Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Scrambled

It's been a crazy couple of days. I've been feeling disconnected and really angsty. I want to do something dangerous, something outrageous and unpredictable. I want to be bad, but I don't want to act badly. Does that make sense?

The other day, I was talking to Rob on Skype and he mentioned that he might move here earlier than expected. Maybe as soon as February. My initial reactions were shock, surprise, and joy. Then he explained that his early move would be because his mom has no company to the Philippines, and that she's insisting he go with her and they stay at a hotel in Manila (about 1 1/2 hours away from us), and I dunno. My elation deflated. Because I wouldn't be getting the amazing reunion I'd expected. Because Rob would be in the Philippines, but for the first few weeks, he wouldn't be with me and Riley. Because this only proves that Rob's a momma's boy and can't stand up to his mom.

I should just be happy that he's gonna be here, right? I mean, that's the normal reaction, right? Instead, I find fault with it. I just can't help it. Why can't it be the perfect reunion? Riley and I pick him up from the airport, shuttle him back home, and we fall into domestic bliss - that would be ideal, and so simple to achieve (okay, everything but the "domestic bliss" part is easy).

Maybe I'm never satisfied. Maybe I crave the meeting of expectations that Rob has never been able to give me (this certainly rings true). Maybe, like I wrote in an email to a dear friend, I just don't know how to stay happy. Happiness, after a while, makes me sick to my stomach. I need complication, problems to solve, reasons to act out. I need to travel and write and know strange people. If I'm honest with myself, I know that this is part of the reason I want a big family: I feel like my kids' lives will be anything but normal, and they'll need each other to validate and acknowledge their life experiences.

I dunno, J. I'm in the middle of a 2 1/2 week break from school, and aside from a trip to a mall (which reminded me so much of the States!), I'm feeling in a rut. I need desperately to go out and make a scene. I want so badly to be doing things instead of writing about them. Even if what I'm doing is reading, I feel like being a spectator of someone else's ideas is more active than living my own life in my head via writing. I've been blogging and writing incessantly for almost a month now, and it's taking it's toll. I'm out of touch with reality. I feel cleaved from everything I know. I feel spent. And yet, this is what I've always wanted to do for a living: write. Maybe I feel spent because I'm on vacay and therefore don't have academics to balance out my brain. Maybe I feel spent because I've been writing non-fiction, and it's more exhausting than writing fiction. Maybe it's for the same reason that I'm second-guessing my feelings about Rob being here: fear, doubt, suspicion that he may not be what I want.

Things seemed so much simpler back in New York. Even as I was leaving. Even as I was readying to irrevocably change myself. Even though I knew that that place in time was fleeting and oh-so temporary. It still felt comfortable, it still felt real, and it still felt like home.

I miss that feeling.

Monday, December 28, 2009

This Weekend

Alo Maria,

Long post alert. It's about freaking time.

This weekend was extremely pleasant. A small milestone in my personal realm. Maybe things better left unsaid than made permanent ("permanent") on the inernet, but would really be lost otherwise. So here I go.

(PS: As I write this I notice the struggle I'm having with myself, the lack of ease with my thought and the instafilters that have immediately clicked into place. via our last convo, re: is that what I felt when I suddenly became aware of my audience?: I definitely feel you on that. I can relate to a certain degree. The difference in our struggle is that I never valued my writing for its extremes or anything like that; I lost more than a voice... I valued my writing for its ability to stroke my core, the core that I kept hidden from even myself, and its ability to stir something in strangers who held a similar dissonance on the tips of their tongues. It's that disconnect that I adored; writing was therapy for me in a way no other form of self-reflection could possibly brush against. It was this completely personal, private, raw, open, honest conversation I had with myself, a conversation with my subconscious, who clearly knew better than I did. Once that bridge of awareness formed, connecting the two, and my conscious attempetd to overpower the other, I lost it. I lost the friendship, I lost the blind intimacy that I had with my emotions, and I haven't been able to regain it on a steady, pure level since.

There was the tiniest switch that flicked once censorship slipped into my radar. I can compare it to a virus that I rebelled against, shut down against, and am now learning to adjust to and live with. Perhaps its curable, but my life completely free from it might have to fade into the fond once-upon-a-times of 'childhood.'

It's funny because, I interrupted my post to send you a parenthesis. And within these parenthesis, outside of the context of the 'real world' which I plan to present to you, here is the realest and flowingest train of thought I've had thus far. My filters stepped aside. The best truths do come whispered in undertones, don't they?)

I've rewritten everything I originally had here. Let me try to maintain this clear point of view while I got it.

A few updates. One of my closest's lost her grandmother on Christmas. Last year this time, there would have been a desperate uncertainty gnawing at the caves of my belly on how I was supposed to be that "good friend." This year, cooler heads prevail. There's a calm belief that giving her wide space before meeting for tea tomorrow is the best for her right now. Overwhelming her is the last thing I should do. I hope I can be there for her as wonderfully as she has been there for me.

I'm slowly regaining my confidence in myself, as a friend. For the longest time I believed that I was terrible at knowing how to judge my closest, how to smoothly understand their needs and adjust them to present situations. I can't tell you now if that's a mindfuck residue that Toxicity left behind, from her steady and open and weeping frustrations at my inability to properly cater to her, or if that's who I really was prior to this shift in perspective.

I saw Divo (male diva) this weekend as well. I'm sure I've mentioned that story (stop me if I haven't.) I remerged with the bouncers that night, joining them as their shifts were ending - it's been so long since I've done that. In the past I would have been huddled in their cipher, laughing deeply while weed thickened the air, capping the night with one last act of comraderie before parting ways. But I was perfectly content watching the strip of sky lighten between buildings, lost in my thoughts until we head for the morning train to Newark.

We had an extended-family "dinner" at Owl (by far my favorite)'s home. All of us ambled in at 8am to heaping plates of turkey, egg salad, yellow rice, mac and cheese. It was delicious. Their baby was awake, an adorable terror who took one glance at us walking in and blurted, "Oh, shit!" (His father's expression, a greeting of happy surprise.) They let me claim the one air mattress and Divo warned that he'd be joining me. I didn't deny it, as I was strangely craving a bedfellow - not sex, and please God, not with him - but a pleasant partner to sleep next to.

What I didn't expect was his insistence on intimacy. The finger-caressing kind. He pushed it onto me in waves, and at first I didn't mind it. His sexual advances were easy to turn down because they were indifferent, he merely nudged me with questions of permission ("Can we make out?" "No." "Aight. I'ma ask you again in 15 minutes."), and I knew that it was not sex he really wanted. What strange creatures men of insecurity make.

Believe it, we ended up talking for hours. His hand resting on my stomach, my legs tossed over his hips, my arms crossed. His arrogance, and my hatred for it, was a familiar presence between us. ("Hey J, remember when we used to make out?" "Yeah. Remember when we stopped?") All in all, it was wonderful until my cuddle-tank dripped past full. I sat up as soon as I became uncomfortable and did not want to be held anymore. His persistence bothered me, but he's a boy used to getting what he wants if he keeps trying. And I am fickle as I like to chase my happiness. Can I really be mad? Heh.

Our conversation turned from apples and religion to... lol. He murmured against my shoulder about how he's been different, how he regrets the direction we took, how he thinks about me a lot nowadays. I either laughed or stared at the ceiling. Whether it's because I don't desire him enough to search for truths in his statements, or because I've watched him enough to doubt his sincerity as a person, (or because I just don't trust romance in general? LOL) I listened to my soul shut down. My discomfort grew as he beamed at me (and made sure I saw it) later, sneaking pictures of me while I cradled Owl's newborn in my left arm, his older baby chillin & leaning against my right - didn't we three make such a pretty image? As much as I loved the group, and as much as I adored those kids, I found myself so far from my zone that I had to gtfo. And gtfo I did, with a huge sigh of relief.

The ultimate success of this weekend, and the point buried in the folds of this rambling post somewhere (also used to fill you in on my happenings!), is that I've come to trust my instincts without a hitch in stride again. It's been so long since I've allowed myself to absorb the sudden injection of intuition, and to pause in action to heed and consider. Somewhere among the debris of my past years I'd started believing that my impulses were wrong, that they led me to this mess in the first place, that I could no longer take them seriously because they only led to destruction. (Thus began my long, long road of delaying self-gratification and quitting everything I loved, from meat to sex to smoking to giving unwanted advice). It's wonderfully refreshing to have faith in myself again. The difference now is knowing which instincts to follow, and which to credit to uncertainty. Amazing to once again walk away from my actions without much regret; I have been plagued with them, and the weight is lifting.

Kryptonite got into a car accident yesterday. Exhales. He is alive, and no bones are broken; an SUV hit him and he flew back a few feet on impact. This intense stir in my belly cannot be soothed. When I found out last night, I felt the tender side of me -- which had rebelled so violently from house, kids and cuddle earlier that morning -- explode into action, grabbing for its keys and running to the door, making plans for care packages, soup and stories.

I can only chuckle. Some things never change, and some things will never be free of doubt.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Hypothetically (of course),

would it be weird if I adopted my half-sibling and raised them as my own?

Monday, December 21, 2009

Writing feels blah

I have so much to write about, and I don't just mean blogging. I have several article ideas that I want to pitch to magazines, plus a few up-and-coming mags that are expecting articles, and I've been writing fiction non-stop for the past four days. There's also a journal that I'm supposed to be keeping for my English class, and a group project (survey and essay) that I'm supposed to do for my sociology/anthropology class.This is the first time that I've been overwhelmed with writing that I want to do, and the pressure to find my happy place within my happy medium is not lost on me.

Lately, my feelings are coming so quickly, so purely, that I feel them with every fiber of my body. But even that last part of the last sentence - "every fiber of my body" - sounds so contrived, so cliche, so outdated. I feel things, sure, but I don't know how to express them. I can't find the mental energy to dig deeper, to find a colorful way of saying what's on my mind. I feel inept and frustrated at my loss for words.

I've been rereading articles that I wrote for the Kingsman three, four, five years ago, and I can't help but feel that my way with words is slowly sinking toward mediocrity. There was once a spark, a definite feeling that my writing persona was someone special, that the words that flowed out of me were arranged in a unique way. Maybe my audience was limited, and maybe I didn't earn any money from writing, but I was undeniably good at it. Now, my audience has definitely grown and I'm earning a little bit from my writing, but I feel like my talent is diminishing. My words just don't have the easy flow, witty tone, and biting sarcasm they used to have. They feel so common, so used-up. It doesn't help, either, that I have such a hard time searching for the right word. I wonder if it's because I'm learning Tagalog that my brain is having a harder time processing language?

Speaking of writing, I'm reading Albert Camus's The Plague, and Jessica Hagedorn's The Gangster of Love. I've always liked Camus, but Hagedorn is a new obsession. I LOVE her. She's the first Filipino woman writer I've ever come across, and everything I learn about her - that she was discovered by Beat poets, that she's unconventional, that she's... what's the word? Gender ambiguous? GAH! I can't find the- ANDROGYNOUS! Yes, that she's androgynous-looking. Everything about her is fabulous, and I want her to be my mentor. After all these years of women picking me to be their mentee, I want to choose the person I want to learn from, and it's her.

I'm rereading each paragraph in this post, and I can't help but feel like this conversation would lead to one of our marathon gab sessions. I miss those! I want desperately to find someone here - someone besides my brother - who I can speak to like that. My best bet is one of my cousins, probably Leila or Lara. If not, then I'll have to wait till Rob gets here. But dammit, I miss actually speaking with a kindred spirit. I miss having face-to-face conversations with someone who just gets me and who I get. I'm wondering if that kind of friendship is possible between two people of such different experiences, cultures and languages. The only people I've met so far with good grasps of the English language are family members, and limiting my conversations to only them seems too exclusive. I have to figure out something to get me out of my communications rut.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

First.

Dear Maria,

I'm always mad intimidated by the first entry. In any journal I've ever written, especially the "real life" ones, it takes me a while to regain my voice. So bear with me while I sound really awkward and on-the-surface.

I'm at work; the mail guy just came by. His cologne is very overwhelming. His assistant also wears something strong, but much more pleasant and low-key. Not so power-swagger-old-spice. I'm thinking it's either diesel, or abercrombie & fitch, something vanilla based. I wonder what their office must smell like. A whole lotta man and.. paper.

Speaking of vanilla, I broke the bank last night determined to purchase luxury items for myself. I trekked to Sabon, a high-endish all-natural soap store chain in the city, and somehow spent close to $50.00 on 2 things. I was determined to take a bath that night -- the wind chills have been hitting the teens here girl!! -- but I don't know if I told you, I'm terrible at taking baths. They stress me out. I fail at them. So in an effort to make this a good experience, I purchased mineral powder and an oil soap. Tsk.


And then on the way to the station stumbled past a stationary store selling ALL sorts of notebooks. It was heaven for me; I spent an hour selecting 5 notebooks for my classes next semester. Regular ass notebooks. Chosen based on the color of the lines, how close together they were, how light, how flexible. Next I will travel to queens for the right pens.

No regrets, it was a retail therapy kind of day. I shopped for myself with a vengeance. The most satisfying sprees I have are at like, a Duane Reade or a Staples. Sometimes even a supermarket for groceries, depending on the mood. I LOVE shopping for school supplies, but my options are so limited.

It's the selection process perhaps, the heavy weighing, that spends me. Clothes don't do it for me as much. Shopping for clothes always stresses me out a little.

I've been repressing feelings of resentment and frustration when it comes to funds. For some reason, this year I decided to try Christmas (for the first time? Or the first time to memory, anyway) at the house of Song. Ha... boy. I don't know what gave me that bright idea, especially since I won't have a disposable income any more. The money I saved is all I got - what was I thinking? (Matter fact - that's probably what's spurring the idea. Kind of like, deciding to go on a diet, and then eating nothing but burgers and ramen for 3 weeks straight.

What. You don't do that?

Uh... me neither.)

Love,
J