Monthly Archives: December 2010

let the wild rumpus start!

that pair of loving eyes, the stink of poop and urine, the early morning whimpers, the feeding times, the constant cries for attention, the fear of over or underfeeding, friends’ clamoring to see him.

and i’m not even talking about a child.

i’m talking about bono, jazz’s gift to me, and the latest member of our cuckoo-crazy home.

it’s a bit tough caring for a pet by ourselves. since we’re OC, tasks take twice as long, and overthinking and obsessing over details are a given.

he still has trouble remembering his name, but he’s so makulit he’s now familiar with the term “Bad!”

i have found myself groping for my computer mouse and reaching out to Google for help for potty training and discipline tactics while trying to subdue him. i didn’t condition it, but he’s grown fond of my hands and forearms as his teether.

he’s half pekingese and half shi tzu.

yes, you can say it aloud right to our faces: Bono is a…pek-shit.

(i can’t stop laughing, have to end this.)

Yep, his face is black. So cute.

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I am uncontrollable especially when it comes to shoe lust, manic reactions, tactlessness (I have another story for you soon about this; you won’t be proud of me.), and getting tattoos. The girlfriend knows this and so injects logic into me especially with tats. But last night, she said she won’t mind my getting another tat (the third and last!).

La la la la. I swear I skipped and “wheeled with the stars”.

This tat must surely count. Of course, the usual no-nos are to be observed: no colorful butterflies, no happy images, no perky colours, no faces, no names, no “factory-produced” pictures. I love words and women for tats. I want to have Margaret Atwood’s You Fit into Me poem on my skin. In terms of technique, restraint, and metaphor, this is one such poem that overwhelmingly succeeds. I want a line from Sylvia Plath’s poetry etched on my skin, too.

I have a tat journal, and it contains my fantasy tats: my version of Neverland, a Filipino translation of a quote by Nerissa Guevara, another quote from Timothy Montes, and my version of a lady perched on the moon.

Or I can do a Ramon Bautista and have a mundane object stenciled on my skin—a plate or a table, a pen or a dog collar. Or shoes. Or spines of books.

This must count, this must count. Sama ka, Upper? Not anytime soon, maybe next April, birthday month. La la la la.

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another tegan and sara vid

addict, right?

let’s all sing, where does the good go?

sara’s there, too, but the person who shot this video seemed to be enamored of tegan. who could blame her?

i’m supposed to be transcribing an interview (if you’re a writer reading this, do you have this fixation, too? as in transcribing the entire interview before you can hurtle yourself down the lonely road of writing? i can’t escape from this time-consuming, OC task.) but i am again distracted.

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back to you

An early christmas present from the universe: A chanced meeting with a dear, dear friend. It was one of those sincere, deep hugs, the one we shared.

I go where I am most moved to love

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive.

But the Skin Horse only smiled.

– The Velveteen Rabbit, Margery Williams

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