Let’s Talk About Ants

(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.

“Hello, Friend.”
--“Hello, Friend.”
“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.”
“Need help?”
“Yes.”
“I’m here. Always.”

Blinkered

If you've been trying to reach me on my cel over the last couple of days, then you undoubtedly will have gotten frustrated trying to do so. My cel battery has been dying over those past few days. It died completely yesterday. I don't have my charger, and my directory of important numbers has always been in my phone. It's easy to find others who can assist-- theoretically.

My apologies to you all.

Exhausted

Made another mistake in a long line of these. Still shocked, still processing the night's events. Bottom line: I was lucky, probably we all were. I can't make this right directly but I will when the time for it comes.

Setback!

I can attribute some of the work-related weirdness that's been happening to me to the godawful Christmas rush. I've been trying to keep away from it, trying to work in sealed bunkers where I won't have to move out until absolutely necessary. Getting out of these bunkers depletes resources that I'll need to continue all my work. But I still have to go out, to rush to meet people though, and lately things have been getting lost, shuffled around, because it's harder and harder to travel the streets. I'm losing gas and sleep and I'm often stuck in between places where you can't make output or send it. My phone battery is on the blink. And yes, I'm not eager to make or return phone calls.

So here I am preparing to rush out again. I am hoping I won't be as unprotective unproductive.

rock

There is a piece of polished masonry I've been carrying since late August. It was part of an office building that had likely been demolished a month before that time in the Ortigas Center area-- the facade, perhaps, or the floor. I'd seen pieces of this dark, marbly substance. I remember telling myself what a shame it was to waste these pieces. They would have made a good trophy base, name plate, sign or paperweight. I picked a good-sized bit of dark building-facade rock (wikipedia calls it a conglomerate) and took it home with me.

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.

Nobody really reads this crap. Why does my hit counter register increasing hits? It can't be all me. Sheez.

Why I can't live and work in Eastwood City

It's a nice place to visit but it has its own snags.

You can't really walk out of the condo unit wearing rubber slippers (flip-flops to my American readers) or an ugly shirt. Everything is ridiculously expensive, from food to internet time.

But this is a great place to hide out when you want to work without external interruptions. There's ample power, ample water --and a heater to boot! After the guards get used to your face they tend to leave you alone. When you need eye candy you can take a stroll and look into any of the posh and semi-posh temples of commerce.

I tend to keep to myself and the condo though. I'm in no mingling mood. Even if I'm often faced with the threat of cafard.

Fringe Workflow Reports—

Dexes and Exes

When I started Fringe Living it was meant to be a blog about living and working on the fringe, that is to say, life and work outside the comforting miasma of a desk job and life with the parents. Lord knows it was long overdue (the blog and life and work sans mom, dad and desk job).

It was supposed to be devoid of the heavy political, philosophical and personal baggage that permeated The Big Bodega. Then I lost my—okayokayokay, I’ll get off that topic since I’ve talked it over to death.

Fact is I’ve talked of nothing else but my troubles with my whole peer group and my exes.

Today I’ll be doing something different. Talking about something I should have been discussing in this venue. It’s something called work.

Project Yearbook.

I’ve been doing nothing but the Saint Columban’s Diamond Jubilee souvenir program over the last two months. I can’t market my others services while I’m doing this thing. That’s because there’s only one of me and I can’t promote myself, do videos and the yearbook at the same time. The yearbook’s long overdue and God knows I really won’t be getting money for it.

In between bouts of non-stop work and non-stop stupor in places where I can’t easily be reached for comment (or for nagging) it’s almost a gift to be able to marathon episodes of Smallville and Supernatural.

Anyway here’s my progress report—

I’m still indexing adverts that I’m working on. Should be done by tonight.

1. I have to re-import some jpegs (I’m using Freehand) because they’re coming out pixilated on the printouts. Should take an hour, should also be done by tonight.
2. I gotta get started formatting the ads. I’ll do this last. Hopefully I’ll be done with what I have by Tuesday.

Litmus

Every second an opportunity to turn it around.

It sounds easy. It is easy. In principle. All it takes is a little courage. A little understanding.

My courage and understanding failed me last night (actually two nights ago). I could have changed tacks. Stayed on the line, been my charming self. I did love this woman—I do love this woman. I knew it was her the moment she picked up the phone and spoke.

All I could remember when I heard her voice last night was just how bad the situation between us was: this woman hated me so badly she wanted to forget me. I didn’t, until that second, realize just how angry and afraid I was. Angry at our choices, terribly afraid of the day—this day— that we would speak again.

I wanted the conversation over and done with quickly before I said anything stupid. By default, she wouldn’t believe me anyway. And what new thing was I supposed to say, to add to this stilted conversation? She’s already heard everything—

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry we turned out badly. Life just isn’t the same without you in some way shape or form. I miss you, your mannerisms, your jokes.”

That night there was something I wanted to add: I am so afraid of displeasing you any more than I already have, that I have exhausted your capacity to even listen to me. I wish I could get past this. Despite what you feel about the actions I took and the choices I made, everything I did, since you decided we were over, I did because I value you.

The moment passed—

In the real world she asked for the caller’s name. My name. The name that finally came out in a rueful breath. There was no way to give it without her finding out that this voice belonged to the man she hated, the man who "used her," the man who "frightened her." Never mind that this voice belonged to the man she once loved.

In the end I can only pray for similar moments, for the strength to cut through the bullshit and reach that dear friend I once had.

Every second an opportunity to turn it around. Every day a litmus test to see if this is true.

Beating a Dead Horse

I don't want to be continually apologizing. And knowing what I know now, it may be best to leave well enough alone. I'd hoped that there would be time, prayed for a different ending, gone so far as to try provoke a response because anything was better than this existence without you.

I honestly don't know how I could have messed us up. I did love you; I still do. The bottom line as best as I could determine was that you felt I was taking you for granted, was too hung up on the past. One day you simply decided you wouldn't live with that anymore. From your standpoint, there was no feasible future with me. Everything else stems from that simple fact. Everything snowballed into that big mess that saw me driving you farther away.

I'm sorry. For everything. I can't fix this; I so desperately want to. It's not my call anymore.

Please believe me, I do mean you well. There're so many things I'd wanted to show you. Like in the old days. I wish we could talk.

Someone's found me on Skype

...and I'm not sure if she's even a "she."

It's flattering being asked if I want to "play." Lord knows it's been a long while since someone's called me "Baby." Sadly, as much as the loins may stir at the prospect of a virtual tryst, work still needs doing.

And that this girl is always on-line seconds after I sign in, makes me wonder if she isn't an online software version of a femmebot. One designed to ping the accounts of select Skype users periodically to see if they're online and then send them messages encouraging them to follow a link to her home porn site.

Intriguing, this possibility of being propositioned by a marketing gimmick.

Jogging in Place

I don't like myself today. Every other word I'm saying is either "f_ck" or "bullsh!t." And every other gesture I've been making with my hands is to flip somebody the bird. Not that I would normally point that at anyone but I've been doing that so much someone is bound to see it.

I haven't been truly happy since August. There were moments-- in the middle of editing and contributing to a really fun video or talking about camp icons. Or that time when I became a mime for my friend Maureen. Or that one time when I helped the mideast resto with their electricals and maybe saved 'em from a fire. But since then, nothing. Abso-f_cken-lutely jack-bull-sh!t.

Which is ironic, since in that respect, I'm in the exact same place I was two years ago.

I can handle it better, thank God. And my current workload keeps me preoccupied enough so that thinking about where I am doesn't take up all of my headspace. I still have some major decisions to make that I've been postponing, pending the end of my current work project. Check back with me next month and I'll let you know how those are going.

I am praying that when you see me next I will be smiling, and not because I'm ruminating about the aptness of the image below--

I've logged a thousand miles following the highway, and all this time everyone else was moving while I was actually jogging in place.

Oh god I'm flipping someone the bird again...

Weeks--maybe a month ago-- I dreamt of you. There were scars on your legs, your shins and I kissed them. In the dream I didn't know how they got there. I wanted so much to make the wounds and the scarring go away.

Again, off multiply. June 05 2007

I am getting really tired of serial romances. The kind that begin like a sunrise-- warm, slow and sweet, lending life to last night's washed out colors. I'm even done waiting for the cooler, more muted liaisons, the ones that are built on love and logic. I am, simply put, tired of waiting for sense to make its way into my friends' thick skulls. The self is not God's Gift to Women, but it's the best and only self I've got. I am tired of laying it with my customary roses, marjoram and fruit on a silver platter only to have it unceremoniously sent back to me for consumption with all the parts torn up and put back together wrong. The f_ckups I've had to deal with are nowhere near the legendary levels of last year, but it's very discouraging just the same to be told in so many ways to go hang. I am especially tired of waiting long periods of time for fear, loathing and contempt to fade away when they should not have even been there in the first place. I refuse, however, to give in to indifference (everyone else does) because neither of us has to. (Why am I the only one who sees it?) I will not play the pissing contest of "Who Loses More?" There is nothing stupider than two once close people pointedly ignoring each other and telling their friends what an utter moron the other person is. The situation is unfair and I'm supposed to sit here and take it because everyone else does? Bull cookies. Something has to be done because it can't keep being this way. None of us can afford it. Yes, I'm a gods-damned moron for thinking that there must be a better way to live and go about caring than this. Because if there is none, then we're all screwed, courtesy of our own fickle and benighted natures.

(this is a cross post from my multiply account)

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.

Reality TV

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.

Bottom Line

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.

Too much has happened for me to put it all down in a way you'll be able to read properly. Which is good, because that means I've been productive. What's maddening is that this is also true: there's a lot of nothing going on in my life. Large chunks of my time are spent just waiting.

Waiting on the customers.
Waiting for them to fully pay up.
Waiting until I can safely leave to buy supplies (and by then most stores are closing).
Waiting until I can get on line.
Waiting until the public toilet is available.
Waiting until income actually clears debt.
Waiting for plans to come to fruition.
Waiting for God to act.
Waiting for people to soften, and
Waiting for Godot.

Not that I don't fill these waiting times with other activities. But the filling does not change the feeling that I am again, likely, time's fool. That something is up and I have no idea what it's about or when it's all going to happen.

Well. Back to work.

This is how I know I'm not being read. My hit counter's gone up by one and I sure as hell know I was my site's last visitor.

Tin. 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

Prayer

Father I come to you again with sullied hands, storming heaven with my incessant requests. I am fully aware of my unworthiness. But each time I've prayed for someone else you've answered with speed and grace and subtlety. I want you to answer me this time.

I do not want the comfort offered by a parent who can't prevent pain. "Shhhh, shhh, I know" is not comfort if I have been at the receiving end of it twice in a row. What comfort is it to know that you know, but will not act? I don't have your vision. I can't see what's ahead. I only know that you move in the world because when I pray for friends, something good happens.

I beg you to let that something good happen to me.

I sense your handiwork in the events that swirl around me but I cannot see their end. And for now, I cannot see my heart's desire on my horizon. Let me not love or pray or struggle with my backsliding in vain.

I ask this in your name.

Amen

Dearest Tin,

I love you. I did. I always will. Goodbye.

Dear Jerrah,

I'm writing to let you know I burned out on a girl again. I'm also beginning to wonder just what the latest of these rejections means for me. I scare women, we've established that. Lord knows I scared you. But the things that scare you are seemingly the essential parts of me-- an earnestness that translates into creepiness, little gestures of affection that are often read the wrong way in the world of sexual politics.

People are obsessed with finding their Other, saying aloud that he or she doesn't have to be perfect yet thinking exactly the reverse. Then when faced with imperfection, they buckle, they break. They can't or won't seem to remember just what it is that made you special in their eyes, just what it is that they saw in you. And you're the one cursed with all the remembering and all the regret.

You want to try the experiment of simply being friends but they see your feelings, your intent and these things threaten them. You want simply to be with them, see them, and everything you say and everything you do is always heard and seen in the wrong light. The things you used to be able to talk about when you were "just friends" are the same things you can't talk about now, even when they're talked about with other friends. You become an imposition on their time, which has suddenly become more important to them than it was previously. And they say hurtful things and you say hurtful things and it just spirals into worse...

It's so easy to change people's views for the worse (hurt them), so hard to change people's views for the better. We tell ourselves love isn't about changing the other person but that's what we expect when we engage in loving.

I don't know, Jer. If a person's character is destiny, and if it's nigh impossible to change it, then it's quite safe to conclude that some people are simply never meant to marry, or love another on intimate, personal and sexual levels. I'd be better off hiring prostitutes to bleed off my libido since no one wants to share herself with me in that meaningful way.

My heart knows this isn't true in spite of the evidence in front of me (you know how well the logic of "evidence" damns). Maybe I'll have some proper answers one day. Or maybe I'll be writing you again about this exact same impasse a year from now.

In the meantime, I hope you are well.

Dex

Cat Got Your Tongue

Tonight I'm going to the nearest adoration chapel, to pray for friends who have cause to grieve.

Pacs' girlfriend Joyce miscarried and is dealing with the loss of her child. Pacs has been pushed away, is unable to help. Not all is well between Anna and the American who stole her away from me in '05. Him, I don't much care about, but Anna deserves the happiness I could not provide her.

Meantime I don't know if I can still bring myself to pray for my own needs. You see, several months ago there was not a day when I wasn't at a chapel, praying that God would at least soften Mylene's hardline stance against having me around. The year before that, the name in my prayer requests was Socorro. I am... less than satisfied with what happened.

I'm thus not too keen about praying re: my situation with Tin, never mind the fact that I love her. I haven't been the best of boyfriends and most anything I say would be a cop out excuse regardless of how... But I love her. I want to do right by her. That's the important thing. I can only hope her heart can see me rightly one day soon, before this missing her kills me.

I do love her.

My Best friend is Getting Married... Again

As befitting a Baptist who is part of a non-denominational Christian church, my friend Dexter Buenaluz, known to a few on deviantArt as hyperdex, is getting married in the same church.

In my universe, one wedding is usually enough. In an ideal world the "real" wedding is the church wedding. Take the cue from some of my oldest friends and call me a delusional sentimentalist.
I think that this is one instance when the church and the state can drop the separation. It would save us a lot in fees and logistics and stress if a marriage solemnized in a church ceremony was also recognized by the state.

One ceremony, one set of fees. One ring to rule them all... and in this marriage bind them.

Nevertheless, I think it's sweet that he'll marry his wife again.

Well.

Time to implement Oplan Zero Visibility.

A Return to Living La Vida Fringe

I've quit my ultra-stressful high-paying job to live on the fringe of society again. Not to say that the life I'm coming back to was always stress-free. Like many people who were suddenly saddled with the cares of adulthood, I was also presented with irritating catch-22s.

Have lots of time but make measly money. Or make a crap-load of money but kiss your time goodbye (hello, you're married to your work now!).

I am determined to beat this. If there is one life-changing thing I can do, let it be that.

The God in Me-a

My co-worker surprised me once again. She did the equivalent of reading my palm, and quite accurately too-- she asked me to draw a person and a tree and she told me stuff about myself. While I didn't appreciate her going into shrink mode-- I've had a sh!tload of people falling all over themselves to judge me and chart the course of my life-- I did appreciate the sudden epiphany I received. I was appropriately thankful.

There wasn't much that's changed in me since the time my wife left me. I'm reserving judgement about whether or not that's a good thing.

I'm thinking maybe the Universe is trying to tell me something with regard to the broken, needy thing that is my heart. Let you know what else I discover in the coming days.

On Friends

One

My friend is still a sanctimonious jerk. But I love him and I'm not about to lose him because he has to be right all the time. Neither do I want to lose him because I dislike how cavalierly those who are right treat those who are wrong. His viewpoint is not the only valid one in the universe.

I am upset because he continually sees me as a basket case. If my peer group was Asia he'd be Taiwan and I'd be Bangladesh in his eyes.

I have to keep in mind that his universe revolves around him as mine does around me. He is my friend regardless of how we see each other.

Two

We were lovers. Regardless of what people say or think or do, that is what we were. I just wish she would acknowledge that. Am I so loathesome that to say we were once joined at the hip is an embarrassment? an affront to nature?

I am beyond asking her to love me back now, even if that is my dearest wish. Her actions have spoken volumes about who she cares for, who she chooses for a mate, what she seeks in a man (obviously not me).

I only want two things now-- that she speak to me again; and that she acknowledge even if only to herself that we were lovers once. I have slandered myself enough; I've no desire to have others tarnish who I am pereceived to be.

It's All About Me

I've been asked, at the Quezon City residence, why I'm so selfish. It's only dawned on me a few days ago why this is so. It's 'cause I'm pretty selfless everywhere else. At the end of the day or the bleeding work week I just want to go someplace where all I'll do is eat and sleep and be oblivious to everyone else's pain.

I guess this also answers other people's questions regarding why I'm so "needy."

Anyway, it's a sh!tty situation, being too tired to spread warmth and cheer where it's needed most (the home) because you're expected by everyone else to be cheerful outside of it. I don't exist to be someone valued for just my skills--at least not in the home-- and certainly not when those skills can be easily learned by the people at home who need them.

Yes, no one really has the time to do all that learning, especially when the computer is involved. But then that means the people concerned will have no choice but to put up with me being a very reluctant, irritable and very condescending old sourpuss.

Nobody bothers to visit this page anyway, so:

I am no longer part of your clique, your subset. You won't miss me, not if your actions are anything to go by. It'll be as if I've never been. Damn bleeding shame. But maybe it'll be for the best.

Goodbye.

Everybody Thinks You're Crazy (2)

I have to add this as a companion piece to the last post.

My friends cite their overwhelming concern for me as a motivation for their badgering me. Because they don't like seeing me "like this." They forget that there were only a few times when I was "like this." That maybe there's an overwhelming reason why I'm moping like an idiot.

I'm not always like this. And I'll come out of it when I'm damn good and ready to.

Everybody Thinks You're Crazy

They do think I'm crazy. My friends, gentle readers. It's not the first time and it certainly won't be the last. Normally I wouldn't mind. "Crazy" is usually a badge of pride. Means forward-thinking, off-center in a cool way. It's just that right now their definition of "crazy" is the kind of crazy that, if knocked up a couple of notches, gets people locked up and on medication for depression.

It's because they see me "suffering" and "miserable," hung up on a girl who-- for one reason or another-- will never return my affection. Dex has fallen and fallen hard and is therefore on his usual trainwreck ride to his special hell. He must therefore be saved from himself, barring having him committed, by means of friendly if exasperated and angry unsolicited advice. Really, it's the Angelica Wars all over again.

Quite a few of them forget that years ago they were also moon-eyed over an uncooperative someone or other. How hard was it to convince them that they had to just let the matter drop and move on like they want me to? It was like wringing blood from a stone, to listen to the accounts of others who tried vainly to dissuade them.

Okay, what's my point? My point is that people deal on different levels, in different ways. And most times, simply telling them what ought to be done hardens them to the idea of it. Some people learn their lessons the hard way. Often the people who are in these messes are so mired that they cannot simply disengage even if they wanted to. What they need is for their friends to be with them whatever happens.

They never got that one reason why the Angelica Wars lasted six whole years was that everyone I'd talked to was doing my thinking for me. Dex, do this. Dex, do that. I just needed time to process my own thoughts, to know that whatever my choices, I would still be able to return to the safe harbor of their regard.

I remember promising only that to two friends of mine playing a courtship tug-of-war. Guy loved girl. Girl didn't like the idea. Guy talked to me. Girl talked to me. I could not take sides (but I was secretly rooting for the guy). I only did three things--

1. I listened.
2. I wished for each of them the best, praying for each as he or she asked.
3. I told each of them I would still be a friend regardless of what happened.

Guy won girl.

So how can this same guy tell me to quit when he didn't? I could have told him the same thing years ago when the girl was giving him a tour of the special hell. No guarantee I'd get the same result of course, but I have to see it through on my own.

There are no words more foul to someone who's had to turn the other cheek on issues important to him when he finally decides he wants something bad enough to take a stand, than the words "move on." He knows why he may have to, but the point is he doesn't want to have to. Not until he's fully convinced himself that the effort is futile. Eventually if the effort is futile, he'll come to accept the need to walk away from a bad situation. But he has to come to it on his own terms or his decision will always feel tainted. He'll never know any peace.

Heresy

I can barely remember happy.
I'm used to these trysts being
exercises in futility, excuses
to burn me at the stake
for the heresy of loving you.
Half the time you didn't even
show for these witch trials.
Nevertheless your perpetual crowd
would dunk my heart in water,
gleefully waiting for it to float
so they could shoot at it
with rumor and innuendo
to assure themselves
that all was right with the world.

I can barely remember happy.
Happy was long talks, long walks with you;
Happy was midnight taxi rides in your arms;
Happy was kissing your hand good night;
Happy was putting a blanket over you;
Happy was falling in love with you
When loving you didn't have a name.
Happy was half a year ago.

Now-- another tryst I'm not
so sure you'll come to.
Another witch trial with
all the motions mapped out;
Likely the same tired verdict.
If the charge is still heresy,
I'm pleading guilty to save you time.

But maybe this time it won't be bad,
won't end with a charred corpse,
won't end with a heart full of holes.
Maybe you'll actually get it--

that the world is really round;
and that I'm in love with you;
and that maybe,
just maybe (heresy!)
it's not such a bad thing.

I'm tired of hiding behind innuendo and comments on the sly. I am. But I'm stuck posting this stuff in nooks and crannies you're not likely to look at because of something or other that involves other people who should have absolutely jack to say about the way we run our lives.

Duday, I love you. And it hurts that we aren't talking.

Look: You spent the better part of two weeks trying to ditch me. And so for lack of anyone to talk to, thinking loving you is a lost cause, I decide to talk to the one person I haven't talked to in months-- our ex landlord, my oldest confidante and your ex-friend.

A few days later you suddenly want to talk to me--likely to chew my head off-- because I've up and told him seven words, through text: "Nel I am in love with Duday." But our timing stinks because you're headed to Nueva Vizcaya for a week and I'm headed to Cebu for two.

Now you don't want to speak to me at all.

You know I'd make the time for you-- I always have, even when it inconvenienced, even when it hurt. If I had the money and all of time at my disposal, I'd do a lot more if only so you'd smile. You know I'd walk through fire for you.

I'd always find a way to be near you because you make my heart sing. It isn't easy seeing you hugging everybody else when we used to hug a lot. It isn't easy being so close and having to restrain myself because you don't want me touching you. And like an idiot I keep coming back for more of the same. The contortions I had to go through-- to hide behind my glasses, to take the snide whisperings of people who shouldn't even have a say in what's between us, to stuff my feelings down my throat when what I wanted most was to shout them out on every mountaintop. To sing them to you.

Did you know, in the dead of night, whenever I'm alone, my blood still burns and my body still shakes because it remembers-- it rememebers!--what it was like to hold you? Don't you wonder why despite all the crap I've had to take from you, the club, Dacs, our well-meaning friends, why I still stay?

Simple math. I love you.

For the last time, it's not bleeding rebound. But it won't be much more if you shut me out.

Awfully Tired of Someday

Porn is not helping. Neither is booze.

The View from the Fourth Floor

Stopped by last night at the Heart Center to visit my mom. As I stumbled and felt my way around the building, I realized how maddeningly simple and convoluted a hospital built this way was like. Think of the view from right above the building. The Philippine Heart Center for Asia looks like a four leaf clover with a large, hollow, square center. Every few meters you had to turn and turn again. There were signs and markers aplenty, but you could still miss the room you wanted because you're so used to a building with four (not twenty-six) corners.

I'd only been here a few times. Twice on two art workshops--yes, I was a Fernando Sena* baby and so was my ex-- and two more times visiting my Mom.

Despite the decrepitude affecting infrastructure and technology in the Philippines, the place looked and (very importantly) smelled good. The last time I was there (my mom was also confined for something or other) there were signs of bad funding and shoddy work-- construction debris piled up in one or more of the least-visited corners of the Glorified-Red-Brick-Four-Leaf-Clover.

Wards and triage areas are usually not the best places to be stuck in, in a hospital. Even if they're in the Philippine Four-Leaf-Clover for Asia. The suites--I don't have a better term-- though, are another thing entirely. There was air-conditioning, ample privacy, a teevee and a decent fridge. There was table space. Clean, well-smelling bathrooms with color-coded trash cans. And cute nurses. They needed more windows, but the cute nurses and medical staff more than compensated for the lack of scenery. Besides, if one were ambulatory, one could easily walk to one of the corridors connecting the four-leaf-clover petals of the building, and take in a night view of Quezon City, or bask in the city's available sunlight. It's not so alive with commerce, but that's its chief appeal.

As I entertained thoughts of living in a room similar to the one my mom was confined in, I seriously contemplated getting real health insurance. Who knows? if my he(art) is what ails me, I may have to get confined here myself.

-----------------------------
*Fernando B. Sena --painter, artist, teacher, father of Philippine Art Workshops.

Damn

I don't want to put up another blog. I've too many as it is. But the demands of a smaller electronic universe are keeping me from writing freely.

Puerile Comfort

My sister, being overly wary about walking short distances in our less-than-posh neighborhood, hired a cab to take her from Banawe Street to our own... a few measly blocks away. Cabbie decided that my little sis was likely an easy mark... a woman, alone and carrying a big piece of luggage. He tried to gyp her by insisting she pay a hundred bucks for the short journey after she'd entered the sedan and gotten herself strapped in. She said "No." Cabbie proceeded to turn off the fare meter on the sly to muddy the issue of just how much she was s'posed to pay, and to better insist on the price they did not agree on. No dice though, my sister noticed and informed him of the fact. The cab stops in front of my house and the cabbie still insists on being paid a hundred bucks.

My sister tells me about this lowlife as she enters the house sans bag, which cabbie was holding. My eyebrows violently come together. I'd just returned from a long training day, hands bruised and muscles aching. If someone was gonna mess with my sister, it'd be over my dead body. That's when I go out into the front yard scowling and slapping two sticks together so that the cracking sound is pretty much heard across the neighborhood hubbub. Cabbie promptly accepts my sister's proffered P50 and hands the maid her luggage.

It's not something I'm proud of, and part of me was afraid of a confrontation (I don't like hurting people and being hurt myself as a rule). But my little bit of posturing got the job done and I'm not about to argue over results.

Sometimes it's a good thing to be an ass.

Command Decisions

We need that damned streamer and the earliest we could get it was Monday. The art & signage people were recommending changes that, in my heart I agreed with. There's simply too much damned text, and yes the streamer should be bigger, if only slightly. When Mom wanted a flyer -- which I made for her-- she didn't say she wanted the design to be good enough for a streamer too.

Happy new year, all.

Color Me Indignant...

The way an acquaintance is trying to set up an art school is a lot like setting up an intellectual sweatshop. I don't like it. Students deserve to be compensated for their work, especially because they are students. Their contribution to "the project" has to be recognized (psychic remuneration) and an honorarium (monetary remuneration) must be paid as per their work.

Too, you can't expect to teach the use of software in a public venue (like a school whose reputation of respectability you want to establish) without having copies of said software and their respective licenses. I've tried to bring this point across lots of times to said acquaintance but I've always been ignored. This time I got my point across by figuratively slapping him in the face with the hard facts in the middle of a meeting. He was one of the parties looking to broker a deal and I was the software expert he wanted to bring in to wow the other party.

Wow them I did, but finally getting him to understand the concept of paying through the nose for network licenses was the more satisfying endeavor. He's tried to set up a software training school before with other people and all of them backed out because he simply would not provide the necessary capital for software licenses.

The Japanese have a concept wrapped up in a little word called chan to. Roughly translated it means proper, regular, correct. If my acquaintance wants to set up a school, he' s gotta be chan to when he goes about it. (The way I've tried to be chan to in my courtships).

***

In related news, a member of my design team quit on me recently. We could not provide him with cash up front for the demo samples we were making for our clients. Likely his gut told him "sweatshop" and he bolted. I'm almost beginning to believe his gut, the way our go-between and our client have been acting. Nevertheless I am in this boat and I am going to have to row and steer with all my might to get the job done (isshokenmei, dekiru dake).

C'est la vie.

Ever have those days when the Universe seemed to be determined to thwart you? It's annoying-- you've got A Plan and everything you do takes you away from it.

Nihongo No Ryoku Shiken

The Japanese Language Proficiency Test is the Japanese government’s answer to the clamor for a single Japanese Language Proficiency Standard that everyone can respect and more or less be happy with. It’s given once a year by the Japan Foundation and its counterparts worldwide.

The idea is that you can believably slap someone silly with your certificate and he will be wowed by how well-versed you are in the language regardless of the number of hours worth of Japanese language training you claim to have taken. Since the test is being administered by the Japanese, you can bet that incidences of test taking weirdness are pretty much nil.

They even smell you cheating and you’re out the door, no questions asked. The only way one is likely to ace this test is if one actually studies. This is a refreshing development, considering the horse trading and petty wars… an odious reminder of how much education on the Islands has begun to really suck.

DexElsis

I am happy to report that based on the mock-tests I’ve been taking so far, I have the ability to pass my upcoming Japanese Language Proficiency Test. The pertinent question is how high I can push my score. Most folks who take the JLPT are pretty satisfied getting the minimum 240 points required to pass the bleeding thing. I’m not. My best scores have always lived in the 320+ range. I’m hoping I can push into the 350+ range before my review is over.

That is, if I don’t die of stress-induced asthmatic bronchitis first.

Farewell to “Mader”

I took a few minutes away from work to see my very special friend “Mader” Jo, ang Arnisadora sa Breakwater. She’s leaving for the US of A this week and I just had to wish her all the best. I’m praying Uncle Sam treats her better than he treated me, because Jo deserves all the opportunities living on the Islands has denied her.

Let’s face it—there ain’t much work for the media guy here. And what’s around usually subjects the poor employee to the health-destroying conditions of… you know what it’s like if the common thread in many of my friends’ employment horror stories is to be believed.

“Hawk, Chew”

I guess it was a good thing I stepped outside of the office too—as I am again on the verge of burnout. Sleeping late; working early for long hours. I oughta be in bed.

This illness has not in any way affected my appetite but I am having the most raggedy throat since I came back from Japan. In between lines of teacher’s text, code or software renderings, I have made “Hawk, Chew” my unofficial sick man’s mantra.

You don’t get it? Okay, try saying it as if you’ve got something in your throat.

Haaaaaaaaawwwkkkh … Cheeeewwww!

Then give yourself permission to gag.

Missing Honey

This is one of those times that I’m feeling my ex-betrothed’s utter absence. Whenever either of us fell ill we always had a bottle of Gatorade handy to treat the stricken partner’s dehydration. I would lovingly massage the parts of her anatomy that ached. I would shower her with kisses, buy her meds and make her soup.

She took the more mannish road—actually getting me tested at a lab when absolutely nobody in my immediate family would believe that something was very, very wrong with me. I remember I nearly died of typhoid.

Honey’s not here now. Likely someone else is calling her that. I am very thankful for my friends—new, old and developing— because I still get the customary “Get well soon, Dexter.”

Love Song for No One

One of my more minor inconveniences is that I have to get used to being single again. It’s been a rocky three or so months— I’ve said on various occasions that should Anna do a 180 and ask to get back with me, that I would take her back, no questions asked.

Today, the situation is different. I’m not in high school or college any more. I can’t afford to throw everything to the wind and risk everything to have what we had. The problem is I feel that such a measure would be exactly what it would take— and even then the odds of playing it right are at best 50-50. I had asked her again to marry me. As per her penchant for concrete plans and believable goals I even drew her a chart. Well, you know by now how well that went.

I don’t want to rush things and make high stakes gambles anymore. Too many people depending on me. And I don’t want to exclude the possibility that there may be someone else on my horizon.

I have time. I just hope no one is hurt by the actions I take.

Amazing

I'm actually receiveing Japanese spam. Will wonders never cease? I used to get unwanted date mail from Arab2Love --don't ask me why or how, I am as in the dark as you are.

Spam is always irritating but I can enjoy the novelty this once. Japanese spam. Nice!

Filjaps Language & Technology Inc. would like very much to congratulate its first batch of Criminology Board Exam Passers. These kids took the intensive Filjaps Criminology Review Course and managed by dint of Filjaps-assisted hard work to wrest from the Professional Regulations Commission the recognition they deserve.


The Filjaps Criminologists: Ge-Ar Cagaoan, Rolly Hadloc, James Marteja, Wilson Tan Jr., Isidra Rosas, Rene Montecalvo and Anthony Rieza.

Everyone, take a bow!

So what else is new?

I taught my first Japanese class last Saturday. It wasn't bad. Coulda been better, but you can hardly go wrong with a few students to pester you with grammatical questions that sound so... so... legal. All that talk of rules vs. custom vs. precedent.

The activity was draining, though the psychic return was worth the financial vacuum I experience regularly as a result of taking this job. Being the general manager (roughly buchou 部長 ) who functionally manages the English Review, Nihongo and Computer "departments" of the company (kaisha 会社 ) is not all it's cracked up to be, especially if the company is only a few months old.

I was also at the Philippine International Convention Center recently (recently is: saikin 最近 ). What was up? An exhibit of the best of Philippine crafts and trade goods. I managed to look at jewels, handbags, religious items and I do have to say our skilled laborers have come a long way since attempting to make poor knockoffs of foreign goods.

So what has this to do with the Japanese (Nihonjin)? Nothing I am at liberty to discuss. Except to say that my Mom would have liked to buy the stuff on exhibit, and that I would have too, especially the new takes on Catholic statuary. Innovative use of material, interesting designs. Woulda made great Christmas gifts for future clients and business partners.

Now, I'm prepping for my ongoing Jap classes-- the ones I'll teach and the ones I'm still taking.

Ja, ne!

GODDAMN IT.

I've had enough of comment spam. I'm switching on the damned comment verification system. I'm sorry guys, if you haveta experience extra crap commenting. But this poor excuse for responsible marketing is ... I can't find the damned words for it.

Loser!

I must be at an all-time low. While waiting for my 6-year-old art student, I am busy pretending to work. What I'm really doing is looking into registering at a ... say it Dex... personals site. The kind that cater to desperate losers looking for love and/or "activity partners," "casual dates" and the like.

Yes you're shivering. You should. Losing Anna's driven me to this pass. It's eaten into my work, affected my better judgement and caused me stomach- and muscle pains and attacks of stress-induced diarrhea the likes of which I have rarely felt. Having responsibilities I cannot shirk plus seeing Japan and its indigenous womanity have helped ease the symptoms of losing the love of my life to the vagaries of evolutionary biology. But not by much. Seeing the young women in Kofu, Sendai and Akihabara actually hurt after the inducing in me the initial pleasures associated with critiquing female eye candy.

Yes, feminists, I am too a sexist pig who should be shot. One of your kind left me because I don't fit your criteria of provider-life partner despite (or maybe because of) all my efforts to be the New Sensitive Caring (therefore wimpy and pussy-whipped) Man. So please cut me a little slack for feeling the requisite pain and lashing out.

Check back with me and I'll let you know if I've put myself on sale on the mass market for losers who can't find the time or the energy to actually bother to meet a live human being and get himself a date. Or not.

Japan: First Impressions

I've fallen in love six or so times since I've arrived in Japan. They are all beautiful:

-the weather in Sendai
-the scenery along the highways criss-crossing the middle and southern parts of Honshu
-the gas station attendant on the long road between Tokyo and Sendai
-the receptionist at the Shinjuku branch of the Toyoko Inn.
-the visually impaired girl eating at Jonathan's family restaurant in Kofu
-the waitresses at that sushi place in Kofu.

Sadly most of the women-- the younger ones especially-- are dolls. And I don't want to grow old with one.

Manejiya Dewa Nai

Well that did it. I've been so preoccupied being available for everyone again that my duties are simply not being fulfilled. I think I may have managed to piss off a potential business partner. I'm in too deep to quit without making a mess. And that's not even a real option since I'm trying not to let the family name rot in the reek of corporate shame.

How is it that I let them railroad me into something I'm not equipped to handle? No choice but to swim in it now.

Is it possible to be with someone so long that you become an object of distaste? I think so. If continued reticence is something to go by, I think it's already happened. All this in spite my good intentions, my efforts and despite my seemingly warmly received proposal. All this in spite of what I thought was some form of binding understanding between us.

Don't do this to me. Please, please, please not again. Not on the heels of my friend's mother's death. Not on the heels of everything that's just happened. Please don't make me an object of misplaced pity.

If that's what you want, you have to tell me to my face. I deserve that much.


A footnote: I woke up at 2am the other day, your name, your presence ringing in my head. What happened to you around that time?

Japanese Words for the Week

chiaki [千明]-if my translation isn't off, it means a thousand lights, or a very powerful brightness
chiharu [千春]-it may mean a thousand Springs (the season, not the bubbly body of water)
shizuka [静]-quietness
yuki [雪]-snow

my more astute readers will immediately figure out what these words have in common, and why I likely put them up here. Enjoy!

Smooth Criminal

It must be common now. But the last place I expected to be victimized by crooks was the McDonald's at Philcoa --I'm refering to the general area around the Philippine Coconut Authority that is at once a Quezon City landmark and a more or less critical stop for people wishing to go to the University of the Philippines or to Don Antonio Heights or Fairview.

I was in the middle of a lesson with my Korean student, Tom. We'd leaned closer to each other across the table to facilitate communication over the din of the post-post-dinner crowd: students, mainly, hiding in the nearest 24-hour fast food joint for a semblance of peaceful study over a hot meal. Neither of us noticed Gray Shirt Perp slipping his hand under the table, onto the chair next to Tom. Gray Shirt Perp's hand closed over Tom's celphone and that was all she wrote. Gray Shirt Perp was able to abscond with another celphone which he was bound to sell to support his drug habit or his fetish for American brand name apparel.

The only person who did notice Gray Shirt Perp was an old lady who was cowed into silence by Perp's fierce gaze. I don't completely blame her, but she could have shouted and Tom and I could have subdued the creep or at least prevented the celphone theft.

We chased Perp's shadow futilely for a few minuets, returning to McDonald's to talk to the manager about yet another crime happening under their collective noses. Old lady couldn't finger Gray Perp, though I had a feeling he may have lingered just outside the MacDonald's after passing the ill-gotten phone to a confederate.

I did a surprising thing-- I prayed with Tom. I prayed for peace for him, the replacement of his phone with something better. I was tempted to pray for the speedy growth of painful and perennial hemorrhoids on Gray Perp's dyolog ass, but somehow I didn't.

We ended the class and natch, I didn't ask Tom to pay me anything-- his wallet would be feeling the loss of his phone soon enough. The same way my wallet was feeling the loss of my projected income.

Thanks a lot, Perp. I hope we meet again in a year. I hope you try something stupid. I hope I'm there to place you under citizen's arrest.

Letter to GoGo Yubari

GoGo Yubari
Crazy 88 Headquarters
Japan

August 26 2005


Dear Ms Yubari,

You're going to stay young forever and I'm not. So please pardon my being forward. If you don't feel like literally spilling my guts over strong drink, we could go out. It would do us both some good. It will take you away from the tedium of killing everything that isn't O-Ren or that bald guy you both hang out with. Too, I believe that the proper type of medication can help you quell certain episodes that involve slashing someone's belly open.

Underneath the hair and the psychoses and the school uniform, I am sure you are a wonderful, beautiful person. I would like to get to know you without the knives, whips and chains (though those can come later, after we've gotten to know each other very very well).

I have admired you for your physical beauty, your fighting skills and that loyalty to O-Ren that some of your male subordinates wish you'd lavish on them.

If it helps you make up your mind about me, I am learning Japanese as well as the ins and outs of dealing with people in black suits. I love Japanese food and I would love the opportunity of exploring ...something with you.

You can take your time, as I've suddenly got a lot of it on my hands. As with one other person, I can wait for your reply. Though not forever.

I look forward to your affirmative response.


With much admiration,

Dexter Lira

SPAM

The only other person to comment on one poem in my other blog said nothing about it, or anything remotely related to how the poem made him feel. Instead, I got a long-winded sales pitch beginning with--

"Big News From The Healthcare Industry!!

F******** G***** S*********
Current Price $0.15
A company with hot new identity solution products and licenses with over 40 current governmental and non-governmental contracts in negotiations.

...Watch this One to Trade!"

The Evil Marketing Man has struck again.

I could either feel flattered that my page has garnered so much notice that people are posting ads in my comment field without so much as a damned "by your leave." Then again, I guess I could feel taken advantage of, as this guy could have just left his comments here as part of a "blanket" strategy: schlep every comment field on every blog he can get his hands on.

I want to tell that enterprising person (he knows who he is) this:

PLEASE. I don't care how good your product, company or stock is, point of the matter is neither Blogger nor Dexter Lira is getting money or desired recognition from your blatant attempt at pushing your own agenda on MY space.

You could have found my email address by googling my other blogs and told me how good what your selling is. I would have likely put in a good word by treading on the blurry line between "Hey, this is good news" and "Hey, I'm conducting a marketing blitzkrieg."

And I don't particularly care that you hide behind your own "This is my opinion" clause. Clever, but I know bull when I smell it.

Tamad

It's come to the point where I simply do not want to work. I don't want to see work and when I do my mind tunes it out and I wind up surfing the 'Net and discovering more and more trivia that will neither make me rich nor make me a better human being.

Like now. I should be making the writeups or the flyers. でも、ぼくは　ブログを書いています。 I can't even bring myself to write something edifying now: my bodega blog has been crying out to me for a decent update. I could be doing other things, like fine-tuning my Tai Chi, studying for the resumption of my Nihongo classes tomorrow. I hope I can turn this around in an hour or so before I waste the remaining hours of my working Sunday.

Yes, I'm at the office on a Sunday. Which is probably why I don't want to work. This is bad. Gotta sign off--

I've still got work to do.

The Universe Has a Weird Sense of Humor

Lifted from this site devoted to the original xXx movie.

"Asia Argento is also the author of a number of short stories published in such prestigious magazines as Dynamo, L'Espresso, Sette, Village and Max. Her first novel, I Love You Kirk, was published by Frassinelli Editrice in October 1999."

Asia Argento had become somewhat significant to Dex as artist. Nothing personal, of course. Few of my friends would get the Asia Argento references; I'm snickering as I type this.

But if I were my old self, I'd be crying too.

練習します(Practice)

I've probably fudged this somehow.

僕はマネジャーでわない。今日、清水さんと橋本さんは　僕の会社に来た。僕は不意だった。At least, 僕は　橋本さんの欲しくことを　習った。あの方は　僕に　CADイラストサムプルを　見たから。従ってそう、私とフィルジャプスのCADスタフ（マニーさ んと 多分ルスさ ん）を会議する。いつ、僕は分からない。
Anyway, 来週僕は　プロジェクトの作ることを　終わって、　コンピューター　２　を　ネトワークをします。

Everybody seems to be pushing his own agenda and for some asinine reason, I'm the guy who gets pushed around. Granted that in a perfect world, my agenda would probably involve lots of sleep, martial arts demos and futile job hunting, maybe dreaming of landing a gig (martial arts, visual arts, teaching, singing, theater) somewhere-- hardly lucrative. But that's supposed to be my damned prerogative.

But no, everything is also my fault, somehow. And any ulcer-producing sitch I'm in is of my own making, no matter how much I may feel that the Powers that Be decided, on a drunken whim, to gang-rape me. I am being slowly forced into courses of action predetermined by someone else. I can't just up and leave as too many eggs have been put in the basket that is Dex.

And I can't bleeding talk about this any more than I already have, except to say: when is Dex going to get his chance to simply do something he loves in peace without courting messy familial and economic consequences?

Hmmmm... Reallly?

Your Birthdate: February 1

Your birthday suggests that are executive ability and leadership qualities in your makeup. A birthday on day 1 of any month gives a measure of will power and self-confidence, and very often a rather original approach. This 1 energy may diminish your ability and desire to handle details, preferring instead to paint with a broad brush. You may be sensitive, but your feelings stay rather repressed.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

That Dratted Potato Song (2)

My apologies to the Japanese.

Looking back as I was assaulted by images of singing, dancing potatoes and potato products, I remember exactly why I stopped watching Japanese channels on local cable six or seven years ago.

The Japanese have a... preoccupation with all things cute. The, uh, mania is so pervasive and so cloying and over-the-top that it borders on the pathological. Consider the pleasing (yet disturbing) preoccupation with youth, short skirts and sailor suits. Consider too that until Utada Hikaru came along and broke the mold in a big way, women singers tended to strangle themselves trying to turn their make their voices child-like. (This is not to say that there weren't singers with brassy or smoky voices, but that preoccupation with wanting to be cute often kept those singers from well-deserved audiences and accolades.) Too, the Japanese tended to burn through their pop idols quickly, frequently discarding yesterday's idol for the new face and voice ingenue.

I have visions of ex idols scrabbling for scraps of fame, vainly trying to hold on to their youthful good looks and high-pitched voicesagainst the inexorable march of time. Brrr.

Thankfully the women do tend to get over it (as evidenced by the very competent female staff at the Jap Language school I study in). Granted also that I was watching a kiddie show when my senses were assaulted by the potato song. But the lady host's brand of cuteness -- even the male hosts were trying to speak in piping tones when they sure as hell didn't have to-- have the words fake and soon-to-be-desperate written all over it.

I got sick of all the blasted sugar-substitute cuteness six or seven years ago and I'm still sick of all the blasted sugar-substitute cuteness now.

I'm all for cuteness when it comes naturally. And one doesn't have to speak in piping fake-kiddie tones to be adorable. But there comes a time when you have to relegate oozing cuteness to someone else-- preferably someone under 18. Your own "cuteness" -- a function of your innate and developed beauty will come out of its own accord without being forced. It will likely be treasured all the more.

That Dratted Potato Song

Some time before my Nihongo Basic 3 classes ended, the tech boys at the Jap language school had set up a teevee at the reception desk. It was tuned perpetually to NHK, as if some Japanimation fanboy set the channel with the only working remote and proceeded to break it.

I decided to take advantage of the situation and spend my idle time watching and listening to the idiot box to better pick up Japanese. It was, in theory, a good plan with a good fringe benefit: I got to see what Japan had to offer the visual connoisseur in the art of, ah, female appreciation.

It was going well, too. Until--I was watching a kiddie show --the girl host I was appreciating opened her mouth and proceeded to sing about the virtue of potatoes. The song wasn't bad; it was written and arranged well, in fact. But it was insidious. It snared you with its catchy tune and insinuated itself between the folds of your brain the way the grease from a bag of french fries oozes permanently into cheap paper plates.

Today, weeks removed from the original airing, I'm cursed with instant, insistent, and near-permanent recall. Mention "potatoes" and the song plays in my head again and again and again and again and...

(Jap) Words for the Week

Nihongo （日本語）n. the Japanese Language. Take a country, almost any country, and insert the suffix "go" （語）and you basically have the name of that country's language in Japanese. Of course, the Japanese have their own names for select countries, but let's not "go" there yet.

Eigo （英語）n. English (the language)

Firipingo （フィリピン語）n. Filipino (the language).

jagaimo （じゃがいも）n. potato

Bone tired. Not dead tired; not yet.

I've had to move furniture around the house because I simply couldn't work there properly. No doubt, I'm bound to ruffle some feathers-- always the trouble when you're living with the folks-- but this is going to be worth it. My home workspace actually looks better and I can literally and figuratively breathe with all the space I've managed to free up.

I'm waiting for one of the foreign partners today. He'll be arriving sometime after lunch, (which means that could be any time between 12:01 and 4:00 pm.). I won't have to talk to him alone, though, as er, mom's original foreign partner has decied he'll show up and fill my language gaps. Some translator I'm turning out to be...

In preparation for their arrival, I've decided to clean up a bit. There were some shortcuts to some pc games that I've had to bury. I'm also throwing out the old bulletin board (paper on paper, stuck on the wall) and slap on a decent-looking felt surface over some decent board which I will then slap on the wall, with tape and some tacks.

Among other things.

Something good will come out of this. It must.

Nearly Got Something Cut Off Today

11:30 am, Convergys, Makati City

Thank God the knife was dull and made of wood. Thank God the guy with the wooden knife pointed at my groin was Sifu Russel. Thank God this was just a martial arts demo.

The audience had gasped, sensing that this wasn't your standard demo drill. And in spite of my own two seconds of helpless panic-- I totally did not expect him to scoop under my leg and lock me down, groin exposed to a knife-- I loved it.

Half the fun of a martial arts demo is watching the light bulbs flash over the audience's heads, regardless of who was playing the martial arts hero or the goon who was going to be very sorry he messed with the wrong guy.

Doing "It" with Friends

In a perfect world, we'd all be friends; we'd all be living together; working together like stepford neighbors high on a totally harmless form of hash. But the world is not perfect; and sad to say many of us will probably never ever get along. It's God's game of craps-- all right, baccarat-- that brings disparate people together. And it's only God, and your neighborhood shrink, who can predict how you'll all turn out.

A decade or so ago some common friends --a group of twelve or so uniquely talented individuals-- decided to pool their artistic strengths together and make a name for themselves as a Power in the commissioned art business. For a few short months they established Camelot. They were an art commune/tradesmen's guild/peripatetic philosophical society all rolled into one package way cool for its time and place.

"But why," you ask, "have I not heard of them?"

Like Camelot, the Power imploded, taking with it carefully nurtured friendships that should have been immune to poverty amid plenty and well-meaning neglect. The founders of that new Camelot were young and naiive, professing faith in contracts sealed with a smile and a handshake. Naturally, they could not have succeeded financially.

Camelot's knights broke under pressure from their angry parents, who railed against the injustices done by friends to friends. They broke under the pressure of academics-- which they had neglected on the off-chance that their mutual quest would bear lucrative fruit. They broke under the pressure of their own infighting as-- egged on by parents, failure, poverty and broken promises-- friend turned against friend. Heroically, they tried to regroup and recoup their losses but with Camelot's knights leaving the order one by one, there was nothing they could do to stop the end from happening.

When the dust settled, there were no more knights. Just tired souls wary of taking risks and trusting people.

Soredewa, kyameroto no menbaa wa iro iro tokoro ni itte, oboenai kuni ni oboenai michi wo aruita.

What's the moral lesson here? Aside from "always have an ironclad contract" it's never go into business with friends.

It's hard custom-building an English test for ex-college students whose high school and college English teachers deserve to be shot.

The students already know some of the stuff you're talking about, so they get bored easily with tests that involve the very basics of the language. Trouble is, that's where they may need fine tuning. Too, as a teacher you need to be seven steps ahead of your study group. You've got to be able to anticipate every question they'll likely throw your way.

Now, imagine that you have to brush up on your English simultaneously with a foreign language that:

1. follows a basic sentence pattern that's not normally used in English;
2. makes use of "post"-positions, (instead of prepositions) and particles (instead of articles) ;
3. conjugates past tense verbs as if they were adjectives;
4. treats the conjugation of present- and future tense verbs in practically the same way

I need a tylenol.

Momma's Boy

Yelled at my mom again like a spoiled brat. It's bad, shameful even, as it was in the workplace that this happened. It's just that she can say the most condescending, patronizing things if she doesn't get what she wants. Which is why I didn't want her for a boss in the first place. It doesn't help that I'm a guy who doesn't want to do something I've already done. I'm not a miracle worker.

But I was wrong to yell. And I'm very, very sorry.

An Old Forgotten Post

Dex, Unplugged

It’s like old times. People have been trying to reach me, and as usual, I have been nigh-impossible to find. There isn’t too much backlash, because everyone knows by now that I’ve “donated” my cell phone, laptop and CD burner to “the needy.”

I kind of like being unplugged and hard to find.

Reasons?

It is good to have someone sweat a little while looking for me every now and then. It strokes the ego; makes me feel wanted. I tend to get lost in the estimation of my friends amidst the routines and concerns of their existences.

I know, it’s shallow, but allow a thirty-year-old his little foibles.

Too, people are usually not looking for the simple pleasure of my company. While I’m almost always available to lend a helping hand, the lending itself is almost always inconvenient. I get in trouble with my job, my family, my girlfriend— even as I race off on my invisible steed to right the very visible wrongs the world has –rightly or no— inflicted on my friends.

There are days when I almost no longer care that a friend’s love life is being flushed down the toilet, or that his parents are being anal and controlling. This kind of counseling I’ve been doing since college and I have long since recognized a need for a welcome respite. “Physician, heal thyself!” has often silently been thrown in my face. It’s about time I took that advice.

Disclaimer: I’ve been known to look people up to pester them for favors. But I’ve been trying my best to cut down on asking for them. Sometimes, I no longer bother. My friends are living their own lives, battling their own ogres and scaling their own prince/ss towers. The very act of taking up their time only adds unnecessary weight to their current burdens.

Being unconnected to the outside world allows me to focus on the stuff I’d normally be neglecting. When was the last time I’d been cozy with Honey? Yes, you get a gold star— just in the last couple of days when absolutely no one could reach me via cell phone, email or that dratted Yahoo Messenger.

Still, I don’t relish being unplugged for longer than a glorious month of peace, quiet and uninterrupted PC gaming. I will soon enough have to discharge my obligations to my colleagues and friends—who will no doubt continually wonder where I am or what I am about.

Issoku Kutsushita wa Issoku Ja Nai

This is Life as a Suit in a Third World Country.

I live in a place where my socks are almost always mismatched; where the stuff in your cabinet isn't yours because someone else higher up on the food chain has decided that you don't need the extra space; where two consenting adults can't live together without wearing the scarlet letter unless they grease enough palms-- money is apparently better than Tide at getting rid of dirt.

Down here-- the operative word is Purgatory-- equipment always breaks down because people think they can plug just one more appliance into a wall socket already groaning under the demands of an overloaded electrical system. They don't know the damage they're causing and they sure as hell don't give half a damn until said appliance breaks down or the fuses blow up. I'm the guy who has to fix the mess they made over my strenuous but stifled objections and they have the gall to ask me why I didn't give them a lesson in the care of electrical systems.

When anyone here shows a modicum of talent or initiative, he is run ragged by people who expect him to know everything and solve their problems NOW, never mind that he has his own problems to fix and his own life to lead. If he hasn't already lost half his native energy to entropy, he will the be forced to break the Third Law of Thermodynamics (a first in Physics!), as critics and vultures and social vampires will inevitably reduce him to a psychic state of Absolute Zero. After which he either expires or becomes another member of the soulless working dead who haunt the private workplace, the government office and pretty much every place where humanity gets a foothold.

In the place where I live, 1+1 is always 3 or any other number someone higher on the food chain wants it to be, damn the real number system, the laws of motion and damn the torpedoes... which, by the way, whoopsie, I will have to take for the team.

I don't want to live like this. I want a clean pair of matching socks.

Channeling Ashton Kutcher

If I told you I'm in love with a fifty year old woman, you'd probably think that I just about chase anything wearing a skirt. Well, you could say that with some accuracy about some of the famous roles Bill Shatner (King of Ham) and Eddie Garcia (King of Local Cinema Smarm) have portrayed over their long showbiz careers.

Attention Lawyers: I am not in love with my Japanese Japanese language teacher. Only with the way she writes. Hers is a special magic that makes itself known when she holds the brush. She takes a mental deep breath and plunges into the task of traditional Sino-Nipponese calligraphy, and those characters that thwart our inexperienced hands come to dynamic, sinuous, structured life. When she's done with a character, everyone wants to hang it on some wall somewhere, a testament to a teacher's skill-- and if you looked for the right clues, her inner life.

I'm the best Kanji guy my class has. I keep telling Arjayne-chan it's only because I've been around longer, and poked my nose into affairs she and our classmates haven't. Apparently, I haven't been poking hard enough. My writing struggles under the weight of my brush and my force of will. My own mental deep breath is often literal and quite ragged. My hands shake. I still have trouble taming those vertical strokes.

I'll get to where Katayama-Sensei is. I must.

Pink News (Friday)

Thom Filicia and Kyan Douglas, two fifths of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy's Fab Five, have landed on our shores. Each is due to speak at some Ayala land-sponsored engagement today. A good thing. I'm agreeing with PDI columnist Rina Jimenez David when she says that the efforts of the Fab Five have given gays a fighting chance in a less than friendly world. Gay guys get such a bad rap in this country.

I'm not going to join my countrymen in lumping gay guys exclusively in the category of "sexual predators given to pederasty." That category isn't exclusive: a number of straight guys also indulge in sexual predation and prefer hebephilial relationships. I can state categorically that none of my gay friends indulge in that kind of behavior. I can point to a good number of them who put straight guys to shame in matters like loyalty to their partners, devotion to their work and their usually anti-gay families, their incomes. If what defines a man are his word, his ability to protect and provide for himself and the people he loves, then I am a lot less of a man than they are.

More (Japanese) Words for the Week

Kanji n. Chinese characters adapted for use in Japanese writing

denwabangou n. phone number (et. from denwa, telephone + ban, number)

Asahiko n. "Child of the Morning Sun" (et. usually a given name; from asa, morning + hi, sun + ko child)

Some of you out there will already be aware that I am taking Japanese language classes. They've gotten a damn sight harder since I set foot in my Basic Two class. I used to be at the top of my Basic One class because I was the only guy in the room who had the time to really study, and even then I'd had prior exposure to the language thanks to nth generation pirated subtitled anime. I've fallen low since then, partly because I haven't had the time or the energy to study properly. And it's a damn shame; at least no one has really dethroned me as my class's resident Kanji scribe. It's to be expected too, I guess, because my Basic Two class is composed of the topnotchers from the other Basic One classes.

Arjayne-chan has consistently topped the exams. Running a close second is Lenin-san, a Caviteño with a Visayan accent who I've come to grudgingly respect: you can't question this guy's initiative and his drive. With resident topnotcher Arnold-san (also from Cavite) taken out of the running by family and work concerns, Lenin would top the class if he wasn't already saddled with his job and his accent. Me, I'm in a race to keep my head over perilous waters along with everyone else. These are times I wish I hadn't left my small pond for the minor lake. When I feel strung out, spread like too little butter on too much bread, I have to remind myself that I'm only in competition with me.

Asahiko-chan has by this time taken her flight to Japan with her dad and the Card Captor Sakura drawings she commissioned (for free), and maybe my Kanji workbook and a month's worth of my Kanji assignments for Jap class (she'll need it). I wish her all the best. Let me state that I am, yes, concerned about how she'll adjust to life in Japan. My teacher says kids are bullied there, especially if they can't speak the language.

Been busy. We just wrapped up the Cultural Activity ritual my Jap school puts together for the purposes of handing out certificates and faculty-student bonding. I am dog tired and my eyes hurt.

The shocker is that the performances I and my classmates gave were covered by one of the local channels. (They'd done that before at the last Cultural Activity but there seemed to be no reason for a repeat covereage. ) I basically sang, danced and embarrassed myself on national tv.

We were trying to get Asahiko-chan (the girl is 11, talented but shy) to dance a little for her song number. So we did all sorts of funny dances while she sang to take her mind off the pressure of an avidly expectant audience. The camera just had to swing my way just when a friend and I were channeling Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. Asa-chan smiled and danced a bit. She didn't win the singing contest though (no good choreography). But, I 'm grateful for small victories.

I had found out a week ago that my teacher wasn't kidding when he said I should accompany Maria-san's singing with a Tai Chi interpretative dance. So I was more or less ready when I did. I didn't fudge the forms too much... I hope. I am almost afraid of watching the video.

Finally, I sang myself. Not too badly, given the praise I got from many in the audience. Normally reticent Japanese faculty and staff actually stopped to say something good about my performance. I'm either that good or they're THAT polite.

Maybe I shoulda been an entertainer.

Lurching Drunkenly Towards Bethlehem

Mom's business partner shows up after a two-month sojourn in his home country. He carries with him a pretty acetate portfolio containing the company's profile data and I am... speechless.

I wish I could say it was because the profile and ad inserts were so good they blew me away. They aren't. Given access to more money than Mom will want to release for design collaterals, any of our local cut-rate ad and design guys could do them better. My brief stints freelancing for Hinge and with Bald Man Media have made print layout flaws and no-nos easier for me to spot, and I have to be grateful to Danice, Russel and DarDar for that (even if I'll probably never work with them again thanks to the comlications arising from my familial duties).

I was speechless because I was shocked at my own inability to think outside the box concerning the same protfolio, which I was tasked in part to design. I could have done the same thing better on a really bad day. I'm asking myself just what the hell happened and the answers are coming up as I type.

1. In the first place, I didn't want to do it. (My problem: I'm a know-it-all maverick) I viewed the whole project as an onerous half-baked task handed down to me by a many-headed boss whose heads kept giving me conflicting instructions through a tactless intermediary because they couldn't agree on exactly what they wanted. (Company's problem: Vision and Goals.)

2. It was bad enough that the company bigwigs couldn't pinpoint exactly what they wanted. But that damned language barrier made things worse. (Common problem: Language) By the time instructions filtered down to me, they were... screwy.

I wound up designing a half-assed three-page pamphlet (not a portfolio) that depended on a lot of Freehand-generated gradients for its look.

This is exactly why I'm focusing on learning as many foreign languages as it'll take to hurdle the damned language barrier as fast as I can.

The company cannot, to be slightly sacrilageous, give birth to the Financial Savior if it can't make its way to Bethlehem without lurching drunkenly off course.

3. I was limited by my... I'm calling it my "Third World View" for lack of any better label. I cannot think out of everyone else's "box" because my own conceptual box was too limited by third world economics. All my life I've specialized in stopgaps, improvising solutions to publishing problems because I've never had the right tools, materials and training. (Many of the people I know in design picked up their software expertise on the fly.)

While it's great at showing up know-it-all foreigners who think they can blithely operate in any environment, it is fatal for me. I can't afford to be a know-it-all Third World rustic who postures vainly on the strength of his limited knowledge (which costs money, but that's another journal entry).

Maybe there is something to participating in the Great Filipino Diaspora. It's just too bad I'm too old to get on the bandwagon.

...


Anyway, I need to restructure my own goals given that the number of my optimal productive years are, to use a kind word, dwindling.