The Idiot Box
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Sunday, November 15, 2009
c) Well that was nice. But wtf guys.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
As I write this Stone Temple Pilots' Lady Picture Show is playing in the background. I wanted to listen to Elbow (which I've been listening to with a removed sense of particular cyclical redundancy) but decided against it.
I'll be going to Cubao in a bit, a regular dieliverdie dive for me at the moment to grab some pictures from my drummer, eat dinner (since I had brunch this four in the afternoon) and talk about the album release, the cover, the posters. After that I imagine we'll drink some more, I'll look for friends, suddenly find someone I know and at least vaguely like, kiss and make out and boom. Tomorrow "morning" will most likely consist of me telling myself one of two things:
a) That was awesome.
or
b) I shouldn't have had chased that rum with beer.
At the moment I've stalled several art related projects because I really really want to finish Dragon Age so I can move on with my life. Or what's left of it. At the moment I am at week one of my not-so-much-of-an-exile exile from the world. At least I managed to finish what I sought to finish this week which consisted of a series of Sally concept art blah and my review of Dragon Age for Playground magazine (which covers still sort of suck--even the one I did. I don't know why).
Also, as of last night I have sort of regained control of my pen tablet after acquiring a driver online. I don't know why my CD drivers don't work--what's important is that at least the pen tablet now works and that I now want CS4.
I have also decided to use Goudy Old Style for a novel idea in my head. It's characters will have code names consisting of font styles. There would be an old man by Times New Roman (or "the Roman" by some), there will be twins calling themselves Arial Black and Arial Bold, a crazy person who hangs out at the Shaw Blvd MRT station called Wingdings and a Russian Gunrunner called Goudy Old Style who dislikes Makati and is a sucker for white rum.
Right now Sour Girl is playing. I should also have bathed and not written this but I felt I needed to do something else other than have that blasted video game suck my brains out. I could've drawn but I already inked something and now my hands are dry.
There is also a nagging realization that most of the people I miss too much have names starting with the letter M. This infuriates me for some reason. And now I just wasted a minute or two thinking about that too much. I feel nostalgic for beer.
...
Sour Girl just stopped playing.
Current music: NIN - Closer
Saturday, October 31, 2009
So you are, in one way or another, particularly omnipotent in your part of the general demesnes of the Universal Whole of Humanity. You like your slice of the world. It is cinnamon flavored. You like cinnamon.
Say you suddenly decide that this particular slice isn't as nice as before. Cinnamon does not have the same zing as it did when spicy excitement roiled in the recesses of your tongue. As you are supposedly omnipotent in one way or another what would you do? Change said flavor into something a tad more... fruity? I dunno, say... strawberry? Or Lemon-Strawberry. Maybe something exotic. Vanilla Almond Awesome. Tuna. Telephone. Or would you try taking over the whole pastry from the Universal Whole of Humanity? Or at least maybe another different slice. Maybe Vanilla Cinnamon would taste nice. Or Panda Ball Point Pen Ink + Cinnamon.
Or would you re-render this cinnamon slice of something into a telephone flavored jello shot instead? You are omnipotent anyway.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I'm certainly not the subtlest of persons to get lost in conversation with. I've done well training myself to be rude enough; so rude and crass that only a silly nilly would slap the left side of my face with a velvet glove and ask for pistols at Wednesday, when the sun hits the tip of the clock tower (no dear we don't have a clock tower). It's also this very thing that keeps me humoring myself when life throws you a 160kph curveball to the face. Sometimes I can be so rude I offend myself. On occasion I've been known to throw the Velvet Glove of Challenge onto a hardy floor of cement and throw my face on the surface of said Velvet Glove with much gusto and awesome--just to keep myself on my toes.
So yesterday I was drinking. I decided to only get myself one drink and then go straight home. Just. One. Drink. But lo and behold: Familiar Faces! Familiar Faces started striking up a whirlwind of talk and pretty soon me and Familiar Faces were a great god damned natural disaster. Soon and sure enough when the One Drink found My Throat they realized they had so much in common and had excellent sex and decided to build a family. In the span of an hour One Drink gave birth to Two More Drinks and then I had to call it a night. Everything was a semi jolly-angry haze after that. I'm not sure what brought on the angry though. I think I heard a Christmas song mumbling past the hollow shell of some videoke bar on the way home but pleh.
So when I came to my senses today I had the nagging notion that I just did something extremely silly. At least I still remember the bar--the walk home was more or less smooth since I still remembered calling a cab. It was when I yawned that something odd and funny dawned on me. So I yawned, my jaw moved and my eyes closed, squinted and my forehead slowly and surely creased. Then my jaw yelped a "whatthefuckwasthat" as did a good deal of the rest of the right side of my face. Then the muscle under the right side of my eye seemed vaguely swollen. And my forehead held that distant twitch a bruise gives.
In a slight state of panic I drew open my closets and bags and rummaged through my belongings. Nothing was missing and everything was in place. Save for one thing:
The Velvet Glove of Challenge was not in the Drawers of Silliness.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The only time I ever get to look at the "post" page on Livejournal is when I have something to complain about. And I have come to complain about the democracy which we nibble upon like ants on a baby splashed with orange soda. And there's just reeeeally something wrong when someone like me starts to think about this thing called a--whassitagain--a uhm, government. Or something.
Maybe Five was right all along. We don't need a revolution, everyone's bored with revolutions. I mean I'm bored with revolutions. It's like saying black is the new black which was the new white was the new pink is the new black. I say Molotov cocktails and homemade napalm upon the walls of the corrupt. Broken Red Horse bottles upon the naked necks of our oppressors. It can't be called tyranny I think. It's not technically right.
And if it can't be called anything other than "corrupt"; and that is another boring word. I think corrupt is only really appropriate for fantasy roleplaying games, necromancers, ex-girlfriends, certain breeds of salad and your external hard disk. I wouldn't use corrupt to adorn our much loved legislators. Maybe silly. Silly Nilly.
Vannily.
Point is I'm not voting. I just realized my laziness and apathy are manifestations of just how awesome I think our government is growing. We're really maturing and going in a direction which I think will benefit everyone. I love that people who have nil idea how to run a country, people who are absolute neophytes about being civil servants are gunning for running the country. Their awesome sacrifice is awesome. And I am being really, really, ridiculously sarcastic if my hypothetical audience did not get that.
So given the chance I really would be going after everyone (oh no not you silly) with a molotov cocktail or a really loud, semi-harmless firecracker. Worse comes to really really worse I'll start kidnapping their children and start sending parts to their respective owners' parents piece by piece by piece.
What?
Why Yes, I'm Glad You're My Friend Too.
Monday, October 19, 2009
This is Why:
Kim: tcdh. I just realized.
charmaine musngi: ?
Kim: remember those bunny ears I unwittingly stole from you?
charmaine musngi: yeah?
Kim: pupunta kami ng trivia night mamaya e.
charmaine musngi: are they still with you?
charmaine musngi: O_O
Kim: and I have no rabbit ears.
Kim: akina K. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
charmaine musngi: what!?
charmaine musngi: Trivia Night?
charmaine musngi: what's that?
charmaine musngi: <_< hurgh
charmaine musngi: you left them at K's house
Kim: yes I did.
Kim: trivia night is trivia night.
charmaine musngi: where?
charmaine musngi: =p
Kim: sa last home sa pioneer.
Kim: I'm playing for mia's team.
charmaine musngi: oooh
charmaine musngi: sounds fun
charmaine musngi: pero ung last bunny ears ko
charmaine musngi: ung pink
charmaine musngi: <_<
charmaine musngi: un nawala
Kim: :|
charmaine musngi: hurgh.
Kim: ows?
Kim: I prefer the black ones actually.
charmaine musngi: oo nga.. I havent bought any new one pa
Kim: where'd you get 'em?
charmaine musngi: the black one
charmaine musngi: is with JM
charmaine musngi: bitch
charmaine musngi: JM
charmaine musngi: <_<
Kim: no no, the black one is with me.
charmaine musngi: hurgh
Kim: unless dalawa yung black ones mo.
charmaine musngi: so it's with you!?!?!
charmaine musngi: DAMN
charmaine musngi: I thought I left it sa house nya
charmaine musngi: <_<
charmaine musngi: it's with you pala
charmaine musngi: so nasan na ung black?
charmaine musngi: O_O
Kim: puta anlabo mo. kasasabi ko lang naiwan ko sa bahay ni K e.
charmaine musngi: pink
Kim: ayoko na kitang kausapin.
charmaine musngi: ung naiwan mo sa haus ni k
charmaine musngi: :))
charmaine musngi: =))
charmaine musngi: ahahaha
Kim: you're a fucking zombie charmaine.
RIGHT. Carry on.
Friday, October 9, 2009
That catastrophe taught me a few nice things about Seizing the Day and All That. And as I set out to atone and carry on this nice new philosophy I can only hope the people who find me in a state won't be offended--much. With so much to do and so little time well.
You know.
*grin*
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
This is basically a repost of that poem I wrote in me deviantart account; I'm starting to really believe it deserves this because I have been getting a lot of... reactions from friends. So ah. Yes.
Ahem.
...
On Missing Certain Things
Tue Mar 10, 2009, 2:54 PM
I miss Kissing women.
Passionately.
With awesome, ridiculous, hot, crackling, beautiful
and irresistibly real
Abandon.
I miss tugging at the back of their hairs while mouths fight
and tongues invade fortresses of lips, teeth
and films of sweat, saliva and tastes.
Hands would invisibly grasp
at memories of soft shoulders, tense and strict
decisive and plunging at imagined coaster roils,
arms and fingers coiling around crevices
which should not be there but exists
nonetheless.
Hips which move to a rhythm only we could find,
to the ups and downs of comfort and delirious instinct.
However it happens I shall always find my hand on a cheek,
my fingers caught unsurprised between skin, hair and eyes
as the rest of me delivers another signal of want
from your hair, long or cut,
the small of your back,
your thin neck,
the rests upon your hips
and the small warmth over and beneath.
And the stares.
Empty little spheres locked in eruptions
of hallelujahs and Gods below, what the hell am I doing,
and you're pretty and you're awesome,
and I can't believe this is happening
and and and
and heaven knows what else.
Sad that these days it's all
oh.
Thank you.
Good Night.
At least I get kissed.
But I miss being Kissed.
Pfft, I scoff,
stupid Women, or Woman, I'll smirk.
Stupid lips and hips and nips.
Selective and biased and anti-aliased.
Small stab to the self
to confess I have missed you with myself.
...
And there you have it. Note also that I wrote this when I was piss (pissed?) drunk. Here's the original post. http://hesukristo.deviantart.com/journal/23628175/#comments
I've never been this amused about something I wrote in years. YEARS I TELLS YOU, oh hypothetical audience.
Current mood:  a bit... peckish. on your neck
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The goggled, hunched figure tore the white sheen out and over the pale man's face. "Alive I think," he grinned, and looked at the knobs on the ancient, rusted steel consoles.
"Sure," spake the tall figure in red, picking a bunch of loose threads from his apple red top hat. "It you can call it alive."
"Nonsense. It breathes; look at it's chest. Thin and scraped but it moves. There is a peculiar rhythm to it but as is to be expected from one who was but mere minutes away from necromantic resuscitation."
"Hah. Necromantic," the red figure scoffed, walking over to the heaving corpse. "How terribly parochial."
And as the hunched figure started to slowly form a short retort the body on the tiled long table sighed, coughed and exhaled, painfully, through lungs burned from a week's worth of inhaling stale formaldehyde: "What is up with the accent?"
And all was laughter and much joy.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
and I'm done with 80 frames of storyboard and a couple of concept stuff for something not Saving Sally (the movie I'm helping me director friend make)! Money in the bag! Of course I am at the studio, all pantsed up, still topless, a tad restless and vaguely class B in my bank account (which really isn't much). I'd love to say I'm a new man, amen brutha' and hallelujah or something similar but I probably just lack sleep. I'll be heading home in a while and ruminate about getting Arkham Asylum for the PC. And probably more comic books (another excellent excuse to see the very, very cute proprietress of that most handsome and excellent store of fine printed collectible sequential art books). So yeah. This is another episode of "Oh My God, apparently there's more to life than just stupidly ruminating about the merits of relapsing about my past life as a dog."
So while I'm still sort of hung up on my hang ups I'm allowing myself a leeway of until end of December (possibly January) to sort my shit out or so help me I will end myself with sleeping pills and Absolut Kurant or brave the slitting-my-wrists-the right way-route.
Why Absolut Kurant I hear my hypothetical audience ask?
...
Have you had Absolut Kurant?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
--and for the umpteenth time here I am, cleaning house.
Again.
*exhale*
This is stupid. It's not redundant anymore, just stupid. Because here I am again with the yearly ritual cleaning of blah.
I really have to start planting it into my stupid-fucktard-mule-stubborn processor that while the idea is certainly appealing it just won't work because while I really really like you, the sex, the conversations, most everything the point is lost as I don't trust you. Anymore. REALLY. Everything that comes out of your nice mouth (and what a nice mouth it is lemme just add that) just sounds like another excellent well-placed lie. Even if you can't lie. You said so to my face yourself (just to which face you told it to I forgot, lemme check). I get yearly relapses when I find myself wanting to trust people again. Of course you're the first person I end up experimenting that trust on and eventually the first person to break it for whatever silly reason.
Point is it just don't work.
I feel quite sad that we're breaking the cycle--I was becoming comfortable with it, looked forward to having my brains dashed and fried for broken glass monsters who like feasting on human fucking hearts (becauseilostmineandnowthey'drathereatmybrainsthereisaidit ang emo tangina). I looked forward to the bawling my eyes out, the drama, the sex (fucking excellent sex, lemme just say that again if I couldn't stress it enough youhaveanicebutt), the "oh I'm running away someplace no one will ever find me" bluff (that's for me), the blahs of it. It was fun and amusing.
The realization that what you've become to me as just that (read previous paragraph) is sad. It's certainly more than what we both deserve anyway. How fucking patronizing, I know but really. 'tis most true. I mean I know you're happy now. And as I remember I was really feeling pretty excellent that August until I saw you on my birthday. ON MY BIRTHDAY (which I forgot but you reminded me). It's certainly sweet yeah, but A)ISJD)!N@J$ !)@*$!H}$!J#WDPWdfucking hell COME ON. Of course that was mostly my fault, I keep telling myself I don't want to see you but I went ahead and did so anyway. And you had company pa. And I assumed. And, See Now Wasn't That Fucking Excellent? WHAT A GRAND SATIRE PLAYING IN MY HEAD HAHAHA FUNNY.
Yes, I'm pissed and I hate you. So fuck you.
...
*sigh* Late Reaction. Took me YEARS. Passive Aggression for the win motherfuckers. What an ugly way to settle an argument but this is the only way I'll talk the poster with your face on the wall (and that was a metaphor). I'll need to say that to your real face soon. Maybe lunch? When Are You Free? Preferably without the company. I'd hate to soil my rep.
But meh.
You're good to go. In conclusion I'd like to say at least now we're better--you on better pastures me on listless, quaking funny sand. So Long (so loooong) And Thanks for All the Fish.
PS: Dear, if you're still wearing the wig please drop it. You look stupid. I don't like it when you look stupid.
Also, while it doesn't work I'd still love to be friends with you because I loved you (which means you are awesome by default). I just had to write that or I will crack and be psycho-ex and I do not want that.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
This is me talking to Denice. We were talking about Cordillera time Alcohol Break in Ortigas, breaking into song and a conversation about Sunday and then marriage. Let's pick it off from there:
Kim: I am militantly single right now.
Kim: kung magaasawa ako yung kapatid ko na lang.
angmgatuhod: :))
Kim: or the japanese-brazilian who is fated to sire my children.
angmgatuhod: kala ko ba russian-japanese?
Kim: pangit yun actually.
angmgatuhod: :))
Kim: I'm going for either russian-filipina or brazilian-japanese.
Kim: weird na halo yung russian-japanese e.
angmgatuhod: sobrang puti
Kim: tapos kung sakaling masyadong hot baka malaspag sa kin yun.
Kim: oo man.
Kim: or putangina russo-brazilian.
angmgatuhod: pde.
angmgatuhod: lupit nun sa football
Kim: if we're both tall our children would be like... fucking titans.
angmgatuhod: all legs amf
Kim: SPIDER TITANS.
angmgatuhod: scary man O.o
angmgatuhod: tapos mabuhok, kasi me 1/4 indian
angmgatuhod: mukhang tarantula
angmgatuhod: :))
Kim: kung nagkaroon ng zombie apocalypse tapos naging zombies nila they'll rack up a lot of bodies.
angmgatuhod: parang ung kumain ke jimmy santos sa inday bote and the golden bibe
Kim: they'll be deceptively fast--kasi while other zombies trudge they fucking stride.
Kim: may torrent kaya ng inday bote and the golden bibe..?
angmgatuhod: iniisip ko nga e. kasi d pa napapanood nila mia
angmgatuhod: :))
angmgatuhod: masaya un. tsaka temptation island!
Kim: naiintindihan ko naman yun.
Kim: pag nasa temptation island mga anak ko na zombie spider russo-brazilians they'd totally pwn those motherfuckers.
Kim: tapos masusunog sila kasama nung barko but they won't die na kasi they're zombies na nga e.
Kim: you hafta shoot 'em in the head.
Kim: pero walang may baril sa temptation island. puro tangga lang.
Kim: e kung limang ulo tangkad nila sa yo, pa'no mo aabutin yung zombie spawn ko di ba?
Kim: you'll have to time it when they start reaching for your necks/scalps.
Kim: pero slim chances nu'n.
angmgatuhod: tangena. ang ksama sa temptation island e mga bading at beauty queen!
Kim: ...and there go their chances of survival.
Kim: see?
angmgatuhod: haha
Kim: Children of Mutuc > (bading + beauty queen)
angmgatuhod: scary amf. children of mutuc
Kim: even death is scared of them.
Kim: kaya nga sila zombies e. di sila mamatay-matay.
Kim: pero ang hot lang nila.
Kim: saka incestuous.
angmgatuhod: syempre pinapangarap mong magkaanak ng spider titan zombies
angmgatuhod: they eat their parents you know
Kim: hindi ako. kadiri pag lumabas sila sa etits ko.
Kim: I lack the generative organs.
Kim: or mytosis.
angmgatuhod: mitosis
Kim: fine. Mitosis.
angmgatuhod: lalabas din naman sila jan no. pano pa lalabas ang sperm? sa pwet?
angmgatuhod: actually pde din.
angmgatuhod: :))
Kim: sabi ng scientists "We shouldn't have played God."
I think I'm more pissed at myself for going there--I mean, I did miss the guys. Lots of fun, them. But as the evening wore on I found myself asking why. And it's just superbly amusing to be there at the bar, with him and him. I mean I'd really really love to learn how to just consistently pretend to not care. Really, it was profoundly non-awkward, like if awkward is to dead and non-awkward is undeath. Dig it? Actually here: If I was a TV show I think I'd be watching and laughing and going all "GGGUUUAAAAAAHFUCKINGWHY?!?"
Non-awkward.
So the why of it might be because I like to pretend I have nothing else to do and think that I'm still important to That Person's Life Processes. Like a faux validation, a dirty sticker pretending to be sticky still, or an empty ballpoint pen suddenly faced by an expectant piece of pale, beautiful processed wood pulp (that's paper to you).
Given all the cons of the why I went there, I suppose I could line it all up for my own fake amusement:
-a shot of rum was 20 bucks worth more than I was originally used to
-guy serving it is barely invisible--in fact he's ridiculously there
-every time I walk inside I feel out of place and hilariously inadequate
-and I end up waiting (for something), doing nothing, and just basically getting the bored shat out of my fucking pores.
So Why In The Itchy Fucking Balls of The Lord Did I Go There?
Because I'd like to think I Was Asked To.
That wall is looking at me funny--it deserves a head butt. Motherfucker.
and before I--OHLOOKHOLYSHITIT'SSTARTREEEEK :D
Friday, August 28, 2009
2:52AM
Right. Album is moving.
And I have decided that I like performing and illustrating shit at the same time.
Piece.
Off.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
A man eats lunch. He scarfs down his rice, scoops up a decent amount of soupy chicken broth, chew, swallow, drink from a glass of liquefied powdered lemonade--rinse, repeat. All the while at the back of his head he tries to think about how much time he has left before work. He puts everything else further back: the car, the girl, that particular glass of rum. Nevermind.
We don't need this.
Rinse. Repeat.
His boxers run. The television drones in front of him. He scarfs down lunch. A few minutes past the appointed hour. The last spoonful--and--
--done!
He scurries on past the threshold of the kitchen, and out. In passing he checks the clock above the doorway. Ten, it says. He knows it's later than that, it's probably around one in the afternoon already. It's been months since he last replaced the batteries of that clock. He hasn't even bothered to see if the gears still work. But all of it's irrelevant now. He needs to take a crap, bathe, prepare his tools for work, the hard disk, the pens, eraser, the inks, the paper--
Rinse. Repeat.
Dinner. Sleep. Brunch.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
uuuh
--nother round around the sun. Sabi ni Pando. Thanks guy.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
...and here I am.
Half awake at seven forty-five in the morning, on the monitor, and fried after spending fifteen minutes in the can, and before that an hour (or two) in bed, trying my best to sleep and not about how awesome a failure Saturday had been.
I've been trying to assess and remember what I did back there. I wanted to say something, give a hug, spread the love, fart rainbows and butterflies and laugh and dance but the music was too loud. There were too many people. And the people I was there were too concerned about how they were going to be spending the night spreading hugs, love, gay flatulence, the whole shebang. Of course I was to. This was common business in this sort of place. Back in bed I wanted to get into detail as to why I felt that way--horrible. Frustrated. Almost disappointed (that surprised me far worse than horrible). It's like I'm not used to this.
Awkward laugh.
Back there, in bed, half-asleep in front of the electric fan and beside the yellow lamplight I wanted, most of all, to find someone or something again I can be weak to like the old days. It was simpler when I was pretending to be a martyr, roaring on about my dad and my ex girlfriends and about how hurt I was and the world doesn't understand blah blah blah blah blah.
Simpler but jesusfuckingchristonastick come on. Nineties artist bullshit.
So there I suddenly thought about stuffed animals--in this case, the stuffed dinosaur my first ever girlfriend gave me. I know can be weak to a stuffed dinosaur. I remember smudging nose-oil on it a few years back. It helped but not really. It helped to make me feel not stupid about crying without an audience. Of course it doesn't scratch the back of your head when you're doing that.
Stuffed animals and their other material counterparts (like singleplayer console roleplaying computer games) also don't do small important things like giggle in bitty voices as they try to hide their amusement while they tell you how stupid that was, stealing that bottle of expensive vodka from that party with the frat boy wannabes. They don't mess with your DVD player, or the lamps you walk under with their freakish supernaturally subtle electrical mutant powers. They don't make you stupid post-it notes you suddenly find at the lip of your closet door; a hug solicitation ticket or something. They don't cut your hair the way you want it. They don't kick your ass in Soul Calibur 2. They don't introduce you to new brands of tea you were supposed to be aware of last week. They don't buy you pants. They don't kidnap you to places. They don't eat Cheetos. They don't dance when you want to dance.
It's like talking to a wall.
But being friends with walls have their advantages too!
Here is a small list:
-You won't be disappointed when they don't reply to your text messages as is most likely the case, walls will not have cel phones nor fingers to use it with.
-They have shade (if the sun is a bit slanted and/or the wall is somewhat of Caucasian descent).
-They protect you from the elements (wind, the police, social undesirables).
-You can lean on them and they shan't fall.
*sigh*
(That last one I just came up with. I'm on an entry-editing roll so this won't be the first time I'll be reading this--but you are, dear, dear audience anonymous. Am I not witty? Do you not just love me? ho ho ho ho)
This is what happens when Saturdays and the places you go to when you want to hide from certain aspects of the prime material realm starts to suck bad eggs. This is when you realize after all that emotional cleansing everyone's been talking about, you realize you haven't been doing anything at all; just putting your luggage in a different set of bags, re-tagging everything and taking notes and then hiding said notes in some other place you'll start to consciously want to forget so as to not find said set of bags.
This is what happens when you find one of those bags.
So there you are, walking tall with a drink in your hand in that place where you go to flee from the rigors and unpleasantries of the Modern World. It's irrelevant to the story how you came to be there and why you're there (well you were there for the Comic Book Store Russian Satellite hug and a buncha comic book reservations). What's important is you are there now and because that is the story.
So let's cut--
...And then you run into it: the Black Backpack.
Exhilaration. Surprise (at the exhilaration?).
You realize the bag isn't as happy as you last saw it. Actually, the last time you saw it before chucking it aaaaall the way up into Reykjavik it was having a sort of mental breakdown (I hyperbolize but you know. No names) and a roaring good time (weird but yes, you know it happens dear, dear audience). While it's fun seeing it being like this, thinking in a vengeance-bent train of thought "good.", you start feeling bad. And deep down you tell yourself maybe the Black Backpack would feel better if you bought it a glass of rhum (It did indirectly wean you on it after all). But it already has a glass of gin tonic. You take a taste and pretend it tastes bad and swig your rhum to drown out the awesomeness. And while the cause of it's mental breakdown (read: hyperbole) is pretty much gone, it seems agitated and awkward and you can't help but feel responsible somehow.
But oh, look! You see That Worn Slingbag! You notice that That Worn Slingbag has a new nametag. You are happy for it. You are diverted. You chat TWS a bit, yank at the shiny new Green Nametag and say hi and re-introduce BB. Oh TWS and BB. Good times, good times.
After that you linger for a bit, together with the Luggage Committee. Swishing the plastic cup your rhum rests in as if buying for time. You eventually start flitting in and out of that crowd because somehow, by some odd, obscure bit of instinct you feel as if that Black Backpack (fresh out of Reykjavik) doesn't want you there. Like It needs you to not be there. And then you say to yourself "Sheesh, and here I was just thinking about how much I missed you. Great Balls of Weird." Of course, since it has been a while since you last saw each other you stay and kill your plans.
After a couple more glasses of rhum, (or rum, as the dicktionary wants me to type it) you say Fuck It and ask the Black Backpack "Why are you being all awkward and stuff?". (not exact words) So you talk and talk, exchanging about three sentences (each) and then you mention how you're afraid of seeing it here again, leaving out the part where you keep trying not to look at it and noticing how despite what it's going through it still looks shiny and awesome. And then you say how you're hoping you don't see it here because it's bound to bring back some memories fresh, both good and bad and it's just going to put a damper on your whole "cleansing" thing. And the Black Backpack huffs its lapels and it starts walking out because you fail to mention how you actually miss it. How you want to hug it again and say "It's really awesome to see you again, BB" (well that's 'sort of fail to mention'. It was too noisy and you didn't want to exert the effort because you think it'll just knock the comment back down. BB seems that depressed). So you shout at it to stop so it doesn't walk away again (you fail to mention to the audience how it walked away instead of you chucking it to whereverthatis. It wasn't chucked. And it was not the one having the mental breakdown. Everything is a blur).
So you shout.
And It Hears You.
And It Stops.
And she says how that was about the only time she stopped walking away because you shouted at her. Or how it actually stopped from someone shouting at it, ordering it to stop. Not begging, pleading and/or bawling for it to dear god, please stop.
YOU SHOUT AT IT, STOP AND FUCKING COME BACK HERE AND TALK TO ME.
And it one-eightys, with a look in its buckles that break your heart and think of Reykjavik (which probably didn't happen, you start remembering).
And then you apologize.
And then you realize how everything just suddenly boils down back again to you apologizing. You're sorry, you are. But the situation called for you to shout. Because of the people and the noise. And you start stuttering inside that small, isolated corner of your momentarily guilty little head, suddenly the idiot antagonist in M. Night's the Village and wishing ever so badly how you should've gone on with the original plan and never listened to what the other bags kept telling you about how That Other Plan's pretty much fucking sunk because everything's almost dead dead dead there now and everyone's finished playing anyway while here it's awesome and the reggae music is making people do crazy shit like throw beer bottles at random fucking strangers my fucking god I should've worn shoes and you just really really really want to get away from here right now now now--
And then you slap yourself in the skull: This is quite possibly, the first time you shouted at the Black Bag. The Very First Time. (you don't really quite remember your birthday so your memory of firsts here can be a mite... untrustworthy. But as far as you remember there really has never been shouting when it was your favorite).
So you apologize, and hug and tell it you want to have plain old lunch and conversation with it because most of the time you see it at night and you want to believe there might be a connection between your failings with the Black Backpack and the lack of sunlight.
So you hug, it goes back into the Luggage Committee for a spell of Drinks and Merriment at Davey Jones Locker and then you realize something--when you apologized that was when you finally got your hug from it.
(Comic Book Store Russian Satellite Hug is awesome though, it's just the circumstances that sort of dispelled it)
It's not the best of circumstances but hugs will be hugs.
You sigh. And then you realize just how you really, really missed the Black Backpack. You recall how this bag has really been one of the few things which can hold all of your shit together and how for a time, it was able help sort whatever it was you threw it's way. How it was one of the few things that kept you sane in a sort of, satirical TV comedy sketch way. Which was fun.
And you should have told her that instead of that bullshit in paragraph 7 (sentence 2) of this story.
The last memory you have of it was you shouting at it to stop and talk to you and an awkwardly distant I'mSorryI'llSeeYouSoonLet'sHaveLunchI'mReallyReallySorry hug.
And then you spill your rum on your pants.
Good Job.
...
lights.
And boom.
Art never comes from happiness. That's what Vincent Mancini's mom said early on in the book (read: title of post). And sure enough, I wasn't happy when I wrote this. Which must mean I'm an artist. E arteest ka pala e, I can almost hear someone saying, in tito intonation.
So yes, I am that and much more too. I am an illusionist. See how these daemons of mine sweep into your vision, weaving vistas of blahs and etceteras?
I am happy.
I hyperbolize. And that's not even a word the internet recognizes.
Did I mention I was an illusionist?
It is 9:42 in the morning.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Having been indirectly pre-programmed by events beyond my control I have told and trained myself to finish something before I start another; this happens not just in all my relations with the opposite sex. One must kill Diablo the first time before turning in one's bastard sword of kings for a staff of the stars or something similar. One burger at a time. One fry. One bottle of beer. One glass of rhum.
One dose of one thing at a time.
And as it is with experience, while I sometimes tend to mix drinks and promise myself never to do it again I find myself in situations where I tend to consciously break these said promises with much sense of impunity.
And then I wake up and promise (again) to never break said promise.
And then there are the little lies. I am Michael Herrera MD. I am an architect. I smuggle organs over Quezon Avenue. I am Jack's leprous left leg. I am made of sugar, spice and some carbon atoms. And then they snowball into fist-sized little rocks, then car-sized boulders, landslides, earthquakes.
The Subtlest Earthquakes.
Everything in moderation. Sure. But does debating that help you against a forest fire? A hurricane? A plague? A fiery tornado made up of undead black plague cells?
People sometimes just go and do. We're still animals. We still just go and do. But that doesn't excuse people from supervillainy.
So what am I insinuating? What exactly do I mean? Or is it that I just told you that so it'll make me seem like I'm meaning something I meant to make you think I meant?
Offcam:
Peter, what the fuck?
Friday, July 3, 2009
So you have an hourglass with two "sides", both of parallel shape and proportion and fundamentally the same. Sand goes out in one end and pours into the other. Sometimes I like stopping the sand in the middle of the drain, like catching someone by the tongue, shutting them up mid-sentence like. And then turning the contraption one hundred and eighty degrees so I can watch the previous end fill itself up again.
At the moment my most perfect scale model of predestination and choice.
Friday, April 17, 2009
si pando: my ex is working in recto
si pando: iscetan
si pando: which is a place i go to sometimes
si pando: my sister in law just told me
Me: mine is in a bar where she gets drinks from random strangers and her pirate boyfriend who "cares" for her.
Me: I win.
Me: :D
Immago get some sleep now.
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