If ever I have a kid with a great voice (ahem, it is possible, I have recessive singer genes), I'd be playing Disney and Broadway music in the mornings, throw in Motown, some rock and some opera, even rap and reggae, have him/her take voice lessons if he/she wants. We'll go to plays, concerts and gigs, lots of them, and we'll have so much fun.

That's because I came across Mallory Bechtel while looking for The Last 5 Years covers. She's so talented and lovely and amazing and I want to know someone like her in a real overwhelming way. Is that weird?

“And—maybe it’s ridiculous to go on in this vein, although it doesn’t matter since no one’s ever going to see this—but does it make any sense at all to know that it ends badly for all of us, even the happiest of us, and that we all lose everything that matters in the end—and yet to know as well, despite all this, as cruelly as the game is stacked, that it’s possible to play it with a kind of joy?”
...

“And as terrible as this is, I get it. We can’t choose what we want and don’t want and that’s the hard lonely truth. Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it’s going to kill us. We can’t escape who we are. (One thing I’ll have to say for my dad: at least he tried to want the sensible thing—my mother, the briefcase, me—before he completely went berserk and ran away from it.)

And as much as I’d like to believe there’s a truth beyond illusion, I’ve come to believe that there’s no truth beyond illusion. Because, between ‘reality’ on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality, there’s a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic.

And—I would argue as well—all love. Or, perhaps more accurately, this middle zone illustrates the fundamental discrepancy of love. Viewed close: a freckled hand against a black coat, an origami frog tipped over on its side. Step away, and the illusion snaps in again: life-more-than-life, never-dying. Pippa herself is the play between those things, both love and not-love, there and not-there.

Photographs on the wall, a balled-up sock under the sofa. The moment where I reached to brush a piece of fluff from her hair and she laughed and ducked at my touch. And just as music is the space between notes, just as the stars are beautiful because of the space between them, just as the sun strikes raindrops at a certain angle and throws a prism of color across the sky—so the space where I exist, and want to keep existing, and to be quite frank I hope I die in, is exactly this middle distance: where despair struck pure otherness and created something sublime.

And that’s why I’ve chosen to write these pages as I’ve written them. For only by stepping into the middle zone, the polychrome edge between truth and untruth, is it tolerable to be here and writing this at all.

Whatever teaches us to talk to ourselves is important: whatever teaches us to sing ourselves out of despair. But the painting has also taught me that we can speak to each other across time. And I feel I have something very serious and urgent to say to you, my non-existent reader, and I feel I should say it as urgently as if I were standing in the room with you. That life—whatever else it is—is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open. And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch. For if disaster and oblivion have followed this painting down through time—so too has love.”

- Excerpt From: Tartt, Donna. “The Goldfinch.”

 “But depression wasn’t the word. This was a plunge encompassing sorrow and revulsion far beyond the personal: a sick, drenching nausea at all humanity and human endeavor from the dawn of time. The writhing loathsomeness of the biological order. Old age, sickness, death. No escape for anyone. Even the beautiful ones were like soft fruit about to spoil. And yet somehow people still kept fucking and breeding and popping out new fodder for the grave, producing more and more new beings to suffer like this was some kind of redemptive, or good, or even somehow morally admirable thing: dragging more innocent creatures into the lose-lose game. Squirming babies and plodding, complacent, hormone-drugged moms. Oh, isn’t he cute? Awww. Kids shouting and skidding in the playground with no idea what future Hells awaited them: boring jobs and ruinous mortgages and bad marriages and hair loss and hip replacements and lonely cups of coffee in an empty house and a colostomy bag at the hospital. Most people seemed satisfied with the thin decorative glaze and the artful stage lighting that, sometimes, made the bedrock atrocity of the human predicament look somewhat more mysterious or less abhorrent. People gambled and golfed and planted gardens and traded stocks and had sex and bought new cars and practiced yoga and worked and prayed and redecorated their homes and got worked up over the news and fussed over their children and gossiped about their neighbors and pored over restaurant reviews and founded charitable organizations and supported political candidates and attended the U.S. Open and dined and travelled and distracted themselves with all kinds of gadgets and devices, flooding themselves incessantly with information and texts and communication and entertainment from every direction to try to make themselves forget it: where we were, what we were. But in a strong light there was no good spin you could put on it. It was rotten top to bottom. Putting your time in at the office; dutifully spawning your two point five; smiling politely at your retirement party; then chewing on your bedsheet and choking on your canned peaches at the nursing home. It was better never to have been born—never to have wanted anything, never to have hoped for anything.”

Excerpt From: Tartt, Donna. “The Goldfinch.”

I ordered Jollibee breakfast joys for everybody, although there was nothing joyful about the occasion. We had no sleep and didn't feel like it, but we had to eat. It was the morning after the first night you were killed. You had just been set-up so everyone can pay their last respects. I got to my food after finishing some phone calls to priest and lawyer friends. We had to say mass, I had to know what to do and how to communicate with the police. I also had to update your mom. I had to try to be methodical and bussinesslike to prevent misstep, so that I would not fall into a despair. Later, I got to my cold food, the grease on the meat coagulating and the fried egg already limp and rubbery. I had to choke it down with bitter coffee but the clammy feeling won't wash off. I wanted to hurl it out my gut and hurl the uneaten portions onto the wall. To this day, I can never eat another Jollibee corned beef meal ever again.

Love is wanting to be loved

I know I can be fucking annoying sometimes but that is only a function of my care and concern. And I'm tired of talking to walls and being told to lay off. I've been given this treatment by a brother, a pseudo-lover, a friend. Even if people tell me, "hayaan mo na yung mga taong pinagtatabuyan ka," I still have this nagging feeling that the way to be of help is not to back down but to blast through their closed off hearts and go all in even if it's humiliating. I'm not gonna apologize for who I am. Dammit, I will hug you even if you flail your arms in disgust and anger.

But then again, the reason I might be doing this is not because they need me or any help for that matter, but because I need to reach out and be with them. And it's a need they cannot and might not ever fulfill and I have got to accept that, move on, and focus my energies on people who appreciate my presence in their lives--those who allow me to care for them because they realize I want and need to, it's also for my well-being, and that I can't live otherwise. 

This got me thinking of a movie I watched some 5 years ago. The subplot proposal scene got me: 

People need time and space. I will give these to them not because I don't think it's bollocks, I do, but because I deserve to be in others' who want me to be there. 

Point this sinking boat home, once and for all, will you?

Five years ago, this song was on loop in my playlist. It is a beautiful song that resonated with me then. It was this, UDD's Bipolar, Death Cab for Cutie from Something about Airplanes to Narrow Stairs, and Neruda's poems spoken by different artists for Il Positino that whispered in my ear almost 24/7 since I didn't get enough sleep that whole year. Needless to say, I was always in this melancholy haze which I didn't think I could get out of. Ever.



Today, things aren't that bad. But something remains the same which I hope will change soon. I am always rooting for the people I love, even if it means I root against myself. This is why I liked the song very much. It tells of a person willing to get out of the way of someone else's dream. I hope I would never have to do that again. The first time was crippling. The second time was a little humiliating but mostly sobering. I'd like to think we grow thick-skinned with these things. The point has been made; a third time would be just cruel. I hope that someday I would be the other person's dream.

A Change

Dream Sequence: I was rushing back to my hotel after a late night dinner outside. My vehicle only got me up to a certain point. Then I had to walk past the queue of tricycles to get to the hotel gate. It was a full moon night and the clear sky cast a soft glow on the tricycles' clunky metal bodies. Everything looked blue-gray, but luminous. A few drivers watched me walk by. I was wearing a red, knee length, short-sleeved, A-line cotton dress, buttoned from the waist up, with tiny white polka dot prints, and this made me doubly conscious. I sauntered past the gilded gates and skipped up the stone steps leading to the lobby. It was a wide expanse of stairs, eerily like the steps in front of the Daraga Church. There was an event at the lobby and a dozen or so people spilled over from the grand entrance but still faced the stage, attuned to the program that seemed to be winding down. It was surprisingly quiet; no shrieking emcees or loud music. No raucous laughter. A few steps up, I noticed an old man, thin like a hanger, with longish graying hair jutting out in upturned waves from his ratty baseball cap. He was standing a meter from me, looking out in the direction of the gate but at nothing in particular and singing Sam Cooke's "A Change is Gonna Come". A few levels above him, I stopped for a second and looked back. He wasn't blind but he didn't seem to notice me. For a split second, I had the urge to speak to him but I didn't want to disturb the soulful way he was singing the tune. I considered staying a while but it was late, the words of his song rattled in some hallow part of my gut and I felt spaghetti and meatballs rising up my esophagus. Anyway, I reluctantly made my way through the throng of people to the elevator and punched my floor. The old man's voice clung to my fingers like sticky honey.