at long last, have you no decency?

I feel like the gum beneath your shoe, the turd scraped unevenly across a sidewalk, a bloody shard of broken glass left unseen beneath a bar. I suppose my life could be worse. Maybe if I'd been raped by a horse, or if I had willingly raped one. But, these probable scenarios prove to be cold comfort against this mammoth of sadness and dejection lodged into the major arteries of my shrivelled heart. Like butter. Or bacon fat. Only sad.

Full disclosure: I bailed on friends' birthday festivities to chat with my ex-boyfriend. For five hours. I wouldn't recommend this to anyone. Especially if, within minutes of your playful banter, your ex-boyfriend happily volunteers the information that he is dating someone else. This shouldn't have surprised me, really. That we'd ended things was unequivocal. No gray areas, nothing left unsaid that could feed into some godforsaken delusion that we could pick up where we left off. It helps that our geographical circumstances are just as unambiguous. The gulf between Ottawa and Metro Manila isn't really the stuff of enduring romance. But, whatever.

(And, this whole thing with my grandmother. Shit. I hate that I've put my father in this position. I hate that I've been so short-sighted with this whole thing.)

It kind of all boils down to certain things that I've done my utmost best to avoid since I moved back to the Philippines. This struggle to find things familiar, this deliberate struggle to find place. It isn't working out very well. I've had two options, really. Either (1) find a new place, a clean slate with which to start over; or (2) reinhabit the hole I had left behind and, over time, chip away at the grooves and cavities that no longer fit.

What's slowly becoming clear is this: that if I'd found all this so unbearable five years ago, that I'd decided (haphazardly, superciliously) to leave, then it's only gotten worse.

So little has changed. Sure, people are more upwardly mobile, more attuned to some overarching transnational sense of community (and the socio-cultural and -economic aspirations thereof). Things have also changed cosmetically: more commercial developments, more public infrastructure (if these new bridges and shit actually constitute improvements is another story), more green spaces (highly contested, but at least the effort's there). But, the heart of it is the same. The deep-seated class prejudice, the remorseless sexism (that allows men to justify the physical abuse of women as a logical response to infidelity, and the sexual exploitation of women as a logical manifestation of masculinity), the homophobia (seriously, the homophobia), the stifling religiosity that pervades and continually shapes all acceptable notions of right and wrong. I hate this shit. Add to this that thick, viscous sense of hopelessness that government leaders bring about, and Vancouver is looking incredibly cushy. Increadibly cushy. And, add to this the fact that my mother's moved back here, and I find myself habitually checking the impulse to look for cheap flights out of dodge.

Whenever I'm stuck in traffic, suffering the grievous injury of getting cut off by shit-for-brains motorists and bus drivers (fucking-A, EDSA bus drivers should be castrated), I always find myself stewing in my car and reciting in my head everything I hate about the Philippines. (But, seriously, I don't understand how people think it's acceptable to add 2 more lanes to a 3-lane road. And, when that road narrows, because there's no fucking way it won't, everyone cuts everyone off, and I'm left cursing at the heavens, like a heart attack on a stick.)

But, I gave the decision to move back home more thought and care than I'd given to the decision to leave it. It was a conscious and deliberate decision, one that I made after a disgusting amount of soul-searching. (Although, I realize now that the prurient romance of wandering about Central & Eastern Europe certainly colored things.) A part of me (that part that isn't heartsick and tired of all this shit) would like to see this through.

But, another part of me (that part that I've come to like) is currently in Amsterdam, biking alongside a canal, dreaming of pannenkoeken and nice fat spliffs, and thinking of grandiose ideas meant to save humanity, but are, in reality, too obscure to do much of anything.

And, maybe, just to counter all this negative mojo, I should take the time to think about all the things I love about the Philippines and about being home. Maybe.

And, now, I should probably go home and apologize to my father, before my mom convinces him to disown me. It's what I deserve to be sure, but I'd rather that he won't all the same.

(Baby steps, Lia. Baby steps. The future will be there regardless.)

snow flurries, london fog

Weekend: over. Not too shabby, not too shabby. Started off with a friend’s farewell party at my place. The theme was sushi-and-bad-movies. (I wanted a sushi-and-hideous-sweater theme, but I was grievously out-voted.) We didn’t really do the sushi part: the guy in charge of the seaweed didn’t get here until 11, and by then we were more interested in the vodka he brought. Instead we made do with California chirashi bowls (i.e. seafood salad on sushi rice… it was kind of disgusting). And, we didn’t really do the bad-movie part either. In theory, I suppose watching Repo! The Genetic Opera seemed like a good idea. But, the reality of its atrocity was immediately overwhelming. (We watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall on cable instead.) So, Friday night’s lessons were: (1) drunken sushi-making is never a good idea, and (2) true friends always throw out the garbage for you.

Saturday morning (and afternoon, fine) I spent in recovery. Then had dinner with my mom and brother, took them out for some Mexican (mmm, chile relleno). Ended up at the Blarney Stone afterwards—haven’t been there in ages, so it was nice to see that its unique flavour of broken glass, sticky floors, and smelly-feet miasma hasn’t changed much. The music was great though. The band was kind of meh at first (I’m not cool enough to dance Irish jigs ironically), but I have to admit their rendition of U2’s Where the streets have no name was kind of mesmerizing. I did not appreciate the Lady Gaga and the Pussycat Dolls though. Seriously. Crawled to my mom’s place at around 4 (didn’t have enough cab money to get home), and just crashed. Today was a little more chill: barely made it in time to RB, and then had to meet my sister for dinner.

Might be going to Seattle this weekend. Should be interesting.

it dawns upon us

Whenever my life settles into unbearable routine, my dreams start acting up. Everything becomes awash in bright and bejeweled strokes, memories and yearnings cut open and bled dry, their truncated limbs spliced together to create some phantom creature inclined towards haunting and ponderous thought. An alternative North Korean reality with a savage incumbent monarchy and large airships prone to spontaneous combustion. A moment of listless love stretched out to unbearable lengths and depths (an exhausted narrative that's grown snide and senile). An embrace.

I take nothing from them. But, on nights like this, nights when the orange light falling through the filter of my bedroom blinds seems to float and dance on my quiet, timid breath, I find myself unwilling to fall back into them. On nights like this, nights when the burbling patter of rainfall becomes the frenzied heartbeat of my neighborhood, I don't want my dreams prevailing over my small, petty reality.

some moments en route

There was a moment: The train trudging (at an impressive speed that belied the judgments I may or may not have cast on its grimy appearance) through a flat, green landscape serenely dusted with snow; trees holding up their empty, gnarled branches as if proclaiming their resignation at the emancipation of their leafy wards; tall, majestic windmills, blithely going about their business of saving humanity from ourselves; the sky a meek and mewling blue, clouds corpulent and unwilling to be moved from their heavy perches.

Another: When half the sky is so overcast that it almost looks sick and swollen, while the other half seen through the opposite window defiantly lets light break through thickening, quickening clouds; the light making the trees glow golden against that swollen, purple sky; and you just want time to stop because you can't be sure if you'll ever see anything like it again. And then it starts to snow. And everything gets blurry and strangely speckled. But, certain things seem to be beyond all that icy, white obfuscation: the colour green, and the dying golden light of the horizon.

so lovely dancer, call a dancer

So, I have a little less than a week left. I've officially decided to nix my two weeks of further gallivanting. ("Gallivanting" is now officially my parents' favourite word in reference to me.) It's not that I've had enough -- may the universe open up and swallow me whole if that ever happens. It's more... I know what I want to do, and while I can't do anything about the timeline, I can't help but feel that my time (and money) can be better spent elsewhere. So, I bit the bullet and called Air Canada to move my flight -- and, promptly understood why everyone bitches about them. Seriously... I was on hold for 40 fucking minutes. Roaming, long distance toll charges apply and everything. Rogers and Air Canada... what a crap sandwich they make. My heart broke a little, but I'm okay with it for the most part. The parents were kind of mad -- mostly because I never told them I'd be traveling post-internship. (My bad.) But, I think my mom is (not-so-)secretly glad that I'm headed back earlier.

Switching topics: My dad's made peace with my decision, I think. So much so that he's already making plans to get me my own place (our old condo... tenants will have to be displaced) and thinking about what kind of car to buy me (because god forbid I use any of his babies). It's more than a little alarming listening to him, really. I don't want to sink back into all that. It's partly why I left in the first place after all. I realize it's ridiculous to be complaining about this sort of thing, not to mention a little tacky... but, whatever. It worries me, is all.

Just got back from Prague a couple of days ago. But, I don't want to talk about it. (Yet?)

Whatever.

It's kind of gross, but all I've been listening to for the past couple of weeks: Tessellate (Tokyo Police Club); After Hours (We Are Scientists); Keep The Car Running (Arcade Fire); and the albums Places Like This (Architecture in Helsinki) and For Emma, Forever Ago (Bon Iver). That last one has never failed to put me in a wall-staring funk of smoky yearning and silvery, quickening tide pools. Should this worry me, I wonder.

(A Prague-reference: I may never be able to listen to MGMT again.)

And, I'm out.