I missed a miracle tonight. The spirit may be willing, but if you oppress the body enough, wills without Christlike discipline tend to cave under the pressure.
All this is to say I'm home, recovering from self-inflicted damage, when I should be somewhere else communing with (gasp) Jesus and my fellow man.
I'm sorry, Jesus. I'm sorry Ron, Eline. I'll make it up to all of you next month.
Y'see, I've been going on and off to the Cross prayer meetings in Makati. They're good people, apparently more concerned with sharing how God's touched their lives than with training and equiping footsoldiers en masse in the jihad against apostasy. It also helps that a good number of attendees are Catholic, like me. 
I know, I know. Prayer meetings --artistic no-no, unless you want to be a... a gospel singer. Case in point: Side A. An artist's work generally loses its edge when said artist finds God because he's too damn happy. Most art is born from need and happy people don't have any. Except maybe the need to annoy everyone else with blow-by-blow accounts of how they became happy. 
But artists are also people (earthly, mortal) and like it or not, most people have a bigger need to connect with the divine, (i.e., not people, earthly or mortal). Hence, the prayer meetings. I'm a mortal person with a need for peak experiences first and foremost-- Art's been a b!tch to me lately.
It's not so bad. There have been people who've done "happy art" who have thrived doing it-- I've found the most moving, least clich� "happy" praise songs in a contemporary Catholic's repertoire.
Maybe not so like me. I'm probably the only Catholic-Buddhist there, sheep with wool the color of tea leaves representing a flock of one.
People on prozac apparently have little need for anything else, except maybe more prozac.