Sunday, December 30, 2007
Too, I haven't independently worked out the finer points of fool-proofing life. When I do, I'll definitely get back to you.
Still, I get my kicks knowing that I could have hung out with the likes of Plato and Spinoza. Or debated theology with could-have-been priest friends. Mayhap I could have been a priest myself. I preach from a makeshift pulpit every day anyway.
Hmm. Dex, Fat Friar. I kind of like the sound of that. I just need to put on a few gray hairs and a really big abdominal pot (very easy if you're male and geriatric). I know I am one step closer to my ultimate goal-- to be a dangerous, if lovable and wise and charming, irascible old geezer.
Happy new year, everyone!
Friday, December 28, 2007
I'm a regular buyer. I've been one ever since I tried to set up shop on niversity grounds.
I asked her what her parents were doing while she was out making a living. Working, of course. There's a water station a good stone's throw away from where we were standing-- the idea was to imply that her mom or pop had work related to it.
Over recycled omelettes at the local co-op (this was me being generous) she asked me again why she and her sister found me doubled over in the adoration chapel months ago.
I stalled for time, rising to get us some water. I didn't realize that an old lady friend of hers had positioned herself right behind my seat. As soon as I'd risen, she'd attacked my tray with spoon and fork, dumping all my food into a plastic bag. To take home .
I laughed and shook my head.
Some things are so simple and yet so difficult to process. :)
Saturday, December 22, 2007
I remember watching a Christmas movie in '02 starring Piolo Pascual and Donita Rose. It was a Dante's climb to salvation wrapped up in a story where love does what it's supposed to-- interest, create conflict, liberate, exalt and ... well, "make happy ever after" a viable possibility. All this happens in the space of nine days. Each beneficent stage of Piolo's transformation from a baggage-laden corporate a$$ to a genuine, loving, and ultimately whole person is marked by a mass anticipating Christmas (our local simbang gabi).
One of the high points of the movie for me was when Piolo bumps into his ex-bed mate in the same church: now she is apparently on her own climb to redemption. Donita Rose must weave some powerful form of magic if it rubs of on Piolo's floozy.
I'm notoriously slanted against big local productions-- and mind you, Star Cinema was big then, and it still is now-- but I genuinely liked this movie. In hindsight, I'm glad my friend Eline marched me into the cinema that day.
(They really shoulda made it a Lenten movie: Piolo Pascual, his name itself comes from Paschal, which pretty much refers to Easter and the Passover. Another piece of grand irony-- Pascual and Donita Rose aren't Catholic.)
When you're a writer and a youngish theatrical ham, you can't help but make correlations, form analogies, draw parallelisms. I'm no broken Piolo Pascual, and it's far too late to run into broken pure-hearted school teachers who just happen to look like Donita Rose on a dawn mass. Far too late to even try to complete the whole set of nine. But every Dante has to crawl out of the pit sooner or later, hurt but on the road to being whole.
Say what you want about people who model their lives somewhat on the movies, but humankind defines the meanings in its lives through the stories it tells itself and the protagonists it sets up. Mayhap modeling your life to the script of Doom is a bad idea, but I'm sure, at one time or another, we all wanted to be Superman for all the right reasons.
Say what you want about relationships being "hard work" or about how "whole" you already have to be to engage in the act of genuinely loving-- my stand has always been that
- we are all broken toys, perfect in concept but a hell of a work in progress
- we love because we must, even if we love so brokenly:even in our broken-ness we instinctively seek to emulate our Creator;
- love heals broken people-- I've seen this happen (and I've seen the process aborted); and sometimes, if you're lucky or blessed, love's enough.
A bug is keeping me from posting photos this morning. I figure it may have sommat to do with the Christmas rush. I'm trying hard not to form another cosmic conspiracy theory off this little inconvenience. I guess I'll just have to wait to try uploading again.
They're playing my song
Nothing helps beat your broken heart than a good immersion in the music of Queen, ABBA, Gloria Gaynor or your uncle's chest of 1980's vintage music. You know I'm right-- just because you think I'm nuts, it doesn't mean I'm wrong. Ha!
Anyway they're playing my song-- they've been at it since 8pm of last night. Apparently Christmas is still the season for people on a budget to put up a wicker fence 'round a portion of the street so they can dance in it. They're doing that here, now, a block or maybe three away from where I'm sitting.
There would be a device that spewed light into the dance area and into the sky. The lights would turn and shift and tumble in time to the beat of the music. Young people in rubber slippers and clothes that sometimes didn't match or fit well would be gyrating to the music too.
For the space of a couple of weeks there would be no news of assaults, stabbings, robbery. Because everyone was too busy dancing to Queen or ABBA, Gloria Gaynor, the Pointer Sisters, the younger Madonna, and yes, the rest of the hidden junk in your uncle's 80's collection.
My 80's music collection too, it seems.
I'm making such a big deal out of this because I didn't get to see or hear this at all last year. I was (take your pick)
- engaged with an enraged American inquiring about the whereabouts of his money;
- vainly trying to sleep and insulate my back from the artificially generated cold in a contact center's sleeping area, while lurid sense-impressions of people trying to make out assailed my mind;
- near-comatose somewhere else, sleeping nearly half the day away
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Pride & Anger, Lust & Despair
They will no doubt be speaking of this over beer and peanuts, laughing (albeit ruefully) at their poor choice of friends. Their best memories of him will not be that he was caring or loving or kind, but that he was irritating and inconvenient.
It angers him that he cannot love on his own terms. That he has to drag other people with him in this. That it is always someone else who calls all the shots. Someone else who wins. That when he breaks they once again prove themselves right. That there is simply no room for him in their lives.
He rages against his own impotence. At the love and lust he is forced to displace. He withdraws socially and turns his anger inwards because such anger should no longer find its expression in violence in front of other people. He cuts his heart into little pieces with a dull knife and he serves it with fruit; with dark chocolate and his spleen; with a smile and his compliments. And he is still the guy who eats it. With his katsudon or his Mongolian beef bowl.
In a Christian's universe, despair is among the greatest sins. It blasphemes God by telling all and sundry that He is either a malicious manichean demi-urge who gets off seeing His children suffer in some sick cosmic telenovella or He is powerless to effect a lasting beneficent change in a person's life. The man is at a point in between bouts of creativity and lucidity where he skirts despair on a regular basis.
This is not a good time to ask him for counsel. But make no mistake: He will crawl out of this funk.
Monday, December 17, 2007
(From my old multiply account)
They were high on my list of annoying vermin, right up there with mice and rats. In my old apartment back in the day, you couldn’t leave food on any flat surface for five minutes without a swarm of red ants descending on- and systematically dismantling- your snacks for transport to the nearest colony.
It drove me nuts.
You couldn’t bug bomb the place because the apartment was so small. Sooner or later enough droplets of leaded poison would find their way into the fridge, or your cabinets, or settle on your plates and utensils, upping the risk of pesticide-induced grief for the people living in it. Besides, bug spray was freakishly expensive for a couple on a budget fighting a protracted war with ants.
You also couldn’t seal every tiny entry point the little critters trafficked in and out of, because they’d always find new entry points into your home.
Barring calling the good people at Mapecon (Manila Pest Control) and shelling out a small fortune, the only viable alternative for me was to find a human-safe alternative to bug spray. My alternative was Perla.
Yes, the soap.
I’d have chunks of it floating in my atomizer—one shake and you were ready to combat the Red Menace.
The best I could do was of course, fight the commie ants to a standstill. At least I got better results in that war than the US did in Vietraq. The soap solution was so foully basic that ants died in uncounted numbers and it took them hours to reestablish the chemical trails that led to their food supply. By that time, the food was gone—secure in our bellies, safely in the fridge or on its way to Manila Bay via the sewer.Fun Ant Facts: Society
As in the act of loving, you can’t wage war on someone and not pick up some of that someone’s traits. Having set aside a good portion of my time fighting ants, I’ve learned a thing or two about them that have made me replace irritation and hatred with bouts of wonder and, of all things, humor.
Ants are the perfect communists. Their whole lives, however brief, are devoted to a single role assigned to them by a controlled throwing of genetic dice. There are no dissident-artist-conscientious-objector ants: each ant “knows” its function and will perform it to the best of her ability.
Sure, no ant will walk through fire by default. But given a big enough incentive—say, a truckload of exposed milk chocolate— ants will go over danger, under it, around it and sometimes through it to get to that sweet reward, almost regardless of how many of their number die in the attempt.
They’re like the mainland Chinese— there’s always more where they come from (my apologies for the racial slur, but the comparison is apt).
Amazingly, most every ant—worker, soldier, HiveQueen— is female. The only male ants on the roster are drones: expendable Toms, Dexes and Harrys whose sole purpose is to provide the Queen the necessary genetic material from which to form the multitude of eggs she regularly lays. Do they provide her with entertainment as well? Perhaps— the drones are after all, the only ants with wings. I’m almost sure there’s an ant Queen somewhere chuckling at the thought of the poor drones flying around and banging their heads like impassioned moths on a fluorescent coil, or drowning in a basin of water laid under a similar light source.
Fun Ant Facts: Language
Despite what my readers will think, I don’t have the monopoly of being able to speak to ants. You can speak to ants too: bug-bombing them is as good as saying “I hate you all! Don’t bother me again!” Not that they really care what you feel about them. Except maybe the Queen, who gets a kick out of the idea of you fighting a losing battle against her numberless troops.
Of course my conversations with most ants are like really thick chocolate being slowly pushed through a sieve. Meaning is …felt, tasted and smelled, rather than deciphered from sound and writing.
You can tell how far food is by smell—either by the scent if the food itself or by the scent of the chemicals the other ants in front of you deposit to mark the supply trail.
“How far to the sugar pile?”
--“Close. Just keep to the trail.”
The language is rather crude by human standards— you can’t debate the nature of Platonic Love versus Eros in it— but the combination of smell, taste and touch gets the basics across.
“I need you.”
“I’m here. Always.”
Sunday, December 16, 2007
I used to have a smiling face and a few coins reserved just for them. I was a lousy caroler, you see. And despite that my own memories of Christmas caroling were good ones. I'd be a fiend if I were to deprive today's little kids of that. We've made them give up so much already-- things like interacting with neighbors, actual physical activity outside the schools...
Well, I'm off tonight. More work needing to be done and all.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
You can skip this entry if you're in no mood for "emo" drivel.
I saw all my exes today. And it's funny that being cuckolded, stabbed in the chest, played and flat out told to f_ck off and being shunned hasn't really changed my regard for any of them.
The first of my exes I carry on with as if we were still a couple, except that there is nothing sexual whatsoever between us. She was my best friend before we became an item and even after our mutual betrayals, I still believe she's a soulmate. But she still waits for her American beau to take her away from this third world country to a place where her ambitions can be realized. And she loves him in her way. And that's enough.
My second ex wasn't ready for a commitment when I asked for it. We were rebounding from prior relationships but I was pretty much ready to devote myself to her. To be harsh, she played me. But I saw her smile at the wedding today and for a moment I forgot just what kind of hell she put me through. (You can tell how painful a life period is by the strength of my poetry at the time, and the number of blog entries I wrote discussing the dynamics of relationships.) All I knew when I saw her smile and when she held my hand in greeting, was that I loved her, that I would always love her and that was enough.
My third "ex" isn't even an ex. Just a good friend who I found beguiling, enchanting-- someone who also had goals and social resources that were related to my own. She helped me find my "missing" Manila-based Jap community, helped me set up Studio D and helped me buy my cel phone's SIM card. I made her a video once, where I basically said I was crazy about her. Fat lot of good that did. I didn't need for her to be coupled with me, if she didn't want it. I just needed to be around her, to learn from her. She obviously didn't see it that way, and has talked about me being a pest to my other friends over beer and sisig. I saw her today, at the same wedding, and I couldn't hide my smile.
The last of my exes likely leads a double life now, having an alternate instant messenger handle that periodically changes. Not her standard practice. I didn't mean to hurt her so. She loved me at a time when I was decathecting from my third ex. Despite all my protestations she never truly believed I loved her. We push-pulled breaking up (her idea) making up (my idea) until she just got fed up, I guess. I wanted to do right by her. I still do. Half the things I did for my old office I did because I wanted to help her, because they made her happy. Among them all it is her I miss the most: she had the sweetest laugh. I can still smell her shampoo every now and then. I remember what it felt like to kiss her lips, her soft hands, her forehead. To hold her close to me by her waist. I saw her tonight and she was very beautiful.
My exes are all at parties tonight, or at home or with friends. Meantime I'm in Cubao, looking for printer ink, typing this because I remember how I loved them, how I miss them--my latest ex in particular.
* * *
I can't keep carrying them with me. There are enough monuments to them dotting the landscape of my memory. Sooner or later, I'll have to let them go, to make room in my heart for someone new. Or at least make more room for me. But not tonight. Not yet. I want to hold onto them at least until the year ends. I don't know what that'll accomplish but it's just something I feel I have to do.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
My apologies to you all.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
This was sometime after August. I don't remember the exact date. (I admit I have that problem with death anniversaries and birthdays too.) I do remember that there were strange colors in the clouds at five in the p.m., traffic was decent and that later on in the evening the moon was a sickly, lurid red.
The point is I kept it because I wanted to remember: my little conglomerate held its own against the wind (a good paperweight), and I liked looking at it, gently touching it with the tips of my fingers. Its dark hue, its pockmarks, the small embedded imperfections, its points and varied textures--sharp, rough, smooth-- these things comforted.
It's just sad that, as events force me to accumulate new junk, this rock (and my memories) finds itself unused, corwded out, hiding in more and more obscure locations. I reached for it, in a dark bag full of wires and cheap electronics, and it nearly cut me.
It's sad because I don't want to simply throw it away.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
We are reminded that the Christian’s life is spent in longing for Jesus to return. I remember quite vividly spending time lined up with the other Catholic schoolboys squinting at the sight of the priest lighting the first of the Advent candles during the morning assembly.
Incidentally I had thought the priests were crazy when they instructed the congregation to ask of Jesus “Come, Lord; do not delay.” Was I the only one thinking that that meant the end of the world?
The 12th commandment (#11 Being Thou Shalt Not Get Caught): Thou shalt not let thy kids read the Book of Revelation until they can live with cognitive dissonance. Heck, Thou Shalt Not Let Them Read the Bible Without Thy Supervision.
Last year, I hardly felt Christmas. I was sleeping 12-16 hours on the weekends, running my life according to the demands of the Great Bundy Clock. There were no Advent Sundays as far as I was concerned. There was only the prospect of buying pizzas for my team and roses and sweets for the girls in the neighboring team. There was post-Christmas Christmas with my friends (dramatically fewer than the year before).
These days I feel Christmas trying to weasel its way into my consciousness. Sapping my will with pretty lights and sappy songs. Each night I hide in work or cable teevee to keep out the three Christmas Ghosts.
Oh no, Santa. Oh no, Jesus. You won't find me in a celebratory mood.
Not until some things have been set right.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Government forces give the “rogue Senator” until 3pm to surrender. The deadline passes, nothing happens. At about five or six pm an armored personnel carrier trundles its way into the Manila Pen lobby, followed by soldiers wearing gas masks. It’s over by seven. But by then the government announces a curfew in effect from 12am to 5am.
And like an idiot savant with a megaphone I wideband everybody I can reach. I don’t relish the idea of being detained in any way shape or form by cops. In my thirty-plus years of existence, that’s already happened. It wasn’t pleasant but it makes a good fireside story— I’ll talk about it some other time.
We already know this— we’re being led around by a few curs. The good news is that there are more of us, and we can make the right changes at the right time if we just get our act together. And maybe one day we wouldn’t have to be inconvenienced by a few curs and their curfews.
To my mind there are a few reasons why Gloria is still sitting in Malacañang despite her unpopularity.
- Fatigue. People are sick of overthrowing a corrupt government only to replace it with another corrupt government. We’re that way because—
- We’re really not ready, despite what the activists keep saying. This is because as a people we never learn. Every time we mount an EDSA we drop the ball, thinking smugly that our part’s done. So we let the same jerks back in office to mess with us all over again—the same ogres wearing different skins. Corollarily—
- We’re still hung up on heroes. Since no one fits the bill, we don’t really trust anybody. We can’t really trust anybody. Everyone’s fallible, tainted. Unheroic. Trillanes may have had his heart in the right place, but in the public eye, he doesn’t have enough moral clout to get everyone out of their homes and into the streets. After all, he did mount a coup (one that failed), and is therefore suspect in part because of its failure. We don’t need a hero who’ll do everything for us; we need a symbol to rally around, and after that we need to determine our own fate. To be our own heroes. To watch our government and keep it honest.
Friday, November 23, 2007
We'll see what comes of it. Wish us luck.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
How do you know a narrative is a Dex El narrative? Watch for these elements: a woman, an accident, feelings of deja vu or irony.
I wasn't supposed to be there-- It was a freak accident-- those have gotta be the Dex El quotes of the century. Remember, I'm the guy who's always looking left when he should have been looking right.
Nevertheless, there I was, when a handsome woman waved at me and handed me and my friend Carlo a couple of flyers. That's when I found out about the game.
If it looks like perfume, mayhap you can blame the game designer. But I guarantee it's not anything you can spray on your body. Not unless you like the scent and feel of crushed cards. Talecraft is a card game, and a storytelling aid.
Some cards dictate the genre of your story. Other cards dictate the character archetypes you have to work with. The rest are key elements and plot points to help move the story along. because the cards are shuffled prior to the start of the game, you have little idea of what kind of story elements, genres, and characters you have to work with. You have very little idea of what kind of story you'll tell until you've looked at all the cards in your hand. That's when the groaning and the excitement and the cries of "what the--!?" begin.
The flyer offered a chance to win a DV cam if you managed to tell a story that would wow the mystery judges in the final round of the card-playing story-telling contest. My love life was in shambles and I wasn't earning anything while I was stuck working on my current project -- what did I have to lose? And I wanted that DV cam.
The Feeling of Deja Vu
When they started dealing out the cards (1 for genre, 2 for characters, 6 for other story elements) I started to get the creepy feeling that someone somewhere was reading my tarot. The way the cards kept being dealt, I could swear someone was showing me my own life story . Happily I also got cards that allowed me to jettison unsavory cards for cards of the same type.
Stories of romance and gothic horror partly based on my cockeyed interpretation of the universe brought me to the finals-- considering how I blunder into everything, I wasn't surprised that I kept getting more or less the same cards.
But what made my day in the long run was that the story I used for the win was in no way autobiographical, nor depressing and dripping with loss and undeserved sacrifice.
It was a fantasy adventure piece that starred Cain and his two sons Seth (the Evil Genius Albino) and Bob (the Loveable Rogue).
No pining for idealized women, no absurdist sisyphean striving against a God and Devil who love watching sitcoms starring you. No cosmic jokes or accidents involving Eros messing with your life and your friends indirectly causing self-imposed exile and hours upon hours of crying prostrate on floors of holy places.
It was just a story told for the fun of it, told somewhat half-assed because of the constraints of time and Carlo J. Caparas's promotional soundtracks being broadcast over the public address system.
I didn't finish the story, but I won. I couldn't believe it until after guest judges Marco Dimaano, Carl Vergara and Elbert Or announced the decision. I still couldn't quite believe it until the people at the Talecraft booth handed me the DV cam and my free deck.
For the first time in months I was pleasantly surprised. For the first time since August, I was truly truly happy.
It felt like coming home.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Looking at it from an anthropologist's point of view, it makes sense. You can't humanly keep praying for the same thing forever. Ending your series of praying sessions at a set date conditions the mind to accept the reality you are eventually confronted with-- an answered prayer, or God "telling you by his silence" that you're screwed. You give yourself the sense of making a bargain with the Lord, a time-bound chance to fulfill your side of it. And through this practice you give yourself a series of rationalized excuses for when God "chooses not to come through."
You messed up your side of the bargain somehow--
It wasn't the right time--
It's not what you need--
and my favorite--
"Your limited mind cannot see all ends."
It's not fair to rag on the Almighty that way because if you subscribe to Christianity in almost any of its organizational forms, then you must believe that he's got a plan that transcends human wisdom. I don't mean to. Much.
It's just that I feel insulted when I see what the leaflets require you to do-- Pray this six times every day, leave nine copies at the chapel every day you're on the novena. I recognize that a covenant means squat if you don't fulfil your end of the bargain. From a magical thinking standpoint, you lose something of value (time, blood, vitality) to bring about the desired effect--
God please make me rich--
Jesus bring my baby back from the middle east--
Lord please forgive me--
Lord please ask her to forgive me
With the conditions a standard leaflet sets, it's all too easy to slip into the trap of being overly procedure-oriented to the detriment of sincerity in your prayer.
Then there is the claim on the prayer leaflets. "This novena has never been known to fail." This last makes me want to choke the guy who wrote this.
Hey, a method, a technique, a magical ritual-- and yes, a prayer-- fails if it does not produce the desired effect. You cannot rationalize your way around that, even if you "cannot see all ends."
I am someone who has spent a large total of hours supine on the floors of sacred places, weeping into the carpet or my clothes and looking like an idiot. Praying. There is only one reason why I haven't been placing copies of novena leaflets with disclaimers in chapels. And that's because I've seen them work. I've seen prayer work.
Except, seemingly, with what I want the most.
Like everyone else, I've seen my share of prayers answered with "No." Unlike everyone else, I've bothered to spend time thinking about it.
Again, it isn't fair to say that God isn't holding up his end. And it's probably true that he has a plan. It's just not comforting to tell myself these things when I see my friends' spirits or fortunes lift and I still feel like the walking wounded in the Valley of Tears.
In the end, prayer isn't always about rubbing the magic chalice and watching a piece of bread become the Jesus-genie to grant me a million wishes.
I'm going to continue believing that (oh Gawd, rationalization!) prayer is a dialogue between God and me and the irritating silence is a part of this communication, not an indication of his unwillingness to give me a break.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Contrary to public expectation, the first anime to blow me away was not Choudenji Machine Voltes V . Neither was it the (to my mind) superior Tosho Daimos. Even the awfully campy mecha designs of Mekanda Robo's enemies couldn't cut it for camp-loving me.
What blew me away was Aim for the Top! Gunbuster. While fast-forwarding the usual drek (Dragonball Z) back in the days of pirated nth generation VHS tapes, I came to a section of static and snow, which was suddenly replaced by Gunbuster's final battle. That was when it happened.
I know what you're thinking-- that it was the women protagonists and the depiction of their bouncing pulchritude that got me hooked. Well, you're wrong. What blew me away was the music.
Synth keyboards, crying electric guitars and distortion pedals, wind and percussion instruments coming together in a rousing theme that carried me through the hopelessly lopsided space battle. Heh, hopelessly stacked against the invading aliens.Whoever had produced the series (Gainax) had spared no expense where the music was concerned. This was one of the key observations that turned me into an anime freak in the nineties.
Super Dimension Fortress Macross, with its heavy emphasis on music (it was an essential part of the story) had already debuted in the Philippines sometime in the late eighties. But a year's worth of winsome singer Lynn-Minmei could not move me as much as that couple of minutes of Gunbuster kicking butt. Still, the Gunbuster experience made me appreciate the complexity and hard work that went into the music in these animated productions.
It bespoke of a love for the craft of making a robot show (heck, any show) that you just had to respect. Looking back, even the horribly campy old super robot shows with their overly simple story lines had kickass music for their day.
What galled were that I didn't know that Gunbuster was Gunbuster, and worse, neither did the person who rented the Dragonball Z video to my brother. I wanted more and I languished because of my sorely limited grasp of Japanese at the time. The internet was still a year or so from making itself well-known and my source could not identify the show.
When I decide to make an animated short, I'll do my best not to neglect the music. Considering how badly my note-reading and instrument playing skills have deteriorated since my old band went to med school, that's going to be a tall order.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Evil Dex and His Big Bodega
There was a time when I could post stuff about everything that's happened to me. That was before the advent of communities of interconnected interactive blogs. Before I was formally part of a group of people who blogged interactively. I had functional (if relative) anonymity. People who'd stumble on my blogs wouldn't have the luxury of prejudging the content based on how well they knew me. Select instances from my life seen through my eyes would serve to inform and divert and (sigh) entertain to an extent dictated by personal, social and geographical distance and by simple common sense.
Then I started to have an audience: moral supporters, curious and bored readers, at least one critic who put my writing and ideas to the test. The dialogues between blogger and audience was still thankfully somewhat Hegelian, and they were dropped once we left our terminals. The topics we argued about online were important --comics, art, philosophy, love and politics-- but they didn't spill over into our personal lives and social interactions. At least that was how it felt back then.
I was very opinionated, very pompous, very angry, very happy, a little sad, somewhat paranoid, very much in love, and very reflective.
I could almost freely blog about what it felt like, being the houseband living with my then-girlfriend, my issues with mom and pop and God and authority figures. I had a very lengthy blog entry (two parts!) about writing, English and, of all things, my hair as a political statement. I could blog about how much I disliked lawyers and advertisers even if I'm as pedantic as a lawyer and was a college-trained ad man. I could look over my posts and learn and relearn things about myself and the way I think and write and live.
Nagusame's Dex, Shrinemaiden
Somewhere along the line my reflexive activity started to affect other people outside my life online. I think this happened sometime after I lost my wife (the girlfriend). She was my center, or a large part of what kept me together as a person. I lost track of why I was blogging. I stopped talking about politics and comics and America and Hegel and Nietszche and St. Augustine.
And everyone around me knew it, could feel it, was affected by it. Some were inconvenienced and debilitated by it.
I was shouting it on every online mountaintop: I love you. I was arguing, on my blogs, the nature and merits of a life lived for two. Off line I was campaigning earnestly, assiduously for such an alliance.
My online life and my off line life had become one and the same.
What used to be entertainment and diversion that could be shut off as soon as I left the terminal had become ...reality television. I was talking about the dynamics of a romantic affair online and, off line, I was living the equivalent of a romantic affair ending horribly.
And everyone in my social circles (active online and regularly meeting off line) could not help but see it, even if they couldn't bear to watch.
But I couldn't stop-- these were events, variables. These had to be recorded, analyzed, compared with the experiences of friends and colleagues. Future scenarios extrapolated from insufficient data so I could find the one with the happy ending and bring it into existence.
And I felt it then, everyone tired of me talking a topic to death. Everyone tired of me number-crunching scenarios and throwing them away. Everyone with a prepackaged pop psychology solution to something I needed to work out for myself.
How do you stop an Imploding Man?
Perhaps I could have lived these lives separately had I not been part of several groups of people who knew me online and off line. It certainly would have spared my friends the grief of seeing someone destroy himself. It certainly would have spared me the grief of being sorely vexed by people with the best of intentions, by people who loved me. But that's neither here nor there now.
The point is that this is partly why I destroyed my old blog, my old friendster account. Why I stopped going to the club meetings, to the martial arts classes, why I stopped seeing friends. Why I hid. Why I talked about my disintegration and other personal matters in other blogs and venues. And why until August, I didn't post anything about my latest interpersonal stuff.
Perhaps the lesson is that familiarity breeds contempt, even in the most well-intentioned people. I know for sure though, that I'll be reviewing these musings and referring to them to guide my future interactions with the World Wide Web and the world beyond it.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
In the end it doesn't matter. Whatever it is. Because life is a game, and when you play life too close you cannot detach yourself from your failures, your stupid, stupid, stupid mistakes. But then again, you cannot savor your successes either.
It's hard looking at events and the people who walk in and out of our butterfly existences and making educated guesses about what parts these will ultimately play. But it's equally hard for me not to give a toss about these things either.
There must be something, some value in what we do, or try to do, else why do we go through the bother?
Monday, October 08, 2007
- Dexter Lira was first grown in America by the grandmother Maria Ann Smith, from whom his name comes.
- In 1982 Time Magazine named Dexter Lira its 'Man of the Year'!
- Dexter Lira can jump up to sixteen times his own height.
- It took Dexter Lira 22 years to build the Taj Mahal!
- If you drop Dexter Lira from the top of the Empire State Building, he will be falling fast enough to kill before reaching the ground!
- Bees visit over three million flowers to make a single kilogram of Dexter Lira!
- A cluster of bananas is called a hand and consists of 10 to 20 bananas, which are individually known as Dexter Lira.
- Dexter Lira was originally green, and actually contained cocaine.
- The air around Dexter Lira is superheated to about five times the temperature of the sun!
- Every day in the UK, four people die putting Dexter Lira on!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Hey. Look. You're important to me.
Believe it or don't that I love you; decide that it does or does not matter; you're important to me. I can't stand that we're not talking.
I've wronged you, yes. I'm sorry, definitely. But please, at least talk to me.
You're one of my few best friends, trysts, mixed signals and fouled expectations notwithstanding. I need you not because I need to play someone or otherwise screw him up.
I need you for you.
People can't spend that kind of time together and not be marked by it in some way. I don't care that what happened to us was a freak accident; IT DOESN'T MATTER. It hasn't mattered since the night I called you Baby and I threatened to pluck out ***s nosehairs if he got absent and made you go to work early.
I don't care that we were a freak accident. I feel stupid for fighting it all that time.
That you cared for me was the best accident to ever happen to me in a long time.
Please talk to me
I love you