I’m a Coke

What Kind of Soda Are You?

Digging deep

How many times…

Have you felt your stomach scraped off and emptied after hurting someone and missing them after?
Felt drained to the brim after achieving a dream and losing a lifetime treasure at the same time?
Given yourself too much away and felt monstrously terrible inside?
Spoke empty words, nod mindless gestures and stayed afloat amongst a hubbub of people and situations?
Made yourself and everybody else believe that you breathed vibrant colors of life, when you know that deep down you were barely alive?
Felt impelling vein-breaking, tongue-tied sure you're being 100% true?
Felt anything at all?

How many times?

Then, you start counting…

My Perfect Pair of Shoes

    Once upon a time there was a fool who declared to have found the perfect man for her. Not ideal, but simply perfect. The exact words, I recall, were: He's like the pair of shoes that perfectly fits me!

I fell in love with Gael Garcia Bernal a year ago when I first saw Padre Amaro staring at the moving trees outside the window of the bus he was in. He didn't even speak that first scene and he already swept me off my feet! After the movie I was dragging my body along the ground, dazed and too overwhelmed that such sublime creature exists. My definition of beauty and perfection were trashed into the waste bin; vocabulary for adjectives seemed scarce to define this seriously gifted actor. For months, his infamous quotes, saliva-slipping photos (Disgusting of me. I know), priceless talent and life-waking movies ransacked my motivation as a student, opinion as a citizen, standards as a woman and thoughts as a person.

I was not disturbed. I was encouraged to be my best, because this person exists being one. Gael went more than an inspiration. He became a mountain peak that I vowed to reach. But when I started to entertain illusions, I came to realize that I have gone out of the equation (Who am I kidding? Even the fairy godmother can't afford to provide that miracle these days! She gave up after Prince Charles and Princess Dianna's divorce).

Thanks to my friend's piece of advice (I wonder why advice had to go in pieces, technically), hit me like a hammer jammed in the head. She said sometimes what fits you isn't necessarily the right one for you (my stubborn whims used to cry in agony against this truth, screaming: why not?! why not?!). You have to see beyond imperfections, and (most especially) consider reality (reality check girl, see the difference between illusion and what's real because only lunatics are hard-headed enough not to recognize the line between the two!) to find the right pair of shoes/dress/guy. Ouch.    

I'm over it now (thank the heavens!). Still, I insist, it's hard not to fall for this darling. Who wouldn't? After shocking the world with: Frida once said she didn't paint her dreams. She painted her reality. The necessity for peace in this world is not a dream. It is a reality and we are not alone. If Frida were alive today, she would be on our side, against the war.

He gave this brave speech during the 2003 Oscars when he introduced "Burn It Blue", nominated best song from Frida. That speech squeezed my heart in awe and nailed my attention to this living hero. That's why I am basking in pleasure of talking about him. And I will spare some more (hopefully), filmography, biography, quotes and pictures (goodies for the Gael fanatics).

But as for me, I have to go buy that perfect pair of shoes I've been eying for a few weeks now. Bueno, habla con usted más tarde. Adios!

Ps. I wrote this on 30 August of 2005. I took it from my previous blog, The Lost Tenement of Bananafish.

Don’t

when you look at me,
you leave me feeling naked
down to my core.

when you speak
you catch me standing
blank against a motionless world.

when you touch
you have my heart exploding in
colors out of beat.

So don't.

don't look at me.
don't speak to me.
don't touch me.

Just don't. 

still inhaling

The smell of fried garlic is still clogged in my nostrils. The electric fan seems to produce less and less air everytime its head turns to me. It's ironically a hot evening - the aftermath of an eardrum-piercing, sleep-cheering rain the night before. I'm currently hooked up on MTV. TRL fans are screaming for their lives just now. At other times I would sneer at those larynx-puking fans (I couldn't imagine Einstein screaming for some people as crazy, or Snoop Dog or Manang Alice, our somewhat embittered care-taker - please keep this hush hush!). But at other (other) times, I envy those people. I wish every single second of my life was a voice box-breaking, TRL Studio-wrecking scream!

I'm sort of tired being locked up thinking. I don't want to play mad trying to knock so hard at this head of mine - I doubt it if someone else is in here. For the longest time all I have been hearing are my weary inhales. I'm still waiting for a scream. For an exhale. Because unfortunately I'm still inhaling, just.