I'll Show You Mine

My apologies to everyone for the dearth of posts. Long story short: a recent hiccup in my professional life threw a cold, damp blanket on my outlook of the world, which in turn  dimmed my motivation in terms of personal endeavors. Fear not, however—time and perspective have managed to eject me out of that smelly rectum of a psychological state, and I am ready to face the world once again. (F*** the use of cliches. Oy.)

What’s new? I’m going to put up photos taken from the Brooklyn Electronic Music Festival held in Williamsburg on the 9th and 10th of November, some of which were published on massappeal.com to accompany my friend JSH’s article. Ones that didn’t make the cut will debut on this site as well. 

The first day subway service was restored after Hurricane Sandy, my cousin Nic and I took the 4 train to Grand Central Station; ordinarily, the 4 continues on to Crown Heights in the heart of Brooklyn, but none of the trains were running below 42nd or 34th streets, depending on the subway line. Having made it through the storm relatively unscathed (one day without internet service is definitely not the emblem of hardship), we felt somewhat disconnected from the harsher reality people elsewhere were experiencing. 

For a good half-hour we kept walking south after disembarking from Grand Central, basking in the surreality of streets bereft of people and the uneasy absence of frenzied bustling that characterizes the city. Lights—what lights? There were none whatsoever. Not even the traffic lights were working! And yet through these potentially dangerous unlit streets cars drove by, mindful of pedestrians, always slowing down whenever someone was crossing the street. Without traffic cops, mind you. Therein lies the beauty of New York—in the midst of chaos, self-imposed order reigns. No traffic lights and no traffic cops does not automatically equal lost lives or severed limbs, which is reassuring.

Finally we reached Union Square: underground the nexus of 7 subway lines, above ground a hotspot of crowd clusterfucking under ordinary circumstances. That afternoon was no ordinary one, however. There were no gravity-defying, handrail-sailing skateboarders, no  amalgam of breakdancers or struggling folk singers or huge crowds drawn around such spectacles. Police tape circled the perimeter of the park. A National Guard truck was pulled up to the curb between 17th and 18th streets on Broadway. Rows of ConEd trucks lined the open area on the northern portion of Union Square across from the big Barnes and Noble store, normally filled with a crossroads of bodies coming, going, or staying put. On the southern end, two makeshift stations of generosity: a long line of people patiently waited for their cellphones and electronic devices to charge, courtesy of a truck owned by Guardian Data Destruction (the sort of business you’d call if your business needed to dispose of things that contain confidential information, I think). A moving company truck set up on the opposite side, handing out dry ice. 

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Here’s where the fumble part begins. This portion of the story finds Nic and I hungry, having had nothing to eat before leaving my apartment. Suddenly, across the street from us I see a line formed by U-Haul truck from which brown paper bags of stuff was being handed.

“I wonder what they’re giving away,” Nic inquired. 

“It’s got to be food,” I concluded. “We should fall in line and wait our turn.”

“I don’t know that I want to take food intended for the needy,” said Nic.

“Yeah, I kind of feel the same way. But we’re hungry. And the people in line don’t ‘look’ needy, either. Just normal people who happened to be severely affected by the storm. And…we can just pretend to be one of them.” Oh, the ways in which hunger clouds one’s judgment.

So Nic and I promptly cross the street and fall in line. As new arrivals, we settle ourselves at the end of the queue. Moments later, an elderly gentleman approached us: “What is this line for?”

“Food,” I answered.

“Actually, it’s for dry ice,” said the gentleman ahead of us. 

A look of horror appeared on Nic’s face. Spurred by the embarrassment caused by my oh-so-wrong-but-oh-so-confident declaration, she made the sensible decision to back away a few steps, pulling me along with her. 

There is a dull ache in my lower back, a result of having been on my feet for quite sometime. From neck to feet, I need some serious flesh and muscle kneading. Same results can be achieved by having a small child, preferably under 50 lbs, or an obese cat, to walk on my back. 

My grandmother has shingles and needed to be taken to the hospital today. I asked my mother how on earth Lola could have contracted shingles if 99% of her daily interactions are with her and my father, along with the cat and the dog. Because my mother works in a hospital, we both came to the likely conclusion that she came in contact with someone who was a carrier of the disease but did not become infected due to having a stronger immune system. Unfortunately she passed it on to my grandmother. 

I think my mom feels about about such a likelihood and blames herself a bit. She shouldn’t. 

Today was an emblem of a beautiful autumn day. The air was crisp and invigorating. I actually managed to wake up before noon and noticed that the sky was clear and almost jewel-like in its blueness. The first time I paid attention to such vivid blueness was during a trip to San Diego, California seven summers ago for my cousin’s wedding. I didn’t like it then. Something about the sky’s vividness felt radioactive, dangerous, and harsh, as if to indicate an impending nuclear holocaust.

I’m still trying to figure out why today’s vivid blue sky was so appealing. Maybe because this time of year the sun is lower on the horizon, which then affects the quality of light it casts. It was wintry, rather than summery. I also think it has to do with having spent the first 13 years of my life in the Philippine Highlands, whose weather was anomalous to the rest of the country—hot and tropical it was not. All year round, it was cool and pleasant. I remember waking up to twinkling blue-orange light and a pleasant chill in the morning. A few minutes past midday, all of the sharpness cast by the morning light would be muted by the the sudden presence of clouds.

Today’s light made me feel at home, I suppose.

About the title: I have honey smeared on my face because of zits.  While scouring the nether regions of cyberspace for remedies a few weeks ago, I found some websites (this one, for instance: world-of-honey.com/benefits-of-honey/honey-and-acne) touting honey’s potent ability to clear one’s skin of acne, apparently due to its naturally antiseptic and antibacterial qualities. Since I’ve tried every other anti-acne salicylic acid/benzoyl peroxide laden product under the sun (see: Retin-A, Proactiv, Clearasil, Neutrogena), I figured using honey would be worth the experiment. I shall report on the progress, or lack thereof, in a few weeks’ time.

Cross your fingers along with mine for a good outcome! If it doesn’t, the alternative is to go prostitutin’ in order to earn enough money for a few chemical peel sessions. Once upon a time when I had a little more coin in my pocket, I went to a dermatologist who dabbed a very highly concentrated solution of salicylic acid on affected areas. After two days of looking like a mottling snake, my skin eventually cleared up. 

Yes. I suppose I have it in me go out prostitutin’ if the end result is flawless skin.

—-

A decade and a half or so past adolescence, it annoys the living shit out of me to still be dealing with acne. It is as if that stage of my life has stamped its legacy on my face and intends to stay indefinitely. Is it because, in a large way, I am still stuck there? Is acne on my face my body’s way of telling me to get over some adolescent shit? I don’t know. I’m new to this whole body/mind connection thing, to the whole idea of one’s body as a vehicle that expresses metaphors. I wish I were able to explain the concept better so it doesn’t seem as though I’m having a dialogue only with myself. But the concept, to me, makes sense somehow. 

Should I be doing this, resuming a “traditional” text blog? Probably not, if the question must be asked. At the same time, I live by the somewhat masochistic-but-growth-inducing adage that one must live through and scrutinize discomfort. And what could be more uncomfortable for me than allowing others to have a gander at my current hotassmessy self? 

Yes, hotassmessy is the name of the ground I stand on. It is pretty fucking tenuous. If I lean more to one side by a millimeter I’d surely topple over and break into shards of human ceramic—not a pretty scenario by any means. 

For a good period of time ages and ages ago, I had a Xanga blog. I kept it consistently updated with rants and observations. Hell, I even had readers (albeit countable by digits in one hand). For reasons now forgotten (*cough* laziness) I left it untended. As I type this I like to imagine that my old Xanga blog has nicely decomposed into the internet soil and now serves as potent, nourishing fertilizer for newly-sprouted blogs like this one (holy shit, that was superfluous…and highly unlikely).

So why do this? For what purpose is this new crop of words? Three main reasons: for the sheer pleasure of writing SOMETHING, to hold myself accountable, and to kick through the impenetrable fortress I’ve managed to build around myself. I intend to use this blog as a scratchpad of sorts, a place where I can have fun writing without the added pressure of deadlines or professional obligation. By sharing my thoughts and experiences with others, I hope to gain some insight from my readers’ collective experiences, and to kick through the aforementioned fortress where this Rapunzel has been withering (fairy tale reference alert!). Because I know that if my goal is to simply flourish as a human being, I can’t go on with keeping all my troubles in, you know? Unfortunately I fit the mold of a person who combusts at the thought of asking for help or simply acknowledging that things aren’t good.

There you have it, Dear Reader. Welcome to the beginning. So help me Jah.