"goodbye" is sometimes done, not spoken.

call it paranoia, or living with a constant fear of losing people or things or memories that make you happy.

it's life that scares me to death.

you see, having someone say goodbye via a painful silence hurts a lot. you know you can't fight it, and unlike death, the reality that the particular someone who has bid you farewell is technically, still around (but just not around for you) stings you at the chest like a thousand fucking needles. i admit, it may be selfish to keep a person from deciding to move on or try different things, but isn't it a valid reason when you're trying to keep a friendship going?

i mean, let's leave the ex-girlfrieds out of this... understandably, that's a different ball game. we're talking REAL buddies, friends, pals, partners-in-crime here. it's pure mindfuck. i mean, i have been to many places, lived in different countries and made a lot of buddies when i was pretty young and stupid, and i've had to leave them all behind to become who i am today. but it seems that not all of us are on the same page when it comes to keeping in touch with those who are closest - geographically and figuratively.

i don't know... i guess i shouldn't get my hopes up and expect so much, yeah... but wouldn't it be nice if all friendships were given an occassional check-up? wouldn't the world be a better place if every now and then, you and your buddies could fine-tune, update and brainstorm on new ways to grow together? i am clueless as to how people can go from one group to the otehr on a regular basis. i believe with all my heart that if someone's roots aren't planted enough to know when to stay, then it means nothing valuable was ever invested in that one thing you once shared with that person.

i'm probably also guilty of the crime. but isn't it a bummer to suffer and pay latter-day debts for sins done in the past? isn't there some sort of fine print that goes with this friendship shit that people carelessly don't notice?

but the real question is: how come it's almost effortless for some people to forget? how come the tragedy of not keeping close ties seems so trivial for others, when it scars us for life? why is the human device left at the mercy of such absurdities as work, a steady paycheck, and illusions of being made? does it really matter? isn't the acceptance of 5 real people worth a hundred fold compared to meeting the standards which society dictates? how come everybody's always saying that society is fucked up, but then almost everyone succumbs to its mediocrity, to its mundane nature?

why do i bother when the other person doesn't?

maybe it's because i know the feeling all too well. and for some sick reason, i have no plans of letting my close friends feel the same thing.

it's so stupid that it's tragic.

and yet i cannot begin to even mutter a word. i sit still, lost in the foolish comfort that maybe we shall cross paths once again in the years to come.

+++


"Desire"
(Zwan/Billy Corgan)

northern star
am i frightened?
where can i go to rest?

i can't sleep
and i'm still fighting...
wait, don't breathe

time destroys a man

a child who understands
that anyone who desires
is not my kind,
not my truth...

fade away, it's all we do.

fade away from the truth.

desires,
fade away-
desires...

and northern star
please enlighten
the lost prayers of my soul
childhood dreams
of death and titans
we were meant to be free

to give ourselves away...

so please don't be afraid,
of anyone who desires
they're not my kind
not my truth

fade away, it's all we do
fade away from the truth
desires

fade away... it's all we do.


i have no use for you

art, ranting and leftovers

“Say you write a song about a chandelier, and the chandelier gives off light. And the light is the color red and red reminds you of the color your not supposed to wear around a bull. So you name the song 'Cow.' And then you ask me how i got the title for 'Mayonaise?' I looked in the refrigerator."
-Billy Corgan

i was walking in one of the more crappy malls near our office's area with a friend, and i couldn't help notice the opening of some art exhibit in one of the galleries on the top floor. now, i will probably be the first guy you'll meet who'll admit with an alarming sense of pride that i know nothing about art... you all probably know what i mean: the emotional-painting-weird-geometric-shapes-type of shit, alongside the weird scuplture, pieces of metal shit a lot of people seem to spend a lot of money on. call me a fucking simpleton and i don't care; it's just not my thing. i have almost been successful at keeping these unsolicited opinions to myself, but life has a way of tempting you into being some elitist, ignorant asshole you're honestly trying not to be.

so here's the scenario: i'm walking with, of all things, a doughnut in my hand. people are starting to spill out of the gallery, bottles of beer in hand, drunk as fuck, then the floor is soaking wet and starting to get muddy since the icebox has probably been there the entire afternoon. i hear two guys in spaceboy outfits talking about how a certain piece is so emotional, how it's moving and shit like that. fine. i stop for a bit, and look at a painting that looks like a hundred kindergarteners armed with brushes and paint went on a rampage. i squint to see the price on the piece. ten thousand bucks. i look at the rest of the crowd... drunken buffoons talking about how this artist also sort of did the same thing only better and more expensive... all of these people obviously came for the free cocktails and the free alcohol, and judging by the fact that they're still there, none of 'em have the money to actually buy something.

dare do i ask: what is the fucking point?

"art is definitely better when it's not talked about or made a big deal. art is better when it's... just there," said my friend.

"art is a lot like golf," i begin, trying to fill in the next moments with something of value to say. "it takes up way too much valuable space that could have been put to better use, it's fucking expensive, understanding it is like trying to put a small fucking ball into a small fucking hole miles away, and it pleases the rich while it buries the poor. isn't art supposed to be the opposite of all that? or at least something NOT exactly like that?"

we were in a mall that could seemingly fit thousands, but the silence that came after what i said was deafening.

it seems to understand art these days, you've either gotta be extremely rich and fucked up, or simply fucked up.


+++


"Don't judge yourself by somebody else's standards. You will always lose."
-Billy Corgan

i remember having a conversation with some dickless, piece of shit who was supposedly a fine writer, with a bright future. i mean, i don't really care enough about him to give two shits and write about him, but the simple mistake he made was talking to me about my writing:

dickless: i heard you used to write poems and stuff like that when you were in university. what happened?

me: drugs happened. then beer. then i woke up. then i finally realized who i was.
dickless: too bad... i heard you could have been like, a good writer... i mean, no offense, but your writing seems to be more like... a kid whining at how the world is unfair and shit. i mean...

me: what exactly DO you mean?!!

dickless: i mean, isn't it time you've progressed from ranting? i mean, it's always a good thing to grow. i mean, your writing for a music magazine isn't exactly the best place to exercise your literary writing skills, i assume...

me: really? you think so? lemme think about it for a min... no. i think a good thing is knowing when to shut the fuck up and mind your own fucking business. if people did just that, then i'd probably wouldn't have enough reason to bicker and complain about 'em.

dickless: haha. okay, didn't mean to tick you off there buddy. was just being honest and offering my opinion. i'd hate it if you'd rant about me in your blog or some shit like that [snickers].

me: oh don't worry, i won't blog about you. i only write about people, their fucked-up lives and my fucked-up life. i don't write about people who have no lives. now THAT would be pointless... "literary" maybe... but pointless.


so in closing this small, useless chapter in my life, here is an attempt to write something with literary value:

"Bad-Ass Poem" by Joey Dizon

Roses are red,
Violets are blue...
you have no penis–
fuck you fuck you fuck you
fuck you fuck you fuck you
fuck you fuck you fuck you
fuck you fuck you fuck you
fuck you fuck you fuck you
i'll make you my bitch
motherfucker
die die die
please die right-fucking-now
die.



sort of brings tears to your eyes, doesn't it?

i thank you.


+++

"Been there, done that, seen it, heard it, pissed on it."
-Billy Corgan


Leftover questions from my buddy Jerk Salvador, from the beautiful city of Olongapo:


"Do you believe in God?"
i guess, i mean to believe that people are the most intelligent creators of everything, or to believe that we're all there is seems to be a pretty crappy thing. i mean, there's gotta be something or someone having quite a trip laughing at the millions of morons and assholes he created and put on this twisted planet. i mean, you occassionally meet people who are actually decent, and who end up meaning a lot to you. that alone proves there is something more benevolent than we are, something with enough power to create anything or anybody decent.

i believe the question you might have been going for is if i believe in the catholic/born-again christian/muslim/protestant/buddhist type of god. the answer is not really. why would i believe in something or someone who causes wars and suffering? i'd rather believe in something or someone that knows the value of a good laugh, knows how to party and have fun every once in while. god would be the guy who would tell you to hang loose and not fucking bother anybody while you're at it... god isn't a guy who'd shove a collection basket in your face and ask for your hard-earned money; god isn't the guy who'll ask you to kill innocent people in his name. god isn't the guy who will forbid you from having a ham and bacon sandwich. god is sort of like you and me... only better.

Do you believe in Satan?
hell yeah. satan is the extremes: extremely good, like pantera, or slayer and the smashing pumpkins. and extremely bad, like kris aquino, willy revilliame and celine-fucking-dion. if satan were your friend, he'd either be the guy/gal who'd be on everyone's case but be the first to get pissed and walk out if the tables were turned, or be the guy/gal who'd always get drunk first and who you'd end up taking home on your shoulders.

it's a love-hate-relationship, but a relationship nonetheless.

Are you an atheist?
no, i'm a joey-ist. my only doctrine is don't fuck with me and we're cool. and my teachings are: don't kill the cute, furry animals. kill the roaches and send the jesus-freaks to hell. billy corgan for president... of the whole damn world.