The future is enticing, it thrills us, keeps us hoping and wanting, but it is no place to live. Wishes, hopes and dreams, they are fragile and they easily shatter. A body on the present and a mind to the future. What if something good is right infront of you, you miss it because you’re too busy dreaming about futures? Ever since me and Kim broke up, I swore to never live that way.

Me and my ex lived in the future, in imaginary landscapes and dream weddings. Ah, puppy love can be so stupid. We lived in the future, but I buried her in my past, and she’s there, and just as I learned a few months ago, what stays in the past belongs to the past. So I try my best to live in the present, it gets pretty lonely here too. Especially when you’re 23 and everyone’s minds are turning towards the future. To put it bluntly, I am too scared to hope. They say the only way to stay still in a world that continually revolves is to move around. If that’s the case, then I am Christopher Columbus, explorer, traveller. 

It’s hard being in love with someone who has her mind set to the future, especially if it’s a future that doesn’t have you in it. 

I have been crazy the past few weeks. I think it is my burden to feel too much. I blame the stars for this obscure trait that the gods have given me.

My father was a madman!

“My father was temperamentally nervous and obsessively religious—to the point of psychoneurosis. From him I inherited the seeds of madness. The angels of fear, sorrow, and death stood by my side since the day I was born.” ~ Edvard Munch

My hand continually grows. I fear the day when it implodes. I fear the day when it should be cut off, the world does not need another manic-depressive soloist. A masturbator and an art incriminator.

what are you scared of?

My biggest dream is to travel cross-country.

Not really.

Probably because I am in the middle of reading Kerouac’s On the Road, that’s why; and it is not a good book, I have been sleeping on it.

To be lost. This is my biggest dream and wish. Uncertainty is what I am and what I stand for. I wanted to be an artist of the world, because this is what I want out of life - everything!

The artist breathes in life and breathes out death. This does not make sense, but it is something I would wish to be quoted on. It might probably make more sense in the future, when I am dead and quotable. Rrrriight?

Speaking of death, it is halloween. I think I have never been in a costume all my life, because we never really believed in that American tradition. Except for this one time, I had to dress up as a cop. A cop for chrissakes! You can imagine why I never looked back. I think most of my fears were based on traumatic childhood experiences.

Let’s talk about my fears, cause after all, this is my little narcissistic place on the interweb, and it is  halloween. so give me a break.

I am scared of cockroaches, yes I am. Don’t laugh. & I am not even spermophobic! (scared of germs, and not sperm, though you can say I am scared of both.) I have a completely rational explanation for this. I remember when I was younger, a small cockroach had managed to sneak his way up my earlobe while I was sleeping. I was brought to the hospital because my mom couldn’t smoke the damn thing out. I remember the hospital and they had this huge sucking machine, like a giant vacuum cleaner which eventually killed the damn thing. Up until now, my hearing is a little faint on one ear because I think it has been slightly damaged by the incident.

I am scared of taking my clothes off in public. For quite sometime, I dismissed this as a fat issue, but clearly it wasn’t, because I remember a certain traumatic childhood experience that involved the removal of vast quantities of clothing. It was Christmas, of all the occasions it could’ve took place in! Me and my cousins were playing a game called The Longest Line, which required the removal of clothing to form what is the longest line. My cousins, who were older than me, took all my clothes off! We won, but I was naked infront of everybody on Christmas. Imagine that. Being naked infront of everyone. Isn’t that an infamous recurring nightmare for most people?; yet there I was living the dream.

from ashes to ashes.

My biological clock is fucked.

It’s been fucked for days, since the semestral break had started.

So yesterday I had made the effort to finally fix my sleeping problem by not sleeping the entire day! It’s the one solution that always works for me, since I am not a selective sleeper.

6pm, just when I was about to doze off, Carlo and Aidz come knocking on our gate, screaming out my name. It was weird seeing the two of them together, talking again. There had been a 2-month long cold war going on in the dormitory and it was starting to get on everyone’s nerves, including mine. It was nice seeing the two of them happy, so despite the total WTF-ness of the situation, I decided to tag along on their little WTF-adventure, considering that Carlo buy me a pack of cigs for the ride. He did.

It had not dawned on me until we got in the car that the ashes of Carlo’s dead ex-boyfriend were going to be with us on this trip; and that the whole gist of this whole WTF-ness was going to revolve around the question inquired many countless times by my friend Carlo to me in our longtalks, Where do I dump his ashes?

I feel honored to be one of the friends Carlo has chosen to share this very emotional and special period of his life. How many people can live to tell that they helped their bestfriends scatter the ashes of their dead boyfriends? Miguel sat in a little white makeshift urn just beside the stick shift. It was weird to think that all those stories about Miguel had finally materialized itself into a little white jar just inches beyond me. It was hard not to think that Miguel was just somewhere close by.

Before deciding where to dump the ashes, we had to make one last pick-up. From Marikina all the way to the edge of the world, Paranaque. We had to pick-up Mek, finally completing our line-up.

Where do you scatter the ashes of your dead boyfriend? It is a hard question to ask, and an even harder question to answer. Where do you?

I don’t particularly remember all the details that lead to the decision, but it seemed like a good idea to scatter Miguel’s ashes someplace where it was always lively, where his spirit will be free to share the fine aroma of imported and overpriced coffee beans. We scattered his ashes behind the Starbucks lot in Tagaytay, overlooking Taal lake.

It was truly a light-hearted feeling. No tears were shed, only goodbyes. Seeing all my friends happy made me forget about my own problems, in particular. Aidz and Carlo were talking again, and it makes me proud to think that I somehow had something to do with their unexpected reunion.

I am most happy when my friends are happy, and we must enjoy every living moment we have with those who make our lives worth living.

Isn’t that the lesson the dead are trying to teach us?

my other half sister.

So a few weeks ago I got a friend request from a certain Borja. Being the inquisitive person that I am, I asked her if we were related in some way.

“Hi! Do we know each other? Relatives?”

I don’t know really. I think so..Who’s your dad?

“Cesar Borja Jr. Yours?”

:)i have no idea.. lol.. :)

“Ah, so you’re looking for him? :/”

“kinda..hehehe..i hope to meet him someday.:)”

“How, when you don’t even know his name? It’s okay, i miss my dad too. I haven’t seen him in years. I know he has another family now, that’s why I thought you might’ve been a relative.”

“What? Another family?? hmm. I just want to be honest now.. Actually, I know what his name is. Cesar Borja Jr too. I haven’t seen him since when i was born. Only my mother knows and she knows about you too.  She knows your name, that’s why when she was searching for your dad, she found you. We kept this for so long because we didn’t want to destroy another family. I just want to meet him, that’s all. I hope you’re not mad.”

“Wait, how old are you? My mom left our dad when I was around 12 or 13, I can’t even remember. Dad had a lot of anger management issues so that’s why my mom left him.  :( so we’re half siblings?”

“Really?… Wow, that was so long ago. so you haven’t heard from him since then? I’m turning 24 on November 20. I’m older than you by months. All I know is your dad was my mom’s boyfriend at the time. When my mom became pregnant with me, she found out about your mom. Your dad told everything to my mom, then my mom came out with a decision to move on with me and just forget everything. Ofcourse some of our relatives became mad at your dad for doing so, especially my lolo. They told your dad that we migrated so we haven’t heard anything from him since then. I know your mom doesn’t know anything about what happened. My mom moved on for you guys.. and yeah we’re half siblings.”

I really don’t know how to react to this. If everything is true, then my dad must’ve lived a very secret life. He must’ve kept this from my mom for so long, and it must’ve drove him nuts. I feel sorry and a bit guilty. I had him for 14 years and this girl loved him for 24. If everything is true, then we really should meet up. I’ve been wanting to reunite with dad for so long and this should be the push I was looking for. I wonder how dad will react when he sees two of his children from different mothers. Dad, you’re a player.

Ah, I guess the more you grow the more you start to see people for who they really are. When we were kids, parents used to be invincible. I was not fortunate enough to live that kind of reality. My reality was a battered mother and a father who had a lot of secrets. I guess what i’m trying to say is, you start to realize people are just what they are, people. Parents were teenagers with lots of teenage problems. They try to be strong for their kids, but most of them give in eventually. The more you grow, the more you realize that no one really grows up. I have friends my age who have kids of their own, and sometimes I can’t help but wonder if these kids will turn out exactly like me.

I haven’t touched this blog in so long. I guess I am slightly scared of being a little crazy, as it says in the side bar, This space reserved for insanity. and I do believe in that concept, Duality. The little devil in all of us, the separation between the id and the ego is but a thin wall. We are both. Logic and feelings. Animal and god. Who is to judge us but ourselves? Who is stopping us from being wild & free but the society that we have created ourselves in an attempt to rationalize the world around us? This poses a question on creativity.

What is creativity? Is it the ability to decipher patterns in an otherwise intolerable landscape of randomness. Is it our freedom to organize chaos? Is routine what makes us different from the common mammal?

If I would to ask what makes man different from animal, I would probably get a number of common reactions: God; our ability to think logically; our ability to create. Really? You think so?

If you watch a lot of Animal Planet, you can probably notice that animals, much like “civilization” subjugates itself to set a rules, routines, and patterns. Is being “civilized” really what makes us different from being just a bunch of apes with shorter arms? The animal instinct is survival, therefore, what makes us human is our ability to choose self-destruction. We are human because we are given the freewill to destroy. We are human because we learn to question. Lucifer had his bird-like wings cut off because he was no longer a bird, but a man. We are half god half animal. We learnt to walk with our hind legs and now we think we own the world.

At an early age, babies are born with innate capabilities to be naturally creative. Give a kid a set of crayons and it will draw creatures from the purest realms of imagination. Society eliminates this creative process and establishes a set of norms for people to follow. School provides us with degrees and segregates us into individual “professions”. We equip ourselves with the necessary tools we need for survival in this jungle of a world. I don’t know about you, but we seem like animals to me.

if you promise to stop thinking, i will promise to stop feeling.

Inappropriate conversation # 1

I am the boy who makes everything feel and seem awkward. I think it is in my nature to want to talk about things that are inappropriate for conversation. Things like, I think I am starting to like you. Stuff like that. I can’t seem to hold my tongue, which is why I think Bigmouth Strikes Again is an appropriate soundtrack for such moments in my life. I am singing it in my head right now.

I haven’t held a guitar in such a long time, and I am holding one right now. It isn’t mine though, but I re-stringed it as a favor, but the strings are killing me. My fingers are dying, but they are typing. They are dying the noblest way they possibly could.

I think I am starting to like my ex, again. I told her this, and it seemed a bit awkward. She says it has crossed her mind, as well, but that we shouldn’t jump into conclusions. I think so too. If we are going to do this, we need to atleast do it right this time. We are such civil lovers.

My ex broke up with me seven years ago. We were way too young to understand love. When you think about it, love, what is there to understand? Love seems like a simple concept. There is nothing to understand about love, because love is understanding. I guess what i’m trying to say is, I now understand my ex, more. And perhaps this is what will make it different this time around.

When I was younger and my hands were littler

When I was younger and my hands were littler, I used to do the drawing assignments of my older cousins. They said I had gifted hands, I never knew what they had meant. While they watched TV, I was busy doodling away on the future of their art grades. People don’t take art seriously - this has probably been the most important lesson I have learned. And is simply why I don’t take my art seriously.

No one was an artist in the family, cept for my Tito Al who was an architect. Every Sunday during our weekly visits to my Lola’s house, he would show me drafts and blueprints of floorplans and houses - straight lines and measurements. I knew then and there that I never want to be an architect; straight lines were not for me simply because they took too long to draw and had a very restrictive demeanor about them. Eversince childhood, I seemed to have always wanted the easier way out. My hands were growing and took to more grown-up things.

When Mom and Dad got seperated, I stopped drawing altogether. I didn’t see the point in making a career out of Art because Art was a poorman’s career in this country; and my mom’s business was collapsing. All the more I drew, all the more I felt guilty.

In school, I never really applied myself. My teachers said I was smart but that I was focusing on the wrong things. I figured this was just a way to help rid the guilt off their sorry asses. School never taught me much, save for the endless suggestions of 80’s New Wave music by my English professor, Mierro Castillo. In a way, I was kind of thankful that we were financially unstable because at the time, it taught me a lot of things that you can never learn in school. My hands kept growing.

While I was in the library one day during highschool, my friends stumbled upon a book. It was the art of Salvador Dali. It will eventually be the book that changes my life because if it weren’t for this book, I probably wouldn’t be here writing about this. Back in highschool, I secretly wanted to be Salvador Dali. I kept borrowing the book every chance I could, and although I never remember reading the book, I remember looking at his paintings, thinking to myself, what an oddball. I will be him someday, despite my lack of gravity-defying facial hair.

Plans changed. I never grew facial hair, and I never drew during highschool. You know how they say, what and who you will be in life will be defined by who you were during highschool? It’s a big fat lie! Other things seemed to have caught my interest during highschool, the usual art shit that interest people who were bad in sports. You know what I’m talking about. Photography, Music, Literature and whatnot. They all seemed great and promising, but my hand kept growing.

During my last months in highschool, I had caught an interest in film-making and decided to apply myself in UP Diliman Film school. To no surprise, my highschool grades weren’t fit enough for their standards. I never really believed in the concept of grades as the basis of one’s knowledge about things. I knew I was smarter than most of my peers, and this made me believe that I had nothing else to prove on paper. I took up Communication Arts in the University of Santo Tomas for one year, but the whole time I was there, I was drawing and painting like a madman! Years of repression had finally caught on, my hands were ripe. I knew I was ready.

Every Fine Arts student knows there is a big risk involved when entering such a career. It is no secret that it is not the most stable career in this country. It can otherwise be called a hobby-course, because it can be pursued as a sideline hobby while one takes up something more serious, like Law or something. But I knew I wanted this lifestyle. The risk attracted me more than it scared me. Having gone through all the instability in my life somehow molded me into a stable disciple of all things unstable. I knew I wanted this life, and my hands did all the talking, because for some weird inexplicable reason, I had applied for a major in Painting instead of the original plan, Advertising. I believe in accidents.

The thing about art school is, there really is nothing to be learned. Experience is the best teacher, this is what art school has taught me best. & I guess I was lucky enough to have grown up with peers who share the same passion; for me, they are my best teachers. We took to the belief that grades were always secondary, if not at all unimportant in our chosen career, because they were subjective, like all art is. It is all a matter of sticking with what you know, and being open to new people and experiences; and being out there, embracing the art of the world. Me & my classmates did this, every chance we had, and our connections grew.

The thing about our class was that almost half of us were either shifters from another course, or took Painting because they had no other option. I guess I was part of both. I knew no other thing to do, and this has been my drive all these years, to finally take my craft seriously.

Paint or die?