SOMEBODY THAT I USED TO KNOW

I love how my sister and I can still listen to a song in the car and manage to dissect/decipher its meaning... first via looping. Then googling the lyrics... while driving. On EDSA.




Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
But had me believin' it was always something that I'd done
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know

So Kimbra is the [current] girlfriend who's getting f*cked over by her boyfriend (Gotye) who is apparently still hung up on his ex --- cuz no guy would be as passionately upset with their ex... unless they were still hung up on them. That was my interpretation.

My sister believes Kimbra is the girlfriend who doesn't WANT to end up becoming somebody that he (Gotye) used to know.

Either way... a guy with a hang up IS SO CUTE. Sad yeah. But cute.

Solitude matters.

And for some people, it is the air that they breathe.



***That is why I can honestly say, my most passionate and creative poems and letters (regardless of whether they were actually good or not, haha), as well as their abundance and my obsessive/compulsive need to put them down, be it on paper, napkin, post-it, index card, or even sheets of cartolina paper taped to my bright pink wall... came from when I was living inside a 6 x 8 foot bedroom under the stairs of my college dormitory... aptly named "Calma."

*Calma Dorm Main House and the long orchid-riddled driveway that I used to watch from my 2nd floor bedroom window sill (my first room before I moved under the stairs), cigarette and coffee in hand, and wait for Prince Charming --yes, Prince Charming-- to come and rescue me. (And yes, I imagined he would be on horseback, too.)

I was 18.

Ten years, 3 jobs, 3 promotions, 1 child, and almost 3 loving anniversaries later, I see that the city doesn't give you room for solitude. But at least I was blessed to have had that time in my life, to have had the luxury of solitude, because I don't think I'd have become a good a partner or mother or as good a person to share my life with... if I hadn't chosen to live in that room for 3-years and to realize that that was all the space I needed to be happy. Even if I was just being emo most of the time. =)

And I'm happy I was able to commemorate that time in a notebook... which I put inside a box along with some other personal stuff and which I assigned to my sister to give to Psyche when she was 18 (the same sister who sent me the link to this insightful video)... the same sister who also decided to go through the box and my notebook the other day...

Because she's a douche. =P

Because he thought of me when he heard this song.

My husband knows me ALL. TOO. WELL.

Thing to do in this lifetime: Learn to drift.

I wanna go to a karaoke bar...

... and sing these three songs (on top of my staple karaoke favorites "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Bukas Nalang Kita Mamahalin")

Because today, I just missing being one of those girls who need to find a reason to sing some emo chick track. Like... seriously. Maybe it's cuz it's Monday and I'm hormonal but there's just something to be missed about being completely and utterly involved in your... infatuations. I miss being emo. Beats being a hipster.

Why we heart photobooths

For the some times when it hurts instead...

Because I want to be there for her when she experiences her first heart break and she finds herself locked up in her room singing with a mad passion only suffering souls endure.

Hopefully... she'll sing just as loud... because that would be funny. *evil grin*

But definitely, like any loving and supportive mother who feels her daughter's woes, I will make sure to leave a tray of chilled vodka outside her door... and maybe some peanuts in case all that crying makes her hungry. And hopefully... she'll open the door, when she's ready, and call me inside to join her.

One night in Bangkok

IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OUR "THAI WELCOME" (as indicated in our media itinerary) ....

So we don't know WHY IN HEAVEN'S NAME WE WERE BEING OFFERED A "HAPPY THAI ENDING!"

Not to sound elusive or vague but I think... *swallows down vomit*... I kinda sorta know how SOME massage parlors go about "offering" (albeit with not-so-subdued subtlety) their "happy ending" service.

***This was so NOT the Sukhothai we had in mind (our tour guide completely played us).


                  Here's me, excited and utterly naive BEFORE the "one hour of Hell" began.

Seriously, all I can say at this point is... before you try out some method of whole body massage, do your research first to see if you're supposed to be massaged in a "certain manner" and in "certain, more delicate areas." *cringe cringe cringe and so wants to raid the Singha beers in hotel ref*


PS. That bystander effect bit is soooooo true. All of my colleagues in the rooms beside me DID NOT MAKE A SOUND during their "session." My male colleagues, especially, didn't say a thing. (And mind you, our masseuses were GUYS. Skinny Thai guys... IN COTTON SHORTS.)

In cotton. f*cking. shorts.


Here's to DAY 2. *gulps*

Panaginip

You and your friend crashed into the back of my sister's company car and then drove off, leaving them hysterical, scared, and bloodied in the middle of Makati one drunken night. I hated you that day. And I never respected you after that.

I remember screaming obscenities at you when I called your phone. You asked me why I was so hostile. I asked you why you were so crazy.

But I suppose that's the thing with death. It reminds us of our humanity. It reminds us that we are all fallible. And it hopes, as is with the human condition, that we are all forgiven.

I felt beautiful but also interrupted. I wasn't used to being so complicated.

                                    My crazy/beautiful family last Christmas

My father said he no longer wanted a grandson as we ate dinner at Red Kimono over at Technohub for his birthday. "He's gonna turn gay with all of you girls around." We laughed and reassured him that that wouldn't happen... but I could tell, from the way his forehead wrinkled... he wasn't kidding.

I just think he feels he's got it good to have so many pretty girls being sweet to him all the time... and a boy would just annoy the living bejeezus out of him, hahaha!

But I'm not going to talk about my father today.

.....

While it was my father who celebrated his birthday the other day... it was my mother who gave us [my sisters and I] a celebration.

And I learned that it's never too late... to understand your mother (to forgive them, optional).

In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.

And I learned that my dad was an ass to her when they first got together (sorry dad) and that it was her mother-in-law (of all people, God rest her soul) who kept her strong and steady.

The expression in her eyes was bitter as nightshade. 'You ask me about regret? Let me tell you a few things about regret, my darling. There is no end to it. You cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought us from there to here. Should you regret the whole chain, and the air between, or each link separately, as if you could uncouple them? Do you regret the beginning which ended so badly, or just the ending itself? I've given more thought to this question than you can begin to imagine.

And I learned --as she finally cared to admit-- that despite her own marital problems, when she sees how successful my sisters and I have become, she feels blessed, that all of it (and I mean all of the crazy shit we had to endure and felt we were being punished for because we never got it, never got her, and why she kept it all bottled in because she was either too insecure or too proud to show any sign of weakness) was worth it, was worth the trouble, that her pain and sacrifice had paid off, knowing that their union (albeit turbulent and completely insane) was able to give us a life worth coveting.

Girls were born knowing how destructive the truth could be. They learned to hold it in, tamp it down, like gunpowder in an old fashioned gun. Then it exploded in your face, on a November day in the rain.

And I learned... despite our occasional "estrangement" and our constant head-butting and incessant disowning.. that she was always so proud of me for being strong enough to be on my own when it was necessary, whether it was to become a scholar at UPLB or to become a single mom.

I liked it when my mother tried to teach me things, when she paid attention. So often when I was with her, she was unreachable. Whenever she turned her steep focus to me, I felt the warmth that flowers must feel when they bloom through the snow, under the first concentrated rays of the sun.


And I learned...

Nay...

Reaffirmed...

That while it was our father who gave us the smarts and the sensibilities (and yes, even the financial benefits)... it was our mother who gave us the strength and the courage to be strong. And even though she's galaxies away from perfect and even if I don't agree with how she lives sometimes, I don't think we could've asked for a better mother... at least, a mother better equipped to raise the kind of women my sisters and I are today.

They wanted the real mother, the blood mother, the great womb, mother of a fierce compassion, a woman large enough to hold all the pain, to carry it away. What we needed was someone who bled, someone deep and rich as a field, a wide hipped mother, awesome, immense, women like huge soft couches, mothers coursing with blood, mothers big enough, wide enough, for us to hide in, to sink down to the bottom of, mothers who would breathe for us when we could not breathe anymore, mothers who would fight for us, who would kill for us, and die for us.



And I learned... as I rode in the car with her as my two younger sisters convoyed on over to hit up our next drinking spot... that my mother won her very first singing contest some 30 years ago by singing "Islands in the Stream," she reminisced as the song came on in the car.




***Quotes taken from Janet Fitch's White Oleander

Daddy's little girls

                                       To the human God of our idolatry: Our Father.


Because my dad is probably cooler than your dad... only because he says "Beer Lights" instead of "San Mig Light"... and because he drinks with his daughters and watches my husband's gig. =)

Happy Birthday, Daddy!