Tool Box

You make me hate you.

I still hate you.

I hate you.

Today is special, and it’s one of those days that I would never forget.
Today is Dame’s 18th birthday!

And while on the way to Dame’s house to give her the invitations for her birthday party (which is on Saturday), dark energies must’ve conspired to truly make this day unforgettable.

I just lost my cellphone.

But enough about that. Hehe.

Here’s the invitation I made for Dame. I printed 50 copies of that on photo-paper. It’s "nice" with that glossy look. Dame loved it especially that "introduction" i wrote. Or so I think

Well i’m glad the invitations are over with. I only have to worry about the give-aways, which are small cds with Dame’s favorite songs in it. Plus i need to have small "cd cover" prints by tomorrow. I have to work on the designs too.

I also have to work on some stuff.

Dame, if you’re reading this, I thank God for giving me a bestfriend who has an extra cellphone! Hahaha. Thanks sa cellphone! *mwah … Ayaw na pagselos gud HAHAHA. You’ll meet her on Saturday bitaw.

I just think it’s a waste to lose my cellphone… It’s not the cellphone i am still so attached about. I’m going to miss those "frozen moments" congested in a text message.. but what the heck… Not even a text message can compare to the true totality of human emotions anyway.

Sa akong mga girl friends Hahaha… textmates bitaw

Jinny
Nikay
Natzee
Tara
Marge
Siway
Robbie

I’ll update you with my new numbers as soon as possible. DONT TEXT THAT CHILD OF GOD WHO NEVER HAD THE HEART TO RETURN MY CELLPHONE. Hehe. Motosha. The story ends.

I miss my childhood, especially during that summertime when I was to be in the second grade when classes were to start. I lived in a remote place where a small hill stood infront of the house’s gate, and trees were everywhere. It was a nice house, designed like that of Palladian villas, or at least, with columns similar to "COSMOPOLITAN FUNERAL HOMES"’. We lived in Golden Valley then, near Beverly Hills.As a kid, I rode on my black bike with purple splatters of paint, and at some time I carried with me a hamster inside my pocket. I explored caves here and there, climbed rocky hills and sat on treetops. I never had friends back then, except for the classmates i knew, because the place was so remote, only squatters dwelled in that ‘far-from-the-city’ place, and the neighbors’ houses were at least 500m away.

I started to draw fairly well then, and acknowledged myself that I had this "gift" in the arts, but never actually considered myself an artist, since I never knew or understood art itself, not until 9 years later, when I enrolled myself in college.

I remember I started to draw a lot already when I was 4 or 5 years old. I had some ‘teachers’. I remember being taught by our Karaoke Bar’s waiter. He taught me to draw a human face, and I could still remember how that face looked. Kind of like those police sketches on criminals. Hahaha. It had curly hair, and big nostrils, the countours of the face roughly drawn. I can still remember when he taught me an obscene drawing, which I promised him not to tell my parents about it. I remember how that ‘obscene’ drawing was creted from three letters… the "w", the "o", and the "Y".

But my first teacher was my brother, and constant rival then. I was never actually recognized by my family with my talent in the arts, since obviously my mom especially wanted me to be someone else, and my brother excelled in drawing.. let’s say 6 years better than me. Piff. But that kept me fighting for my place in art, and I thank my brother for being there as a rival.

I can still remember my drawings. Drawings at the back of the notebook. Drawings on books. Drawings on just any kind of paper. Unfinished comics with no stories. I can still remember looking at my brother’s drawing book just to get some ideas. But i was never better than him, even when I reached his age. He drew very well at an age compared to me when I reached that age too.

I just couldn’t understand then why my parents never knew about my talent in drawing. At school, I had my rivals too, but there weren’t much, and honestly I was confident that my art was way better than theirs. Yes. I can brag about that. But when I brought my drawings home, they don’t seem to care, and just to introduce something and to "fish" a compliment, I’d start by saying "bati noh?".

I never joined too many drawing contests when I was a grade-schooler. I couldn’t even remember joining in one. I was independent in my field and I never went to an art-school.

I remember my highschool drawings, and the stuff I kept in my pocket. Anime drawings, some admittedly hentai. Hehehe. But that was childish, and I regret ever being in that stage. But i do miss drawing the ‘ideal’ human form. I find it hard to draw the human form now, since I’ve indulged myself in the distorted human figure.

I can still remember drawing for the school paper. My early entries then were too edgy, but then I grew mature and learned from my mistakes, and just a month ago, when I got my yearbook, I took the last issues of my highschool drawings in the school paper, and surprisingly i was amazed by my own artworks.

Even during my last years in highschool I never said I was an artist. All I had in mind that I just drew "nice" stuff on paper, and I even put that in my friendster account’s early profile.

Up until now maybe my family doesn’t acknowledge my art. They find it different. A couple of months ago perhaps, my 5 year old niece showed to everyone her drawing (which is good enough I guess since she got ‘Best Artist’ award in Nursery school). She’s the daughter of my artsy-fartsy bro, who. Too tired to see the drawing, i just ignored the kid when she showed me the drawing. I had no intention of actually ignoring her, I was just too tired and put my head on my pillow. My other brother and mom bursted, that as a kid, I never drew so well.

Hah.

They never really saw the "artist" in me. Not to brag, I had some lots of other talents that each one of them only saw and favored. They thought I would excel in the piano. Some thought I would excel in English class, writing poetry and the likes. My dad even believed that I would excel in subjects. But I was already a rebel then. I never wanted to excel in fields that everyone else wanted me to. Because I knew who I was.

The thought that nobody TRULY knows who I am just sucks. They keep opposing this and that and this and that. And now they say I’m weird. It’s just me.

This blog post may sound like it’s full of angst but it’s not.

I miss my childhood, especially that time when my art was growing, and all that kept me were my drawings. I was never solicited by the teacher for not paying attention in class. Or maybe I just wasn’t caught. Hehehe. Drawing drawing drawing. Drawing. Drawing.

I excelled in that field. Drawing. Sketching. The pencil and ink and paper were my friends. It was technical skill.

Am i taking things a step further? Am i letting my hands go, and allowing my mind alone take the work? Is this too early for me? I do not know. Everything changes for the better I guess…

I’ve been looking for my really old books and notebooks, and my cabinets, hoping to find my childhood drawings. I’ve never actually found them yet, and all hope may be lost since this is the 5th or 6th house we’ve transferred to already.

All i could find now is this. An automobile drawn on a sewing machine box attachment. Hihih. Here:

Don’t you think it’s funny how people find it hard to relate it all  because of the redunancy of our lives?  Haha. And probably even you can’t share in my laughter because you yourself think that we’ve made them fall for it. Hahaha. (chokes)

I feel that I must take Surrender’s hand now, and let this go, for despite my longing to hold on, I am getting tired of even trying to mend this divide.

I thought I was something more than that, and will be something more than this.

If you’re truly that ‘incapable’ as you claim yourself to be, then surely after reading this, you won’t hesitate to shout to me this ONE TERSE WORD.

I will wait. Oh please do find a way.

I really do, but you are as masked as this ill figure. You choose to be too blind not to see.

I love you, baby.

I have grammatical errors here and there. So I won’t care if you comment this and that. I’m not asking for an audience anyway. Because it’s you I hate.

I ostracize myself from the fallacies of our coalescence, but somehow humanity maligns my intervals even in this voluntary exile. Their queries shall not be satisfied for they have cracked this mould. This entry is too contrived, even for me, but if I allow that to conquer my subconscious, then I am allowing myself to share in their mediocrity. All is faint for us both, and I can only hope for this faultine to mend, because it’s taking away the reason in me.

Picture me, as I carry your name as my banner, trudging against the subtle heat of the eastern sun with my left hand close to my heart— real close… clutching.

The air is still and in black & white like this photograph of you I keep, ever making me feel complete. But it is a classic joke, because all this just reminds me of our distance.

I will not let you go. I never will. I would rather ail than to neglect these conspiracies we both share. And I will never let ANYONE be of obstruction. Not even her.