The secret to happiness, I'm told, is lowered expectations.

So on February 14th, this year and all the years to follow, not only will I be remembering Saint Valentine but Saint Francis as well.


To the rest of the secular world--and by secular I mean people who weren't made by their parents to sit thru catechism class all Sundays of their childhood--Francis of Assisi is that balding dude in the brown frock. In portraits, he's always depicted as some sort of Snow White figure: a person to whom woodland creatures seem curiously drawn.

But for those of us who were strangely attentive during those Sunday classes, even supplementing it with weekend viewings of Flying House / Super Book, we might have picked up this bitty trivia: Francis of Assisi is also the patron saint against dying alone / solitary death.


He's an easy favorite, next only to Maria Goretti. He's an environmentalist, a fan of lacemakers, and, according to his Wikipage, a fasihonista! (Well, ok, I paraphrase. What it actually said was that the young Francesco had a penchant for wearing bright clothing.)

So on the 14th, my dear spinstersisters, in case love hasn't found you yet, I seek that at the very least, may you not die in solitude (to be discovered three weeks later, half-eaten by your cats)!

Happy St Francis' day y'all!

Pero hindi talaga. Yun lang yung criterion for our midterm plate for Film 110. Eh sayang naman ang 36 shots kung uubusin ko lang sa lines.

At nakapag-reprint narin ako sa wakas nung galing dun sa first film roll ko, yay!


More of them here:
http://snailmailove.multiply.com/photos/album/352/BW_Photography_Lines

They're too cute!

1. Nagpipictorial sila dahil... wala lang!
2. May konteksto sila mag-pose!
3. Gumagamit sila ng props!
4. Mabilis silang mag-upload!

How could I resist? Tapos pinatawad ko narin ang occasional "ate" incidents kasi nga naman 10 years ang gap. Their mothers raised them well eh. Tapos keri na na mahilig sila mag-wacky. Within a certain age range cute pa umarti ng genon, I suppose.

Stalking can be cute. It's like three of my Top Ten Favorite Hobbies, Work-out Regimens, and Life-Choices of all time. (Three for EACH category, mind you.)

But people, when will you learn to leave a comment? (Hatemail. Libel suit. A song. Declaration of luuurve. Marriage proposal. Whatever, buddy.)

( Or if not that, at least make attempts at covering your tracks. ) It's rather unattractive.

Dear Stephen Patrick Gately,

Sorry to disappoint but I'm done looking.

Your former co-torchbearer,
J.

My old new camera. (New old camera?)

Bought him off my brother, I-chan Moneybags (who's been looking for an excuse to upgrade, god bless his ma-ma-materialistic soul), as soon I got the check for my tax refund?/de minimis?/13th month? from the office.

Georgie shall be my escort until such time that a proper Photographer-Mowdel-Boyfriend relieves him from his post.

I'm beginning to think that maybe I'm not built for happiness, or unexpected kindness, or any sort of softness that comes from the heart. What could be the point, then? Coz I'm all drawn-out and I just want to rest on something home.

It wasn't strictly a siege. Or anyways who could be bothered with putting up any sort of resistance against it, had there been one.

The surrender was offered, never exacted, with mercenary smilies committing the highest of treasons.

Fast-forward to NOW: when my phone's switched to silent and I carry on pretending to no longer be waiting on it.


any...     
        minute...     
          now...     

                   ... or now.

                                         How about now. NO?
                                                       Coz now's still good.

And this is what happens after too many Tudor episodes. Damn you, Ann Boylen and your self-undoing corsets!

Forgetting could be awesome sometimes like on a random day, you stumble upon some cool shit you were absolutely nuts about a while back but eventually forgot, and now it's dusted itself off and somehow managed to find you again and you're like ohmigod! ohmigod! ohmigod! like you can't believe and it's this intense reunion and falling in love twice over.

I was certain that the first time I'd tour Asia, it would be a Wong Kar Wai retrospective: burying secrets in Angkor Wat, running all over HK or Macau after five million cheongsam changes, perfectly putting on blood red lipstick only to be smeared off by a mystery boy in Singapura.

But nerr.

Asian tour '08 is clearly Path to Boy. (Unfortunately, not my boy.)
May 14-29, Singapura - Malaysia - Thailand(?), with head huntress Charlikins.

... ain't fun one bit.

I'm almost tempted to let them starve just to get a point across. (Never works, btw, coz there's always salvation in Ginisa Flavor Mix.)

I completely understand Mother now. Nagging is love on a loop. On a loop. On a loop.

one of the perks of central living is easy access. you're one ride away from everything and hours are lost in cubao (ukay♥), divisoria (bargain hunting), ongpin (mei-ha!) and of course, carriedo (pirate-friends).

lootbag!:

in the grand celebration of freedom and bitterness (because those two go oh-so beautifully together, donchathink?) i've dedicated three full days of last week to pelicula '07: the 6th spanish film festival.

five of the seven screenings i went to, i went to alooone--two of which were even LFSes (last full shows, baby), which is kind of sad & mad & very tragic spinster-found-dead-by-her-cats-three-days-after, but at the same time stays true to the overall sentiment.


( ... )

false eyelashes is the absolute next level--so i come to work, a different pair each day like it's the most natural thing.



( ... )

( ... )

going hermit crab = not most brilliant travel strategy, especially when: 1) expenses will be split three ways and 2) decisions are called by the majority and they easily out-vote me, two:one.


there ought to be a skinny on the cdo - camiguin trip somewhere here, but i'm straining my neck trying to write it up as ouchless as possible.



soon, comrades.

these days, i'm so zen it's not even funny.

i am also celinefreakin'dion singing 'all by myself (don't wanna live)' to an audience of exactly zero, which could be funny but isn't the point.



( THE POINT IS... )

it's seven full hours of sleep and not needing to rock myself first.
it's accidental babies by damien rice without the thought of a personal dedication.
it's forgetting. in all five dimensions.
it's reading about her and my pigeonheart not breaking.
it's not feeling the need to read you write about her at all.

but it's also switching off.
it's impatience.
it's days and weeks folding into each other, indistinct.
it's finding nothing and eventually not even looking anymore.
it's july rain, it's skin and song stripped of meaning.
it's static taken for silence.

the so-called "wanderlust buddies" are a bunch of soggy serial flakes.

taker-for-granters of the five-paged itinerary, which, unbefuckingknownst to them, was borne of purelove. anal tendencies. whatever.


you.. you... YOU TOURISTS, YOU!

this is, i sincerely suspect, the happiest i've been (since, well...)

when did happiness become all and only about unguarded glances and lips & hands wet from always kiss kiss kissing and cellotaping hope onto the moment (any moment) just long enough until maybe it might actually mean something, anything, as if hearts-on-sleeves were a universal arts & crafts project. when did we start doing that? and why?

when the world can hold a whole lot more, and will for you if you knew how brave it is to ask nicely, a lot more than your put-on tragedies and awkward touches and blood thinning over pages of stale verse; you've always been so weightless, and we couldn't forget.

since learning to work my mouth again, and exhale when it's become impossible to take everything in.

"hormonal imbalance?"

and mrs. wrath (that really is her name, why would i be making this up?) nodded like she meant to unhinge her neck in fanatical agreement with me when i pled insanity during office breakdown # 3.

3 of 5, and counting.

guess who rekindled things (or is it just kindled- sans prefix, coz the last few times didn't really count?), sounding scandalously s1ngle despite friendster status?

ok, that doesn't narrow it down to anything.

but vague insinuations of region one cohabitation were flinged around with such torturous ease (and snatched, posthaste), i could be imelda marcos. or is it more aptly gabriela silang?

been here a week but everything else that isn't soiled denims or canned food or toothbrushes had thoughtlessly been left to sit inside boxes marked "HANDLE WITH CARE <3" (although, after the battle with unending rolls of packing tape, we start to mean it less and less).

no one has even bothered with the new address. like bunched up underpants, something wrong you'd need to get used to eventually. yesterday, i got locked out because i was carrying around my old keys. we could try but we may have elected, preconsciously, to fight feelings of settling in.

bit by crummy bit, their turgid hearts are beginning to show weakness. they are on their way to missing me! which wasn't part of the plan, pulling away from the familiar; there was never even a plan.

...

two months AWOL, mister consistency-is-key turned up again on my metaphorical doorstep, exactly one hundred fifty-three hours, gmt +800. and, despite the tiny schoolgirlish *squeeeeee!* i let out at this invite, i really have lost all compounded biannual interest.

go find some other crowbar, lover.

at sa larong musical chairs ng mga puso, nagka-upuan na silang lahat.
gameover, pakshet naman.

(versions: unis & weinwein)

waking up to cat lint and the stale, dry taste of oh, look, you! what a way to say goodbye by making that couch again and lying in it.

you see, he knows he's not
just remembering this dance

he's there

in both moments
simultaneously.

just then, it's obvious: time's a lie.

some somethings are better than some nothings but very rarely when that something has the nature of, say, pedophilia.

this is totally charlikin-territory (welcome to the wilderness!): five foot ten inches of tall, lanky, unadulterated catholic-flavored goodness. the small of my back rendered h.e.l.p.less.

h is for hurry...
    e is for urgent...
        l is for love me...
       PLEEEASE!

i may have set a precedent, the follow through coming @ 5am, new year's. he had better odds catching me two hours earlier, though.

consistency is key, my little holiday treat!

some people want it all
but i want no--nothin' at all
if i ain't got you baby...

but then again, some people have universally certified gay men for their hot new boyfriends making it harder to officially complain.

things like this feel so hand-of-godish, invoking more than the usual schadenfreude point-and-snicker fit. it's as if a certain balance in my world has been restored; a sense of hope, renewed.

...

coz if there's something to learn from 2006, it's that divine providence doesn't take to whinyness too well.

the slightest sound rouses me to movement. life's on permanent date stand-by. centuries of fine tuning the mating rituals of our species and they still ask you out for 2pm on a monday, or early christmas morn. ask you out or over.

i could become a rules girl, lil miss never-after-a-wednesday. but when he's damn edible like that?

you never get to what the phrase actually, existentially, means until after four months of not seeing him, he turns up, within a good eye-clawing distance, and you're suddenly unable to decide how to make use of that space between you two. manually dismantle his trachea? rip his clothes off?

or maybe both; you've certainly got the time now.