intoxicated

i find beauty in sadness. it thrills me. it intrigues me. one can only understand the true meaning of his own soul through solitude, through being alone, left deserted in the wilderness of life. life is the ultimate jungle of everything. we cling to different aspects, to different crutches- be it alcohol, drugs, sex, women, men, material things, beauty, sandess, death- everything. i therefore, in my present state of mind, accept everything in this world- the bizarre, the extraordinary, the lugubrious humans, the insane creatures, yes, everything.

i am not sure if i am strong enough in this world. i am uncertain if i am built to exist around humans of varying mindsets. am i weak? am i insane? i fear, i tremble, i am uncertain. i wish in this life i could be happy and confident at everything i do. but i self defeat myself. i am not coward to admit these things. i am weak. i am shy. i have no confidence. god help me. i am even odd to the eyes of some people. these nerves, this mere brain of mine gets to me. no matter how i could remember things, the distant echo of the past, the names of who i met two years ago, the incident that occurred, how petty they are, rings fresh to my memory, yet they are nothing. i might be genius at recalling events but it does n ot amount to anything in the life's jungle.

i am a weakling and i need to change it. to accept myself, gay as i am, small as i am, is strnght. to be it, to act like it, in the eyes of people, is bravery. easy to say, but to be the real me to everyone i met is arduous.

today, i went to get a smog check for the truck (eddie sent tme), and i displayed a different side of mine- a more masculine, the harder aspect of my own being. something was wrong, i thought. my being uptight, me not coming to terms, not coming to grip with my own self is burdening enough. but how can i act rather gayly in situations like this? situations such as me being surrounded by macho men, that does not conform to the oddity of other individuals? why am i gay? why am i like this? to accept is everything. to accept is liberating. i want to be free of my own judgments. i shall not demean myself, not look at msyelf of some thing so little, so inferior than anybody else. i am just like you. we are all but humans alike.

insomnia kills, so i write

One can put a hand in a burning stove and feel the heat, the fire and its torment. One slits a wrist and feel a passion of a bloody-like flame, of life itself in another dimension, the curdling intensity, the sweet pain and the ever mysterious mind trip that goes along with it. for one looks at the blood gushing through, dripping drop by drop in its own rhythm, an ever exquisite melody that can not be equated to any thing. she feels ever more so alive in this euphoria- her head weightless, her heart heavily pounding, and her mind completely absent. the sole of her soul lost amidst the confusion and pain (who knows what had, and who, inflicted the pain). perhaps life itself has burdened her. no more of these whispers, these constant guessing games and those furtive looks in someone's eyes. her loved ones, her friends and the people she dearly knew, had suddenly become strangers, veiled in obscurity and turned into something so alien, so distant in their own habitat. her room, her only sanctuary has transformed into something so foreign, so utterly distant that it made the whole picture, the mundane world itself simply unlivable. there is nothing left worth living for- everything she has known, loved, and attached to are now gone, pirouetted into the unknown. so here she is in the her bathroom next to the sink, braver, perhaps more confident than she has ever been. here she is, with her eyes comfortably closed, enjoying the moment (she feels really light headed now). for her, the world is so chaotic, so heavy, and so unsatisfying that its better to leave it than to live in it. and slowly, she drifts away. it might have been sleep, it might have been the dizziness or confusion, or perhaps death has simply came to greet her.

IN MEMORY OF CHARY, MY COUSIN, WHO SPENT A MERE NINETEEN YEARS IN THIS WORLD. MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.

for now

Life. One thing life presents as an enemy, an inevitable one, an unyielding monster to some, especially for those who have been spoiled their whole lives, is job, and along with it, money. For I have not been serious with life (I still treat the world rather childish), I do nothing but veer away from my own problems. The time will come where I have to grab life by the hand and just grab it, while it takes me full speed ahead, like a roller coaster. It will be rough, at the same time thrilling, and for it runs full speed, it will be mixture of things. But one must learn how to love life and everything associated with it. One must learn how to embrace it, let life fall in love with you and you of life, for there is nothing worse in this world to have life as your enemy. Job is what I want. Job is what I am currently looking for. And yet why am I still here idling, just sitting here, not wanting to take charge? I push myself at times, though not hard enough. Self-discipline is what I need. Adamant- that's it...that's what I need.

black's beach

For a beach instills freedom, the waves, how magnificent they were as they come and go, marks the ebb and flow of things. It has a way of overwhelming someone's feet and lightening it up- the waves- its sudden attack and its gentle departure. The sound of the ocean, so crisp in the ear, can besiege one's boredom to possibilities. For the beach was crowded by men, and men of certain life's standard. Homosexuals they were, some naked, some clothed, some with aged bodies, some with hairs, some with colors, some handsome, for they were all men of different kinds. I witnessed the beach in time, though not perfectly, for I was- what was it? shy? anxious? perhaps nervous, perhaps, all of those sorts.

One can come across with someone in odd places, especially odd, too, when the affinity you had with that someone was nothing but a mere sexual affair. I dealt with it by ignoring the friction, thus, eliminating a meeting, a small talk, an awkward glance and smile, and god knows what else could have happened. But incidence of him, any part of him, was completely avoided by simply ignoring the circumstance itself. But one feels uneasiness inside of such odd situations. Still, one get over things in time. Still life has a way of adding up day to day.

Alvin had trouble getting to the beach, for the path was steep (we took the harder path), and he did his tricks, of sitting and sliding! not caring of people behind us, nor how the earth would soil his shorts. And I tripped, too, once. And there was Thomas, behind, while I pretended to not see him, and I did good pretending. Eddie was already miles ahead, and there we were, me and Alvin, still struggling, still holding up people behind.

We took comfort, finally, after an exhausting trip down, at a place situated in the gay part of the beach. We laid down mats, erected the umbrella, and there we sat. Franz was calling us asking where we were, and constantly calling, it might have been five times, until we finally had a glimpse of him, in his green shorts and white t-shirt. Finally, there he was, and our group was at last complete. Franz laid a towel, next the mat we already had lain, so he could be in the sun, absent from the umbrella's cast of shadow.

We took a walk, and west direction we took. Oh, how the water felt nice! tingling our feet with its temperate state. We walked a while, and saw things- children naked, men naked, them playing volleyball, a couple naked, too, and a woman, big breasted, and another woman, big nippled, oh varieties! A twilight zone it was! And how eye candy a sight of a handsome man, though I was not too big, nor really cared much. Neither it touched my nerves, the sensual, sexual part.

We took the easier path way back up, and yet, it still tired us. A nice day it was, afar from the norm of everyday living.

bored

what is a note? when one scribbles, and just scribbles nonsense things, here and there, words, sentences, paragraphs that never cease to end. one can write things of a maiden, of how solemn she is, (though young) of how the world corrupted her innocence, her ability to be easily amused. there is her husband, stalwart, at times, funny, yet mostly composed of things she never wished to be closed to, nor cling to. what can a maiden, young as her age, with her own kindred, her own family who expect her to be the best wife she could be, the best mother she can be, do to simply get by? (she has two sons, and how lovely they are). they, these people, the world outside her, have been nothing but clueless. she had lost them a long while now, just as she had lost a grip of her real self. how she wishes she could disappear. the rattling of plates, the mundane art of waking up in the morning, the chores she is forced to attend- all of it- suddenly overwhelms her. she wishes to disappear, far, far away. she will abandon this- her kids, her husband, her life, a thing that used to matter, now a mere illusion of a past she had loved. "one day, just one day," she thought, "i shall free myself." at one morning, when her husband gone, departed to work, she will clean immaculately, scrub what has not been scrubbed, spot even the tiniest speck of dust; to tidy everything up, organizing each and every thing there is- the cupboards, the fridge, the picture frames, the bathroom- all in its prime, museum-like state. she will pack her clothes. she will leave a note, simply saying, "pardon me, for i am unhappy here." she will walk out the door, carefully not laying a glance to the dear crib, nor trying to hear her poor babies yelps, and cries. will guilt be on her then? perhaps yes, perhaps not, when everything turned into a stone, a cold shelter, an empty, desolated musk of solitude. a train she will embark. a trip to canada. perhaps she will be some one then, a clerk in a library will do. this is her idea of life, of happiness.

the other day...

The other day, me and Juliene drove to Los Angeles, to Santa Monica Pier, to 3rd Street Promenade to meet with Margie. We strolled 3rd street looking at shops, and walked to the pier, where we had dinner at Bubba Gump, where they did not like their drinks (they both ordered same drink, Lava Float), where we ate shrimps, clams and chicken fingers, where I drank pomegranade, a light drink, almost like lemonade. After dinner we had our palms read by a fat lady with her own stall, purplish, with signs saying "$3 for palm reading". And so we did, and although I was not ecstatic nor did believe in anything she said, my friends, the girls, believed it so. It was an okay day, nothing too fun. People seldomly have too much fun anymore as they grow older. They leave, they forget, and sometimes abandon their childhood, that innocence behind. I would like to be easily wondered again, to just exist freely and dream. To not get caught in life's web, its illusions, its serious entanglement. I can still be free. It is just a matter of change of mind.

rant and raves

For someone to walk out the door coldly, I would not know what he was feeling, what state he was in anyway. Stress, I could consider, overly stressed. To spend days, perhaps four days in a row, getting bombarded with phone calls, with problems from work, with bills, with whatever surfaces, it must be really stressful. I would not know anyhow. My plate is pretty empty at the moment. But did not he ask for it? - for these things, to come his way? I shall not be affected by it. It is his own world, not mine. We might be in a relationship but I don't take responsibility of his own world. His life is his own. What, then, are the things we share? Love? Company? No matter how true of false it is? What is it that we really share? Perhaps as simple as companionship, of just being there, even if it is standing rigid, or sitting cold. It seems to me as if this relationship of ours had been a one way relationship. That he always had been there for me, and I made no effort in return. Now should be a time to open my eyes to all of it- that he has been but good, generous, and I, in return had been cold, ungrateful. I should start taking actions to make a difference. Yes, I will....

job searching

Ah, job searching. Am I immature enough to consider that looking for a job, simple to some, could be a strain, a burden to me? I should grow up, I say to myself. But how could I, when I, myself, is scared to face the world? I tend to think too much of negative things that turns into self-defeat, of lack of self esteem, and of confidence. I tend to shy away, to rather speak childish, fast, girlish, almost to a point of a nervous breakdown. After all, I am but inexperienced, a little child, of light weight, of young body and of conscious mind, perhaps overly conscious to some extent. How could someone like me push myself to the limit, to force myself to do all these things that I fear. Someday, yes someday, I will get there. But for now, a mere change of mindset matters greatly. Of me, thinking big, of me thinking as someone different, perhaps an overachiever, or someone, just someone built differently as me.

Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, I will start being serious with myself. This time, I will take my word for it. No more of those talking down myself, of making myself feel scared, intimidated. Nothing exists outside this world but a state of mind.