night with Ninjato. Maybe it's the instant coffee I drank before I watched cable. Perhaps it's the brewed one I drank for breakfast. And maybe it's the 2 other cups I downed a few minutes ago. I can't seem to fall asleep.

This is me: Insomniac by choice.

I already procured a copy of Bjork's latest album MEDULLA. Mesmerizing. It's all acapella with the background vocals and the beats but done in such a talented way that you know it's Bjork singing and not just a group of gospel singers or gregorian monks. There's still the feel of it's being European, Scandinavian even, very original despite the fact that it's been done before. On the shallow side, I love her tiny bones necklace.

My favorite tracks are Pleasure is all mine, Where is the line, Oceania, and Triumph of a Heart.

Of course, I may be exaggerating it a bit. I know for a fact that people will have a difficult time digesting this "oblongata" of a compilation, the way I used to feel when I'd listen to her avant-garde-ness in her previous albums. She can get very queer indeed, but through the years I've grown to enjoy her music. It's simply refreshing. I envy her for having all this creative freedom at her disposal. I wish I had a similar trash bin for myself.

Where is the real me? Where is my own medulla?

While eating lunch (tofu and fried chicken), I listened to Sarah McLachlan's Fumbling Towards Ecstasy album and Astrud Gilberto's greatest hits. Instantly, I was brought back to that time when I first started to write poetry. I was reminded of the innocent romanticism between a girl and a boy, between two very different people in reason and in actions, of two human beings seemingly meant to have crossed paths and change each other's lives forever. By the 5th song, I remembered how it was to be in love, to be passionate about something special, to have someone to share all the experiences with. It was inspiringly beautiful and it pains me that I long for this idea of love being cosmically complementary. It's elusive and frustrating, and it never fails to humble me.

This is not me: Tortured soul by consequence.

"If this should be

I say

If this should be

You of my heart

Send me a little word

That I may go

Unto her

And take her hands

Saying

Accept all happiness from me."

e.e. cummings

Under the Knife

"You walked all over, in your blunderstones.
In your own road movie with your one-armed man.
Gonna make it to the problem page, troubleshoot your life.
I hope you find yourself."

-- Low Place Like Home by Sneaker Pimps


Feast of the Immaculate Conception. It was like any regular day of mine where I spend the evenings after dinner going to Malik's computer shop for a few smokes and then through my daily 1hr ambulation. I was right on schedule like always when I check my watch before entering the curb as this marks the start of the "2nd lap." The street parallel to our house, called Andalucia, has a 4-ft tall division in between that separated the northbound and southbound vehicles. I usually walk in the middle, right beside the island because I always felt safer under the lights than near the shadowy sidewalks. I would walk toward the end of the division, make a complete U-turn and walk my way through to the finish line a little over 40 minutes later. I try to do this everyday when I can.

Last night though was different. Somewhere at the 38th minute of my walk when I entered the curb, I saw this teenager jump over the island from the other side of the street. It got me curious how he did it because I don't think I would've been able to, the wall was definitely high. My curiosity would kill me if I let it.

Suddenly, THIS jolog with a cap took out a kitchen knife and grabbed my left wrist. He told me not to run because he'd stab me for sure. He pulled me across the road toward the sidewalk where I saw 2 other companions run from the shadows. I got nervous of course, but I didn't fear getting hurt or getting stabbed. One of them took my watch, the other checked my pockets out. The squatter holding the knife lifted my shirt and put half his hand inside my shorts. He groped hoping to find something there. I wasn't happy to see them but I must've given out the wrong signal.

I heard one of the three tenors comment, "Wala namang dala yan eh." He doesn't have anything on him. It was true. I had P105.50 in my pocket (which they didn't take) in case of emergency. I didn't bring my mobile phone because I never do (which I think was what they were really looking for inside my crotch.) I wasn't even able to bring a handkerchief. The only precious thing I had with me was my old automatic Circa watch given to me by my Dad back in college. The glass was broken already so I don't think they'd be able to sell it for anything. It's funny how I kept thinking all day how I'd readjust the bracelet because it's become loose. I guess they'll be doing that for me now.

Anyway, when the three stooges left, I went on my way toward the other direction. Someone saw what had happend, but we both pretended it never did. I continued my walk and crossed the finish line within the alotted hour. Like clockwork. It was strange because despite the slight paranoia, I felt compelled to get through the routine even if I had to take another route. I figure I needed it to sort out what just happened and to try to make sense out of it. I mean, I got what everyone knew was coming, I got what everyone warned me about. It wasn't pleasant and it's true I'm lucky to be unscathed, but the fact that I experienced it firsthand, makes all the difference to me. The only matter I'm wary about is that it happened so close to home. Literally a block away.

I tried to appease my paranoia by listening to Sneaker Pimps' Becoming X album. I figured a little triphop would do me good. It had at the start but I found myself switching to Lit, then to KoRn, and then to Marilyn Manson.

I always thought I'd have some use for the Antichrist Superstar album.

In a brainless mood today

"I wish I'd only look

And didn't have to touch

I wish I'd only smell this

And didn't have to taste

How can I ignore?

This is sex without touching ..."

-- Enjoy by Bjork

Last Saturday I met up with Luke, Joeboy and his sister Dian. They were supposed to watch Bridget Jones but I came in late so I became the party spoiler. Hehehe We went to McCafe, this pseudo-ambient coffee place made by the McDonald's corporation to compete with Starbucks and all those other ubiquitous coffee places around the metropolis. Joeboy and Luke took a walk around, while I sat with Dian as she wrote the word Krystala on tissue paper using a sachet of tomato catsup. Go figure the excitement. :P

We established that she's taking up AB Psychology in a reputable school and I told her how I'm a frustrated psychologist. She administered a very simple personality test to determine my mode of recall. She asked me to describe a memorable experience.

I described my first trip to the US of A and I described the time my uncle and I were carnapped in their Fairview village. Very short stories, parcels of my childhood that I remember well. She analyzed these and told me I'm a kinesthetic person, one who remembers experiences by the way I felt at the time, how the environment made me feel and how I felt about it, the combination of details on the sensory level of perception. I couldn't help but agree. This is probably why I listen to music all the time, with much of my attention on instrumentation and vocals than on the lyrics sometimes. This may also be the reason why I get antsy when I read a book. I couldn't quite separate the virtual world created by the author and my own world, there in the quaint corner of my bed with the flourescent lamp illuminating the pages while my eyes run along the pickets of words. I'm too biological to get distracted, unless of course the story captivates my interest beyond my need for meals or the internet. Such a shame really, which is why I try to catch up on my reading by getting opinions from my bookworm friends. Hahaha I become this little spineless parasite.

Does this mean I'm dyslexic? Does this mean I have ADHD? There are a number of books out there waiting to be read, I just can't seem to sit through with a quiet mind.

Anyway, last night I was watching Sex and the City and it struck me how the writers for Carrie are kinesthetic too. The types of questions they asked, the words they used ... everything in precise detail in wanting to create a picture of harmony (or disconnection) for each episode. They not only made you see or hear the details, they made you FEEL how the characters felt, think how the characters thought. Deft scriptwriting. Like Carrie, I tend to overanalyze everything, to ask much too many questions that I often end up more confused and doing the wrong things. We are both practical yet idealistic, which is like, a sure ticket to indecisiveness. We both rely on more than 1 friend to get through our travails because we find our need satisfaction in many different people. This is why I have many close friends but not ONE best friend. I feel as if one person can't handle me and my neuroses. Or perhaps I'm merely saving the BEST for last. Hehehe

All in all, I might end up like her, Carrie Bradshaw, spending loads on material things that perk me up, being content with the easy job and not looking to move up, living in a quaint little apartment alone like my father, spending weekends desperately wanting to party with friends or getting a dose of intellectual discourse over caffeine and sugar, becoming the poorer among my achieving and financially secure corporate friends, obsessing over issues and relationships (or the lack of these) then writing about it all as a means to an end.

I may be like this, but then again, who isn't this neurotic sometimes?

... O god ... this HAS to be a low point, comparing myself to a pop icon. 8-

An Artist's Palette

An artist's palette can run dry with air
when using the paint to color his melancholy.
For who else can portray the yellowness of skin
or the movement of unsorted emotions on flat canvass
if it were not for the betrothal of colors and mind?

If one were to touch another's soft palette
with pink tongues instead of their own brushes,
language would not be borne to humans alone,
but to every creature born with the sense to feel
how they are the greatest of all living things.

One must take each color in its own rawness
and spread the legs of longing like a resting mare's.
One must taste indifference as if it were transparent
as if it were water that flows viscously instead of blood.
A tincture of red should brush from where the unicorn's horn
had been replaced with brown hair that made it into a horse.

If one were to taste the green seeds or leaves
and make haste, the blueness of skies or tears,
one's mind would quickly follow suit to endeavor
this inescapable need to illustrate what is invisible:
The landscapes of this earth without a hint of soil,
the changing of seasons without a hint of sunlight.

One must bury oneself in the grains of laboring
and continue to dream as if dreams were unfolding flowers.
Then, orchards must be grown in the black and light
under the sense of an artist's impassioned eloquence:
With furious longing like that of a burning forest
or with the intense desire to pollinate wild spores.

One must discover all of nature's individual tastes
before one can even begin to depict a new dream.
For who else can envision the portrait of a man
who starves himself repeatedly with empty worlds
when he deprives himself of this gustatory excursion?

The colors must be placed carefully on each duct
before it can be made to evoke its curious miracles.
If not, the eyes would be blind, the lips would be pale,
and flesh would be purple or blue like a dying infant's.
A fair amount of wallowing would produce a masterpiece,
as realism acquaints the senses to the color of melancholy.

The Passing of Rain

Pi = 3.14  /  Philippines = 413 dead

I've always hated the hype. Nothing ever delivers when something is overrated and talked about by everyone like it's the only thing worthy of attention. Every fad fades away eventually, it's just the manner of its departure that determines the magnitude of its impact.

Last week, we were told Hurricane Yoyong was the size of the whole Philippine Archipelago and that it was bound to wreak havoc defeating all the other previous typhoons that've come to pass. This prediction came from a famous university observatory. We were told to pray for the possible victims, which if I remember correctly, amounted to around 400+ people in the northern provinces. I had received text messages and invitations asking for volunteer work from friends. Pictures on the newspaper showed the catastrophic aftermath with the passing of rain.It had been a bad dream for many Filipinos and some were not able to wake up from it.

The thing is, the death toll was not caused by the hurricane per se. It was caused by the massive landslides and floods that came with heavy illegal logging in the mountains of the north. It was a logical consequence of having taken all the trees away and uprooting them to make houses and prized furniture. I could curse those people who keep destroying the environment, but while I speak, I sit on a wooden chair in a sturdy house made entirely of wood. These were built in 1954 though, way back when people weren't so avaricious, weren't driven to be destructive for the sake of a decent keep. Nonetheless, the point is, it is people and commercialism that's indirectly the cause of those deaths. 400+ people had to die so that a few families in the country (and maybe in other exported countries too) can enjoy their beautifully varnished and impeccably carved wooden chairs, tables and canopy beds.

I guess wooden furniture will always be a classic, regardless of the latest home interior trends. Familial grieving is a classic too, in that it often takes a lifetime before the trend of thought finally wears off.

It's the manner of departure that determines the magnitude of its impact.

I thought

I thought it was the coldness of rain
creeping up through my skin.
I thought it was a trend
to celebrate Christmas under the blankets.
Where all around me were flickering lights2
that reminded me of your sullen moods,
the drifting embers formed a conscience in me.
A conscious embitterment of my self-indulgence
portraying aloofness like a piece of string
that held the lights all together.

I thought the things I held
were things I held,
the things I had
were causes to celebrate.
The lights kept flickering
over forms of a hand, fingers, legs,
pillow cases and the sweetness of breath.

I would sing of pain like repetitive carols
and I would hear voices
that would remind me of the ongoing season.
Reason, not feelings,would creep up through my skin
like the coldness of rain.

I thought it was a trend to celebrate my moods
like the drifting embers of the year's end.
I thought the things I held
were the things I had.

I would need to crawl under the blankets once more.

Resigned to My Fate

"The idea is to remain in a state of constant departure while always arriving. Saves on introductions and goodbyes. The ride does not require an explanation, just occupants."

-- excerpt from Richard Linklater's Waking Life

Today I faced my anxieties the way I faced them last night -- with resignation to a force greater than life. The only way for me to live with myself is to come clean once and for all, and to accept both my strengths and limitations as a person. After all, even with the most potent dose of Prothiaden, I'm still as fragile as anybody, just a bit more attractive and wiser. LOL

My intellect may be more "exercised" and my emotional "landscapes" may be more traveled on than the average person's, but I'm still bound by physiology, still bound by the same chemical-electrical processes inside my cranium, still bound to the same needs and wants like anyone else. The only thing that makes me different from anyone else, I surmise, is my written output, my imprint in this rapidly changing world we live in. It is what we come up with our lives that distinguishes us ultimately from the rest of the pack. Everyone perceives the human experience differently and expresses these experiences with equal diversity. Hence, all of you who are able to read and comment on my blog entries are witnesses of my existence, that sometime in the Age of Aquarius, an entity who shot up on mood uppers and called himself ©^ennui graced this planet and lived to tell his sordid existence as a post-suicidal quarterlife crisis counselor and chronicler of sorts. This blog serves as the cave that keeps my hand prints and hunting stories on its walls, my rosetta stone of truths and half-baked realizations.

And on this particular day, I chose to come clean by not letting my friend cover up for my lack of initiative (or interest, I should say.) I simply communicated my side of the story the way I needed to. Although it all went well and I wasn't "okray-ed" at like I was expecting, I lost this round again because I wasn't ready to fight with all my strength. I was still too reserved, too safely deciding when and where to take the swing. In the last round, I ended up knocking myself out with the nerves. On the brighter side though, I got paid for it. The quickest two-week title bout of embarrassment that was.

At the end of the day, I hugged all my supporters. I never expected to get so attached to them in such a short time.


My face was blank the first few hours in the office. My mind was somewhere else in the dark clouds of the emerging storm, trying to gauge what signal it could be for me. I was noticeably aloof, in limbo again, albeit with more optimism via the belief that after the storm would come a fresh beam of sunlight that would streak across the horizon and lead me the way to greener pastures.


Till then, I would be burning the leaves with my lungs.

Love Ridden

"No, not "baby" anymore,
if I need you I'll just use your simple name
Only kisses on the cheek from now on
And in a little while, we'll only have to wave"

-- Love Ridden by Fiona Apple



I postponed a decision-making process that shall have become a crucial turning point in my young adult life as a struggling dilletante. It was raining outside and technically, since today IS a national holiday, I opted to stay home and procrastinate. After all, I'm still hoping for the best for my job even if it painfully means letting go of shopping caprices and cd/dvd adventures. A sad way to live but with such promise for a fledgling pseudo-European magazine publishing company, the thought of growth gives me warm hiccup measures in my diaphragm.

God I miss those menthol Davidoffs Nikita brought with her at M. There was no hint of trachaeal hoarseness with every drag. It was like sipping air from a paper straw. Effortless. The green Gudang kreteks I brought were good too. Very light and aromatic. I could use one of those right now if simply to prolong the ambience of rain on my window, the crisp gushes of wind entering my musty room, my thoughts lingering into outer space, dreaming of the elusive radiance revolving around one entity. It's so vivid sometimes it's like I'm touching the fingertips of the unguarded firmament.

I realize now how much I'm holding on to my dreams again and how it's time I should learn to let go. But I just can't.


Oh well ...


To keep me company in these, my reflective hours, I unearthed several CDs I haven't listened to in a while. These were:

1. The Zombies, Best of - She's Not There, Time of the Season, Summertime, Going Out of My Head, I Got My Mojo Working are some of the memorable hits.

2. Kaleidoscope World by Swing Out Sister - The instrumental takes are to DIE for -- Forever Blue, Precious Words, Coney Island Man, Masquerade.

3. Paula Cole, This Fire - Tiger, Nietzsche's Eyes, ME, Carmen (my favorite)

4. Excerpts, Lisa Stansfield - The Real Thing & Never Never Gonna Give You Up (A Barry White original done with justice)



After that, I checked my newly purchased dvds for anomalies. These were:

1. Umberto D. - An Italian film about a senior citizen on hard times in post-war Europe. Seems very interesting and emotional.

2. Splash - Yes. I bought this 80's favorite featuring Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah. For kicks.

3. VH1 Story Tellers feat. Sarah McLachlan - Absorbing. She was so beautiful with her simple make-up and pixie hairdo; her voice equally haunting and mesmerizing. She sung "Elsewhere" with Paula Cole, one of my favorite songs in her Fumbling album.
I really wanna see her perform live. It would be nothing short of spiritual for a kindred Aquarian.

4. Tori Amos in Florida - She's so eccentric, I couldn't help but be drawn. Her rendition of "Professional Widow" was so full of energy, yet with a candid play of restraint. I was awe-struck, shouting in my mind how talented she is. It makes me want to play the piano again. Buy one if I have to.

5. Bjork at the Royal Opera House - She's so quirky, I couldn't help but be drawn. It's her concert for Vespertine. The set was very simple, the costumes remarkably avant-garde, and the instruments were unconventional. I was hoping to find her MTV Unplugged video though.

6. Janet Jackson's videos - I bought this just for one song/video in particular -- Got Til It's Gone with Q-Tip. It's my favorite; Very political, very poignant and undeniably sexy. It's the "tolerable" type of hiphop for me.


I forgot to tell ye all how on the way home from the Cafe, the taxi we rode on didn't have a radio. Well, it's typical me to be unpredictable. I started singing. Cornflake Girl. Love Ridden. Sullen Girl. It's hilarious now that I think about it. The taxi driver man must've thought I was insane.

When I got home, I couldn't quite fall asleep even if I had a slight headache. I turned off the lights and lay down on my bed. I started talking to myself, to the room, to the ceiling, to non-existent people. I don't really remember much of what I was saying.


I'm so silly sometimes, but being silly is good for me.