The Probable End

..is that I'll get derailed by all the thinking that I forget to be here when it matters. I refuse to do this anymore unless absolutely necessary. I can't think of one reason not to right now. And then, of course, there is micro-blogging. That's where you'll be seeing me from now on. So it won't be so sad. Thanks for watching. If you know me a little better, there'll be pictures, too, somewhere in the Internet. Until then, goodbye, Intermittent Reader.

Close Ties with the Matrix

Lieutenant: I think we can handle one little girl. Agent Smith: No, lieutenant, your men are already dead. Well, it can't be helped. The middle finger of my left hand twitches by itself. The I that I think is me is looking at the world and seeing nothing worth looking at. It's becoming a chronic feeling of boredom that I just manage to live with day in and day out. It's tragic. I used to have so much lust for life prior to this. I bought a Tolle book and got around to reading it. I went to Mass at 8 and wondered whether all these were about the same thing. Over-analysis gave you that. The challenges I give my mind: they excite me. Maybe the truth is I really wasn't wired for the normal human stuff like the work grind and having babies. And not because I'm special or something--there are way cooler people than me who know their way around with all these things going on and I respect that--maybe I'm just a little too unfeeling/flaky/subdued for my own good. At the same time maybe the truth is this is all just an excuse for fearing total surrender. Maybe I pretend to care. Maybe I care. Maybe. It doesn't matter, not really. Neo's boss: You have a problem with authority, Mr. Anderson. You believe that you are special. That somehow the rules do not apply to you. Obviously, you are mistaken. But truth is ultimately (ultimately--above when I say all truth is relative) knowable and absolute. I contradict myself left and right but if you look really close there it is: the moment you dis-identify with what your mind tells you about the story of your life, the moment you start watching/listening to your mind do its thing, you realize the harshness of how all this is not really what makes you you: not the relationships, not your personality, not your family, your job, your work, your studies, your travels, your experiences. The inherent fear of letting go of this, this hinders us. What are you if not your achievements, your goals, your successes, your privileges, your lineage, your favorite softdrink, color, shirt, music? We balk at the possibility that all this is just an elaborate, addicting illusion. Agent Smith: As you can see we've had our eye on you, Mr. Anderson. It seems you've been living two lives. One life, you're Thomas A. Anderson. You have a social security number, you pay your taxes, and you help your landlady carry out her garbage. Don't tell me you can't tell. You can bury your head in your job, in your love life, in your prayers, but who hasn't felt there was something wrong and off with how you really perceive the universe? Morpheus: I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up. Ironically, this is not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate, Neo? Neo: No. Morpheus: Why not? Neo: Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life. Morpheus: I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain. But you feel it. You've felt it your entire life. That there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is but it's there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I'm talking about? Of course I'm reading too much into it. Neo: I used to eat there. Really good noodles. I have these memories from my life. None of them happened. What does that mean? Trinity: That the Matrix cannot tell you who you are. But it's the only real thing I've ever really known/felt for a long while. The moment you let go, the moment you detach from ego, the moment you recognize brain chatter as not who you are, you see it. The point in all this. I'll tell you in time in clearer words what I mean. I'm still grappling with words to define what I mean. Maybe describing it is all I'll ever be able to do. And it's okay, you know? If there's something else this whole thing-I-can't-properly-talk-about taught me, it is this: you have to learn to forgive yourself everyday. If you can start with that then you're well on your way towards what's real.

Vestiges of Birthdays Past

It's Mayee's birthday today. Driving around from the airport we saw places and remembered stuff we used to do. The thing with memory, everything's always pretty looking back. Well, not always, but often if you really want it to. There's something different these days. I'm not sure what I feel about it. But I'll make do. Dear Mayee, I hope you write stuff in your journal and then post them in your blog.

In the End

We're all fucking attention whores. Admit it.

Hindsight

We were fixing stuff in the house and I found this paper bag of letters people wrote me in highschool (some for some retreat, most were from ordinary letter exchanges). I realized I was a much kinder, admirable, giving, unquestioning person then. Which gets me to thinking if I learned something I really shouldn't have learned along the way to so-called maturity.

220-5283-33

They made us stare out the windows all morning, and we didn't mind. Only, we weren't allowed to touch the glass that separated us from the greenery. The other dude hated me for not getting with the program, unlike the others who want to get the revolution going but what can you do. We're famous for what we create. Instead, I sat near the porch-like areas and started drinking beer and started making songs. No one understood this. They all wanted to kill me. They threw things, at the walls, which were impenetrable, at each other, at me. They kissed, made loud, angry sex, searched everybody's pockets for pills and injectibles. They sang songs of death and desolation and of losing lovers in war and mothers in strange, unexpected accidents. I'd cry when they're not looking. All I wanted was for one of them to touch me. What they didn't know, what I had in my heart (in my blood, really), was what would cause the walls to melt away. It would cause me to die, too, but I'd rather that than this. That they hate me.

Short Straws

Setting out today to write. My mom offered to do the laundry, which is all I do during the weekends, almost. I played the cajon (monkey hear monkey do style) but I'm seriously considering reading sheet music (beats) for the songs I really like but how come there aren't any. All I scoped were some Jen girl demonstrating a "country two-step beat" and some basic drum drill but other than that the YouTube videos offer nothing. You get people doing the cajon but none teaching you how to play. Tragic shit for thirsty greenhorns everywhere. Tita's done taking a bath, it's my turn now. The reason I'm stuffing this blog with inane shit you don't really care about is a few days ago I was itching to take down all my online preoccupations yet again (not because of the time management sessions but) because--well, if you have tough decisions to make in the real world sometimes it's tempting to make parallel changes in the digital universe. Deleting a blog/Facebook/Twitter/Multiply account is easy as pie.

Heavy Breathing

Eyes on the prize, baby. Most important thing I learned from the sessions is to peg a stop-loss time limit to things I do, so I don't overwhelm myself. And that anything or anyone that makes you feel bad is most probably a waste of your time. So what you do--you stay far away. You do something else. You hit the cajon til your hands hurt. You listen to music. You read books. You learn something new. Some other notes: I should cajon more, and write more, and get that ear-piercing. I'm in no mood for wise-cracking today. I miss someone somewhat and all that person represents. Sometimes I feel I'm too original it hurts. Done here. I'm going to go read a birthday present.

I Don't Know What Comes Next

So there I was right, I set the mood for some crazy-ass writing, I had dinner early, we waited for the birthday girl to come. I fired up little man George, sat beside the food to ward off roaches, and started typing. I got us far as the part where I remembered writing the last time, but after that I forgot how the story was supposed to go. I feel hurt that way because I thought I knew this Story inside out. I could pretend I didn't care what happens next. I can go right ahead and take out the log file and write the next fucking scene. But from where do you write the next scene? From which vantage point, from which changed creation, from which new realization? You can't skip scenes--not really. If there must be pain, feel it. If there must be joy, savor it. And then write the next scene. Maybe my mind wandered. None of this is working: not the breathing exercises in the morning, not the daydreaming, not the stories I tell myself about that better place. But there is no giving up. Not with me. Not with this story.

This Will All End Soon

As I suspect the rumblings of something in my gut. I'm not sure--I can be wrong. I'm leaving for the condo again tomorrow morning for five days give or take and I'm wondering whether what I'm saving by way of commute money is worth not being at home for stuff. The cajon is at home and I can't access certain sites at work and we're coming closer and closer to a decision about which channels to choose for when we get cable (finally someone got around to opening cable channel packages for customization). The winners are National Geographic and the Discovery channels. We can always get series off of somewhere. And we don't particularly like movie channels if you want the truth. Too much investment required. So there'll be days to think of that. For the meantime, Intermittent Reader, let me bask in my amateur CSS skillz and how, in a span of ten hours I was able to get the Bartender Extraordinaire's website to look a little better. Now for SEO and site-submissions. On the writing front: nothing. I swore I'd make time. I swore I'd make time. This week I'm going to look for a proper coffee shop. My birthday? The team mates have done the sweetest things, as usual, but no one wanted to touch the cake when I threatened them with a kiss. But barring that, frankly, it IS nice to know you're loved every now and then. Eric was right (hmpgh): the unexplainable outburst the week before was probably due to birthday blues. I was planning on sulking, again, on my birthday, but happy stuff made that impossible. Last week at lunch we've been asked what the middle of year meant for us. In my heart, my birthday WAS the middle of the year. Don't bother fighting me on it; that's what I believe. On my birthday, I made my family eat somewhere nice and then I went off and watched Transformers 2. I rode the bike that morning and that made it all the special. It's nice to have goals, friends. They're something to look back at when you don't know just how the hell you ended up exactly where you are and not somewhere else. There's a reason for this and for me the most refreshing part of it is this time it's all because of my choices, my decisions, my deliberate treatment of anything and everything I can about my life. There's this guy I once knew who said (and I'm sure I've said this in one of my other posts) the more responsible he made himself for the choices he made, the better the choices seemed to be. I wonder how cool it'd be to bike around Eastwood in the mornings. I suspect cars wouldn't give bikers the same respect as they would in Marikina (medyo kapos na nga rin sa Marikina, but it's the motorcycles I hate). I tried running one morning but it had just rained so there wasn't anybody around and I felt weird running alone, like there was no use. With bikes you had to move--everything made more sense. I'd wish everything else made more sense. But I know myself better than that.