WHEN BLACK AND RAINBOW COLLIDE (09/05/12)
Let me tell you about the story of the girl in black and the man in the rainbow-colored coat.
They got married just recently.
The girl in black never saw herself to ever be the kind to settle down [especially with just one man]. I suppose that it’s the people around her that made her question the sacredness and power of marriage. Hmm, let’s see… First, even though she is a legitimate child, she was born a year after her father’s first mistress gave birth to their first-born; Second, her sister got pregnant out of wedlock, married her ex-husband a year after, raised three daughters with him for 10 years, only to end up filing for annulment; Third, she has a brother who used to be the boy-next-door who always got straight As and had no vices. He later on became a well-respected politician, who, unfortunately, got influenced [by the people surrounding him] into becoming a reckless alcoholic and gaudy person. After promising his bride a huge sum of monthly allowance, he lost his position in the city council and ended up penniless. To save face to those who used to work for him, the girl’s mother volunteered to help the brother out financially. The mother got the brother’s wife a two-toned Rolex with diamonds, which the wife thought came directly from the guy’s pocket; And, finally, the girl’s best friend. She got knocked-up at the early age of 17 by a 30-something NBI agent, who was legally still married with numerous women and children on the side. The best friend became the agent’s flavor-of-the-month for about 3 years, but later on left her for a younger girl. He did, however, leave the best friend with a BMW, which she later discovered was a stolen vehicle. Years after, she found out from the media that her pseudo husband’s house got raided by the Philippine SWAT team and that he was put behind bars for good.
Intense, eh?
So, how about the man in the rainbow-colored coat?
Well, he was raised by a conservative and religious family. He had always been the good guy–the reliable one. Although he learned to smoke and like cigarettes in his late 20s, he never became a drinker, a gambler, a spendthrift, a narcissist, an atheist, a woman-beater, a cheater or a promiscuous person. He was what most girls would refer to as…
…the almost perfect guy. So why did the MAN in the rainbow-colored coat fall in love with the GIRL in black?
I may “kinda” know the answer.
I, too, got married just recently. While waiting inside the bridal car, I was enveloped by all sorts of emotions. I even had a huge panic attack even when I was already walking towards the altar. I recall almost losing consciousness. My face was red, and I was sweating all over. Why? Because, like the girl in black, I was skeptic and afraid that I, too, would end up separated to my hubby one day, just like everyone else close to me. I recently tied the knot with a man who thought that the reason why I was red as a tomato and a bit sobbing [while walking on the altar] was because I was filled with happy emotions. He said that upon watching me, he almost broke into tears. What he didn’t know was that I was trembling, not in joy, but rather, in fear.
He, on the other hand, says that he never cringed at the thought of “forever”. In less than a year of being official, he already felt that it was me that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Every time I ask him, “Why me? Why not the girl you went out with for 4 years?”–his answer remains the same. He’d always say, “I didn’t feel ‘it’ with her. I felt ‘it’ with you.”
Now, I didn’t marry writer, Nicholas Sparks, or best actor/hunk, Robert Downey, Jr. I am quite certain that my husband has never wooed me with romantic words and gestures for he is never good with words or does he have any skill in acting. His coat is definitely rainbow-colored. He sees life like a children’s book. I’ve always worn dark-colored coats. I see life like like a gray sand castle ready to be swept and ruined by any wave–big or small.
I may be walking on clouds right now, some might say, and I WON’T beg to disagree. But, who knows? Maybe black and rainbow [when combined] can actually make a bright color.
That, we will find out together in my next entry.
COLD FEET? OR COLD CADAVER? (06/18/12)
Three months ago, my first love–my greatest love–passed away in a freak accident. He was my childhood sweetheart. We were together for 10 years. Although I am now engaged to my “Neo”–my “the one”–in my heart, I know for a fact, that my deceased friend is, without doubt, my soul mate.
I won’t even try to explain why I know he shares half of my soul, because even he knew that I owned half of his. Soul mates don’t actually always end up together [contrary to what most couples want to believe]. Some people don’t even get to meet their soul mates in their lifetime. Most even say that the person they are with or is about to marry is their soul mate…
…but that I don’t agree with that.
I am engaged to the one that was chosen for me by the “adjustment bureau”. I said “yes” to him months before my soul mate passed away. Why? Because I knew. I knew that he is the one pre-planned for me. And even though I knew I shared a soul with another man, I knew he wasn’t “the one”.
It’s the rainy season here in the Philippines. The weather sometimes remind me of my friend. He drowned in a bed of kelps while kite surfing in Malibu. From the Middle East, he flew all the way to California to visit his parents after 6 years of not seeing them. The day after he arrived, the kelps took him down.
I can still hear his laughter… I can still picture his smile and face… His hands… His toes–those big, fat toes… How a huge part of me drowned along with him. I’ve had 6 other serious relationships after we broke up on July 13, 2003. None of which I ever considered to be a soul mate.
There’s a song by the Indigo Girls entitled Ghost. It tells about being still in love with an ex. In my case, I still love my ghost. Half of me will always do.
We had a tree that we carved our initials on. We had a secret meeting place when times got tough. We had a password and sign, in case one of us gets reincarnated. We had many memories and promises, but Malibu took him away…
…and I can only see him now as a tainted image in an old photograph.
THERE’S AN ANGEL WHO LOVES GOOD MUSIC… AND PIZZA (02/10/12)
July of 2011 [after rehab], I visited my sound engineer and asked him to give me another chance at making a record. His immediate reply was for me to simply upload my compositions on Youtube instead.
When a musician fails to satisfy his/ her label here in the Philippines, it’s a sign for him/ her to step back and pack up.
I PACKED MY BAGS FIVE YEARS AGO–ALONG WITH MY TALENT IN SONGWRITING…
…but I refused to give up last year because I knew my songs had a darn, good chance of making it big in the industry once again.
I told the engineer about having been admitted into rehab. I hadn’t planned on breaking down, but I did. That was when he told me that he finally understood where I was coming from and even told me that he would try his best to sell my compositions once again to his friends in the label industry. Today, my band and I are still hoping for a miracle.
I am pissed at my countrymen, who idolize foreign artists more than they do the locals. Piracy here in the Philippines is nothing new, that is why, we, musicians, are having difficulty getting back on the saddle even if our songs sell. Fact is, record companies today are signing foreign acts and hardly the local ones. The age of Pinoy rock has temporarily died–when it would be revived again, none of us would be able to say.
All I know is that I found an angel who appreciates my music…
…but will the rest of the archipelago?
CHOOSING LIFE AND GOOD LOOKS OVER TOASTS (12/20/11)
I finally decided to admit myself into rehab [by choice] last November. I was not only getting stouter by the day–I was also having difficulty recognizing myself in front of the mirror. Gaah!!! I missed loving myself physically at that time.
Having lived in a house with total strangers for 2 and a half months gave me feelings of both heaven and hell. Heaven–in the sense that I knew I was starting to appreciate life without alcohol; and hell–because I knew I was definitely gonna go back to my old ways once I got out.
It was my plan even before I had myself admitted.
As anticipated, I relapsed a week after I got out. I was at a karaoke bar with other members of the A.A. group when I started craving for a sip of anything alcoholic. I was beginning to loathe the taste of the orange juice that I ordered and was on the verge of blowing my head off. That was when I went behind my companions’ backs and ordered a bottle of beer at the bar [which I drank straight-up in less than 3 seconds]. Not being enough to satisfy my taste buds, I had a couple more bottles.
It took me a while before I got onto the drinking saddle again [after that night], but it still led me back to the yearning-to-drink-everyday stage again. By May 2010, I was drinking religiously again. I’ve stopped attending the daily A.A. meetings for it bothered my conscience. For half a year, I was torn whenever I drank. I felt that I was betraying my core group. It saddened me to admit that I no longer felt shame, remorse and guilt whenever I was out partying. You see, there is a fine line between addicts and normal people–they can never be seen together in social ground.
So whenever I start to crave, I remind myself how easily I breezed through the three months in rehab. With that, I will always have something to tell myself…
…that I CAN survive without alcohol.
REBOUNDING AND BASKETBALL (03/06/07)
I wrote a song back in college entitled Undecided. It’s about a boy who’s in love with two women. Recently, I met a guy who actually fits the character [in my composition] perfectly. Sadly, I’m one of the two women confusing his young and mischievous heart.
Dribble, dribble, dribble… Pass… Rebound!
Love is a game, and I am one of its unlucky, avid players. Right now, I’m still learning to shoot hoops without traveling. I’m quite sure I’m no good at making rebounds–but defenses? Well, those are what I am best at making.
For me, love is like a basketball court. You run from end to end trying to score even though you already want to sit on the bench to rest and catch breath. You try to make a darn, perfect shot; to make good defenses and offenses; to catch, dribble and shoot the ball without having to pass it to anyone else either because of lack of trust or simply pride alone–even though the game is all about teamwork.
So, why do some MVP hopefuls cast teamwork aside? The answer is simple–every player in the games of both love and basketball wants to be just like Jordan. Who on earth wants to be second best at anything?
I don’t want to be the girl my new acquaintance chooses over his ex just because I haven’t fouled yet. I want to be the one he chooses over her because I am [in his eyes] the MVP of the game…
…and not just a player he wants to train to become a better player than his last MVP.
ALMOST FAMOUS (05/19/06)
It’s that movie–Almost Famous. It tells of a journalist’s experiences with a rising rock band on tour. My favorite scene was the one on the plane where one member confessed to being homo. That was just a second before the turbulence completely stopped. Hilarious.
I’ve been in the rock scene a little over a year now. I can say our career is doing pretty well since our songs are currently being played on-air, and since our second music video just made it in MYX Top 10. Boy, do I remember writing my very first song. I was then just a naive seven-year-old admiring the beautiful, summer sky from the window of my uncle’s van when a melody just happened to pop in my head. Next thing I knew, I was writing the first stanza to my first composition–When The Sun Is Still Away. Since then, I’ve been writing songs and compiling them in notebooks. Although I played the organ and could read notes, I composed all my songs a capella until I learned to play the guitar at the late age of 23.
My parents are both highly successful businessmen. They have little faith in everything else that is not in their field. I will never ever forget how they sabotaged my dream of becoming a professional pool player. Even though I was only 18 then [with no formal training or lessons], I was winning tournaments back and forth. I was a dang, gifted pool player back in the day. Yet, they took my dream away–even more, my chance. When I started getting asked by several bands to be their frontwoman, my parents did everything they could to stop me from ever singing again. However, I chose not to be stopped anymore. At 24, I started going behind their backs to pursue my greatest dream–to become a famous rock star.
Teens have this yearning for acceptance and belonging. When I was younger, I wanted to be proclaimed as the most popular kid in school (admit it, even you wanted that title). But after 3 different colleges in just 3 years, I grew tired of the whole popularity craze. I wanted something more–and it wasn’t to be the most popular kid anymore…
…I wanted to be famous.
A friend of mine and I were reading the Philippine Tatler a year ago. She said that her dream was to be able to experience the life of any of the country’s elites–even just for a day. Then I said, “I’d rather be famous–not as an actress or a model, nor as a wealthy person or a socialite, but famous for being a musician–that wherever I go, people know who I am and what I do.”
I once went out with a guy who never supported my passion for music. Although he’s a music lover like myself, he never showed faith in any of my compositions. Years later, he became an editor of several shows on ABS-CBN. Before our breakup, I swore to him that I will one day appear on one of his shows as someone who is already famous, and that he will be the one editing the show I will be guesting in.
I fulfilled my word two years after.
During the day, I’m a copywriter. At night, I am a rock star. A while ago, I was walking along Makati, when a group of strangers started yelling out my name. It makes me happy that wherever I go [oftentimes], strangers know who I am and what I do. Back then, I had a fantasy–a fantasy I felt would one day turn into reality for some uncanny reason. It’s unexplainable, but I have always felt that fame was in my palm.
Sometimes, when I look back, I remember how non-supportive my family and friends were. I remember the nights I spent alone, composing songs that I never imagined would be heard by anyone else, but me, at all. I remember hoping and wishing that someday, my music will be heard and loved by many.
When I become a lola (grandmother), I will surely be able to tell my grandkids that I was not that famous back in my day…
…but almost was.
FRIENDS MEET THE REAL WORLD (04/05/06)
Some time between 2004 and 2005, five, brokenhearted alcoholics went to the beach. They made a promise to keep coming back to that resort ’til death do them all part. But a year after that, no word was heard from any of them again.
Last year, my friends and I would go on out-of-town trips every other weekend. Not a month went by that we weren’t together every single day. This year, they’ve all disappeared.
Funny how people come and go in a snap of a finger. One day, they’re everywhere, the next, they’re nowhere to be found–as though they never existed. Either there was an argument, a breakup or even a new relationship. Last year was a blast–life was just so full of fun and games. This year, everyone is busy making money and falling in and out of love. So now, I’m the only one left in the boat–and man, is it sinking real fast.
I don’t even have a life jacket. Neither can I swim.
When all my friends finally settle down, will communication be lost? Because right now, it kinda already is. It’s quite sad that one must have to face the real world at some point in time, and that no matter how much he or she tries to bring back the good ol’ days, rarely does it happen because of new priorities and responsibilities.
When I get to hang out with my friends today, all they ever talk about is work. They have definitely grown up while I’m still stuck in college at age 25–by choice! Why must one have to mature and realize that there’s more to life than just parties and alcohol?
Why was I not there when they all decided to join the bandwagon…
…considering that I am the only who’s actually in a band?
NARCISSUS TURNS INTO A FROG WITH A 3-INCH TADPOLE (03/28/06)
It’s that book, The Picture of Dorian Gray. What a boring day it was at work today that I actually finished reading the entire novel online. The story tells of a handsome, young man who bargained his soul to the devil for eternal youth and beauty.
After a failed 10-year relationship with an almost perfect guy, I decided to give an unattractive one a chance–a friend from college whose humor and lightheartedness have driven me to admire him for years–not because I needed a rebound, but because I was told that grotesque guys are faithful and loyal as partners. So I gave it a try. Boy, was I very disappointed. That horrifying frog-turned-into-human-with-a-three-inch-wiener just ended up breaking my heart with his constant womanizing–a bizarre truth that even my friends have a hard time accepting until now. Why? Because not only is he bugly; he is also neither wealthy, famous or intelligent.
Why, then, wish for a genie to turn you from an ugly duckling into a swan? To long for thousands and thousands of money just to afford a facial surgery? Or to bargain your soul to the devil for eternal beauty and youth?
I was watching a documentary on TCM last night about a famous, 50s Hollywood actress. When they showed old videos and photos of her, my jaw dropped. I didn’t expect her to have been a fresh, ripe watermelon back in her day. Yes, she was a bit pleasant-looking for a 70-year old, but had the documentary not shown photos taken of her decades ago, I would have just seen her as a plain, old woman whose looks have deteriorated over the years.
It’s strange how dirty, old men can still get young, hot women to sleep with them despite impotence and Viagra. Had Viagra not been discovered, grandmothers would have no worries about infidelity. But unfortunately, some horny, male scientist found a loophole to erectile dysfunction. It’s sad that gray-haired grannies can no longer get young men [who aren’t gigolos] to sleep with them, while bald, old gramps can still snatch a decent woman in her thirties and below.
If Eve hadn’t been tempted by the forbidden fruit, would the word polygamy still be included in the Merriam-Webster dictionary?
The idea of keeping my looks eternally is one big fantasy. Because come to think of it, I would die someday anyway. Why, then, must I obsess on the thought of being a dish even at the age of 70?
I have appeared on the tube numerous times already–receiving calls and texts from people to lose weight [because of the 10-pound camera rule]. But never have I let their advices and opinions get me into thinking that I am a butterface-scuffin muffin. Gah! I know I’m not 10 pounds overweight [in reality] and I am definitely contented with the face I was given. So why be affected?
Besides, I am no actress or model. I make music, that’s what I do. I wasn’t born to become an icon whose beauty must satisfy the standards of those who are too shallow to see beyond the skills and character of an individual. We weren’t brought into this world to please others, but, rather, to please the One above.
Dang, now I sound like the host of 700 Club.
HIGHWAY GUY (06/18/05)
Some time between 2-3am one Saturday night, I had a realization.
I was driving along EDSA thinking of how to fix a personal dilemma when I drove past a man curled up along the emergency bay with his face buried between his arms and legs. At first glance, he seemed like another homeless person who chose the road to be his temporary bed. However, being well-dressed, he couldn’t have been homeless. He was definitely intoxicated, in my opinion. I then came to realize that my problem was nothing compared to his. Why? Because even though I was coping with a painful situation, I was still inside the comfort of own car while he, on the other hand, was knocked out in the middle of one of the busiest highways in Manila—alone. In a snap, my pain was healed.
I was reading the Philippine Tatler the other day while having my hair done. I was stunned. I didn’t know that there was an exclusive magazine for the country’s elites. There are tons of magazines about fashion, love, gadgets, music and automobiles—but elites? I never knew such existed until that afternoon when my friend dragged me to the salon. Even the title of the magazine’s issue was disturbing—100 Most Invited Individuals in the Metropolis. What on earth? For a few minutes, I began imagining myself being on the VIP list of an exclusive party for the rich and the famous. Suddenly, I remembered the highway guy. I realized that the satisfaction one gets from having all the money, power and fame in the world is nothing compared to the happiness one gets from life’s simple joys.
I drove home with a dilemma. However, the highway guy made me think twice about sulking over it. Now, I appreciate my life.
I may be well-off, but not be a millionaire. I may have a pleasant face, but not enough for Vogue. I may have the brains, but I can never outargue Miriam Santiago. I may think I know a lot about life, but my mother can always prove me otherwise.
My point is, everyone carries a burden that they may find worth crying over in solitude for weeks, months or years. But the reality is, there are more people out there whose problems are far more worse than ours. Rich or poor, drunk or sober, it is up to us to accept that pain is a part of life, and that we must not allow it to run us over like it is the worst that can ever happen to us in this lifetime.
Man, I sound like Morrie. And it isn’t even a Tuesday.