Goodbye, November, I Hardly Knew You!

Neglect has nothing to do with blogging anemia hitting this spot lately.

My inner blogging fiend have attempted, on many occasions, to type several posts but they all instantly got trounced by creeping boredom, mediocrity and the chronic, ominous demands of frantic deadlines, personal life priorities, parental concerns and the pervasive lack of strong motivations and inspirations to commit into coherent paragraphs all those insane thoughts swirling in my head.

November whizzed by and in its gone-too-soon wake settle the dusts of crumpled expectations, a degenerating hopefulness, and that slow burning ache that usually follows sad realizations. It is almost difficult to think clearly and there were moments where I catch myself trailing off to wishful thinking. There were inescapable times when I ponder on the very things that bruise a dream. And try to dig deep into faint flashbacks of events, vainly trying to fish out nuggets of insight that maybe buried in the complexities of persisting on stubborn optimism. I try to rationalize and come up with weak consolations that would somehow distract me from growing weariness.

Simple pleasures have been mislaid if not altogether shoved out the hierarchy of importance. This includes not seeing a single movie, being too tired to sit down and watch television or too riddled with worry to read a book. Listening to an entire album is such a chore. November also saw abstaining from magazines, deprivation of friendly banter over unhurried meals and postponing any inclination of romantic nature.

Subsisting on anxieties that come with the determination to build something (again) from scratch occupied the hours. It has come to a point of barely stopping to catch a breath just to convince myself that life can't be that bleak, especially when reminded of routine obligations, when bills exact attention and assorted urgencies camp by the bedside to greet you in the morning. And please, for respect of everything sacred, don't wander too close for comfort and slide under the clouds of melancholia, or yield to being sorry for skating the fine line between unhappiness and despair.

Even when entrenched in unflattering self-absorption I try to stay sober: I am always aware that I cant afford to drift into over-self-indulgent thoughts, knowing full well that it will lead nowhere near the vicinity of being useful—for one's self or for others.

Maturity is such an affliction and I'm not even quite near as half as good in this aspect.

So I clamber on through the day, struggling to subvert the howls of cynicism and resignation with brave self-assurance that a time will arrive when I could quicken my pace down the street and meet a certain smile to wipe all the dullness away.

Meanwhile I have this to say: Goodbye, November. I hardly knew you.

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Escribimus Interruptus

Survey the shelves of bookstores and meet gazillion decimated trees so some enlightened evangelist can write thick volumes on (take your pick): HOW TO WIN, HOW TO SUCCEED, HOW TO TRIUMPH, HOW TO BE NOT THE UNFORTUNATE EQUIVALENT OF GEORGE BUSH, HOW TO GET YOUR PARTNER TO ORGASM FOR TEN HOURS STRAIGHT WHILE WRITING A BESTSELLER ON HOW TO WIN ETC.

Jack Welch, share those royalties.

Anyway, the rambling first paragraph serves no relevant purpose but prep you, dear loudcloud voyeur, on the subject of utmost importance:IS COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE THE ULTIMATE AUTHORITY ON HOW TO GET YOUR PARTNER TO HAVE THE MOST EXPLOSIVE ORGASM YET?

Ok, no, I got carried away. I just can't help it whenever I glance over Cosmo's profound coverlines: “100 Ways To Bring Out The Ron Jeremy In Him,” “300 Ways To Make Him Lose All Biological Control Of Himself To Writhe In Orgasmic Seizure While You Are Obviously Still On The Flirting Stage By Just Unhooking Your Bra In The Hallway” and equally exciting methods that do not occur on regular mortals such as yourself, but, as yet another proof of Celestial Favoritism, were divinely revealed only to Cosmo Editors by way of Heavenly Heralds and Gorgeous Seraphims on a rebellious streak and hormonal fit.

Ok, I am sorry. I got overboard.

My topic is actually...

Oh, wait. Hewhoisnottobenamed just popped me a YM message, interrupting my enraptured concentration, distracting me from the topic I was about to write.

Paris Hilton, this means: This will be finished later.

Wrath induced by frustration, murderous rage, and general feelings of annoyance (and possibly, voodoo spells) are all suggested to be directed his way.

Or Cosmo Editors.

This might lead to: “How to Convert Vengeful Voodoo Shamans Into Orlando Bloom On Viagra In Ten Easy Steps!

/////////////

Here's THE proof that I WAS interrupted AND blueballed. What can I say: Karma is quicker than Sarah Palin's brain neurons:

Hewhoisnottobenamed: hi, are you there?
loud cloud: no
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ok, bye
loud cloud: it's actually Johnny Depp talking to you
Hewhoisnottobenamed: really now
loud cloud: skeptics don't amount to anything but missed opportunities
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'd prefer if it was orlando bloom
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm a missed opportunity then
loud cloud: johrich: i'd prefer if it was orlando bloom<--no wonder he filed for restraining orders
Hewhoisnottobenamed: he did?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i didn't get a copy
Hewhoisnottobenamed: anyway, i was just checking my ym
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm using ym through yahoo mail
loud cloud: hahaha
loud cloud: wait im posting an entry
loud cloud: and you'll be sorry
loud cloud: >:)
Hewhoisnottobenamed: my direct ym doesn't seem to be working or something
Hewhoisnottobenamed: because?
loud cloud: you just wait
loud cloud: hahahha
loud cloud: posting in 10 sec
Hewhoisnottobenamed: harumph
loud cloud: hahahhaha
loud cloud: wait wait
Hewhoisnottobenamed: what am I supposed to be reading? the sick infant?
loud cloud: nooooooooooooooooooo
loud cloud: and YES! you should GIVE!
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ok
loud cloud: you lousy selfish snot
loud cloud: hahhaa
Hewhoisnottobenamed: you don't have to shout :)
loud cloud: niyahahha
loud cloud: what's the latin word for write/writing?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hmmm
Hewhoisnottobenamed: escribimus?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i don't know
loud cloud: that'd do
loud cloud: thankees
Hewhoisnottobenamed: is it up yet?
loud cloud: yes
loud cloud: niyahahhaha
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i have people to see
loud cloud: people will cry for your blood
loud cloud: >:)
Hewhoisnottobenamed: no they won't
loud cloud: u speak with such finality
loud cloud: tsk
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hahaha
Hewhoisnottobenamed: just for today :)
loud cloud: read na
loud cloud: you had another cameo
loud cloud: >:)
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm reading now
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ho-hum, i shall await the wrath of your millions of readers then
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hahaha
loud cloud: hahhahha
loud cloud: so tell me
Hewhoisnottobenamed: what?
loud cloud: why did you interrupt my precious blogging?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i was being truthful. i wanted to test my ym
loud cloud: oh
Hewhoisnottobenamed: so i don't understand why it works through yahoo and not directly through ym
loud cloud: so you are more inclined to check some technical mishap than the excitement generated by chatting to his most emminent blogger, loudcloud, aka me?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: the chatting part is a perk, oh eminence
loud cloud: awww, u just deflated my huge
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i find that extremely hard to believe
loud cloud: ego
Hewhoisnottobenamed: what does it mean when the computer says, the computer couldn't connect to messenger servers?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: sorry, the application couldn't connect to messenger servers
loud cloud: you have just asked the most accomplished technoretard in the history of humankind
loud cloud: :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: you really want to be competitive even with that? I believe I hold that distinction
loud cloud: lol
loud cloud: will i dont remember you laying a claim on technoretardation
loud cloud: well
loud cloud: not will :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ok lang, dong
loud cloud: LOLOLOL
Hewhoisnottobenamed: to be read: ooki lang doong
loud cloud: hindi man ko bisaya uy, wala ka man ibidinsya
loud cloud:
Hewhoisnottobenamed: 1:03 AM will i dont remember you laying a claim on technoretardation
Hewhoisnottobenamed: isn't this evidence enough?
loud cloud: ah basta
loud cloud: hahhahaha
loud cloud: :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm such a technoretard, i copied even the time
Hewhoisnottobenamed: since we're chatting...
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i might as well ask
loud cloud: so explain to me: why are u awake at this unholy hour, interrupting my blogging mode, and out-retardating me from my sole claim at technical inadequacy, huh, einstein?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: why the chris tiu article?
loud cloud: huh? what about it?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: why write about him?
loud cloud: to annoy Q
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ah yes Q
loud cloud: him an his Tiu-phile tendencies
loud cloud: :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hahaha
Hewhoisnottobenamed: He drools over him?
loud cloud: yes
loud cloud: he pervs him
Hewhoisnottobenamed: and of course, you don't see why
loud cloud: nope
loud cloud: why do people find Tiu exciting?
loud cloud: enlighten me
Hewhoisnottobenamed: well, he does meet the minimum standards, doesn't he?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: in all aspects
loud cloud: such as?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: that's something
loud cloud: wow that was illuminating
loud cloud: thanks
loud cloud: "that's something"

[insert silence here]

loud cloud: kidding :P
loud cloud: anyway
loud cloud: what's wrong with the tiu article?

[more silence]

loud cloud: are u objecting to it?
loud cloud: are u a-gasp!-disgruntled tiuphile too?!!

[painful silence]

loud cloud: are u there?

[glacial silence]

Karma, you bitch.

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Feed The Infant

Lurkers and accidental readers of this blog please help a very poor helpless HIV positive infant and an abandoned very sick guy of the same affliction. Thanks to Chronicles of E for spearheading the drive to donate stuff. I texted my doctor buddy Ian and he said he'd send some stuff they need (or the possibility of dropping in himself) and I will be bullying people to donate various stuff (food, toiletries, diapers and unused shirts for Steve) tomorrow and messenger over what we can gather. Forward the link to people you know who might be willing to help out. Postpone buying that obscenely-priced Balenciaga shirt and for one moment in your life be a blessing and a miracle to those two souls in desperate need of your unexpected generosity. Thank you and may you will be blessed more.

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Schindlers' Lisp

Apart from being possessed of a defective gaydar I have another handicap: I am a big louse in the cruising department that I often have suspicions that I maybe a closeted heterosexual after all.

Ok, hold that groan, the rolling eyeballs and the judgmental monologue.

I entered the lift, lost in storms of thoughts that circle around unnerving keywords like pressing work, personal life, familial anxieties, ominous deadlines. Add to this the occasional grip of inadequacy that paralyzes you with terror; that despite your can-do confidence and past accomplishments you're not really up to the job and responsibilities that are shoved upon your face. So your mind races ahead to Kazakhstan while your facial expression is still boarding somewhere in Botswana.

When I am in this state of partial autism I generally have no regard for anything or anyone, and in this particular incident, a guy in muscle shirt at least a size smaller than his gym-welded physique.

“Nice tie!” he suddenly blurted out that I jumped a little.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, struggling to hide the flush of embarrassment that's starting to race across my face for being jolted out of reverie.

The elevator hummed. Dinged as we passed several floors.

“I love the fabric and the pattern.” He added, unblinking, looking at me straight, hell-bent to make an eye contact.

“Oh, glad you like it.” I stammered, getting queasy from the steady gaze.

Moments passed in silence. I avoided staring back, at the same time starting to feel guilty for being rude. Normally I don't have problems with random compliments but this one is starting to freak me out. For the record the dude is cute and I am wondering if it was a harmless attempt at small talk when it was apparent in my laconic response that I am not in the running for the Congeniality Sash for Mr. Undas 2008. And here's the clincher: I am not exactly a David Beckham deadringer to adopt the aloof snootiness at all. Under different circumstances I would have enjoyed an aimless good-natured banter with a stranger in an elevator. It's just that my thoughts at that particular hour were all coiled like Bob Marley's dreadlocks to respond enthusiastically to the casual conversation.

“Where did you buy it?” he asked again, volunteering to keep the dialogue going.

“Oh, I'm sorry I have no idea. A friend bought it for me.” I forced a tepid smile, then stared at the project dossier I was holding to abstain from the drilling look the other dude is casting towards my neckline. He didn't blink nor did the prankish curve of a smile dissolve from the corners of his mouth.

The elevator dinged open and we both spilled out of Schindlers' box onto the building's lobby. Him smiling like a mischievous cheshire cat, me having the vacuous look of Paris Hilton before a double trinomial equation.

He nodded at me and walked off happilly, probably singing Barbra Streissand songs in his head.

Then it hit me: He was flirting!

Kick me for being a dense dolt. Kick me twice for being a dopey chicken.

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Another October Drifting By

Orange intersecting with pale blue is the color of late October mornings. I would divide from fragments of last night's forgotten dream, draw the canvass curtains and behold the vista of dawn cracking—echoed like smoldering clones in glass windows of neighboring skyscrapers. A spectacle like that makes your heart soar. It makes you feel like anything is possible, that goodness can happen. Cynic that you are, you still partake in the cosmic trickery, a painted charade brimming with hopefulness and enthusiasm. Later in the day your optimism will be clouded over, your heart would sink, your spirits dampened like expectation of homecoming presents wrapped in fancy trimmings that will never arrive. Then you realize that you've been had. Again. You try and brush off the lingering lints of sadness, smarten up, and embrace realities that ground you from your most fervent aspirations. Tomorrow, you console yourself, tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow the sky will be a more luminous intersection of orange and blue and time will be my ally. Then you fade in the evening crowd of pedestrians hurrying up to get home to the nighttime reprieve, cloaked in the warmth of someone else's love. You smile at the thought of it. Time. Only time can tell. But it never lets you in the concealed promise. Time is full of beauty and malice. Time is an untameable beast.



(Yeah, that's an old illustration I recycled because I am not yet home and cannot make a new one to go with this entry. Will replace it later.)

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