Another Strange Christmas

Christmas day 2008, I was doing a Chinese exam in a land where Christmas is just another regular day. The test caused me massive blood loss. On top of that, we had homework to do. And for dinner, I had beef noodles on the sidewalk.

Hwow.  

But wait. 2009 does it better.

On Christmas day I was dune bashing, camel riding, pop-my-lungs screaming, eating Indian and Arabic food, freezing in the middle of a desert and cursing at how these people are so filthiest rich.

 

By some wonderful cosmic phenomenon, two of our other high school friends are also based in Abu Dhabi so we all decided to spend Christmas together rolling around in the dunes. 

 

Christmas 2010, you had better raise the bar higher because last year I decided to spend the following Christmases in places where Jesus Christ is not so famous. So far, so kablamo.

Internet Killed The Video Star

Dear Goddess,

If you give me both of these for Christmas, I will never ask for anything in the Christmases that will follow. Even on my birthdays. 

Both okay? 

Please?

Love and mayhem,

Trixie

Words My Ass

In the past week, I had three opportunities to expound and/or explain myself but I didn't. I don't have the energy to put up verbal contests unlike before. 

It was so great seeing and spending time with Bennett Laoshi. 

Chuck Bass. What I would give to make this man materialize. 

My mother doesn't believe in me. I can't believe a mom can do that to her own child. Hwow. Like I suck. I know a lot of people who genuinely suck at everything they try to do and yet their mothers believe and support them. Boo.

Oh well. I received a message of love and go-fight-c'mon from my anomaly which makes everything super cool again. 

LezgowTrixieFightKillFuckYeah!

Dig.

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

- Decapitator

Ben Kenney Love

No, that's not the topic of this post. This is:

(Please click on the image for maximum experience.) 

Brandon Boyd at My Feet (I kid you not.)

Guys, this is the shizziest thing to happen all year.

B and B are finally home.

Yes, the left one is called B and the right one is called B. 

(Kids, say hello to everyone.)

As I write, B is on my lap and B is sitting next to my mac.

Thank you to the following angels:

Rey PJ Celiz, for lining up, advancing the moolah, asking for Brandon's autograph, forgetting to insert the SD card in his cam, and singing his way to the GMCLA.

Popot Malvar for paying Rey PJ for the meantime and driving

Kathy Natividad to fetch B and B from half-a-planet away.

Also to Francesca Balaguer for answering the first tenor’s call and affirming that “yes, she’s willing to pay that kind of money.” Sol Garcia for the cheers and Sajeroo Ocampo for waiting for me to find a parking space. 

I’m looking at the pair and I feel like a mother. 

If you’ve known me a long time or if you know me very well, you’ll know that Brandon Charles Boyd is one of my favorite artists/creatures of all time in the entire Universe.

I met Incubus’ music in 2000. I dug up the works that were and followed everything else that came. I love their music so much I want to be listening to an Incubus song while I’m dying. All this time, Brandon is evolving into the most amazing artist and free human being. 

If you only know Brandon as Incubus’ frontman, I think it’s worth knowing that he’s a humanitarian and environmentalist (See makeyourselffoundation.org for proof. Or ask Bruce, his French bulldog.); He’s a wondrous painter, photographer, poet and (twice so far) published author (evidences at BrandonBoydBooks.com). He’s hilarious like hell. (Watch their DVDs and everything audiovisual Incubus on the net.) And he’s an award-winning surfer. Uh-huh. 

Yes I know what you’re thinking. What a perfect bastard. I’m still leaving room for some wrongs. Like maybe he has 11 toes or 9-hour panic attacks upon caffeine consumption or something. 

What’s my point here? Well, Brandon helped me get through all the shite that every abnormal teenager has to go through. And even if I’m a teenage mutant ninja no more he and two other imaginary friends who pop out of nowhere never fail to rescue me every time I di-di-dit-dah-dah-dah-di-di-dit. (FYI: That’s Morse for SOS. Memorize. Might come in handy someday.) He never fails to sing the right words and read the best answers for every uh-oh situation I find myself in. 

These living pieces of artwork are like his babies. He and artist friend Kristin Klosterman labored over them for 3 straight days crouching on canvases duct-taped to the floor, smudging his love on every inch of them. According to him, this is probably the most amazing kind of art he’s ever created so far. There are 75 pairs of them walking the planet right now. They will get wet, muddied, stretched and “smelling like cheese popcorn” eventually. 

  

I’ve been walking with them inside the house. They’re surprisingly soft and comfy considering how artsy they look. Like walking on naked pillows. 

I don’t know if I should ziplock them before I wear them and risk getting serious head injury. Or maybe keep them in a vacuum and auction them if my family goes bankrupt. 

Thank goddess I exist in the same era as B. B is for Brandon. It’s also for Boyd. B can also be for Beatrix or Ballesteros. (Let me have this one okay? Same initials and belief in life somewhere beyond Milky Way are the only things we legitimately share.) 

I’m looking at every inch of the shoes. I imagine B laying out every brush stroke, every splatter. This is phantasmagorical. I’ve felt them against my cheek, licked the left one, okay stop. That’s so psycho. 

A love letter in the form of footwear from B to B. We’ll sprint together and put up the most spectacular fight this galaxy has ever seen. All of us B’s. 

Even if it Kills Me

There must have been a good reason why I am watching these films only now.

This morning Waking Life. Sheesh. It’s the ultimate answer for the bipolar overthinker.

Where there is fire, we will carry gasoline. – Waking Life

Irreversible. Maybe 3 or 4 years back I was easily offended. I still am. And I stick to my belief that murder is less heinous than rape. Always.

Time destroys all things. – Irreversible

Tonight, (Uh guys? 2:02am is still within the bracket of “night,” right?) Dead Poets Society. I can’t remember the last time I cried. Oh wait. I cried last week upon the discovery of Michael Scofield’s death at the end of Prison Break Season 4. After 4 seasons’ worth of shit you just Deus Ex Machina him at the end? Fuck.

Oh yeah, dead poets. I’d love to be one of them and "suck the marrows out of life."

(I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,)

I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.

-Walt Whitman

Or if that's too highfalutin for you,

All right godamnit. Carpe diem. Even if it kills me.

- Dead Poets Society

Ken

The Best Place To Be

Ahoy mates!

I’m sorry I forgot the whole welcome remark shiz on my previous and first entry. I was so affected by Irreversible that some of my neurons just stopped working.

I decided not to post hardcore thoughts on Facebook anymore because most of my contacts there are not exactly people I would dodge a bullet for. Why would I let them in the complicated endless dark maze that is my brain? So I thought I’d revert to Multiply. Then again, a lot of people there are just there to clutter cyberspace with ugly vanity shots of them and their boyfriends and/or girlfriends.

So.

October 24^th, 2009. 0040 hours, GMT +8. I was in bed trying to fall asleep (a task which has been quite Mission:Impossible-esque the past several months). I’m not sure if it was the eeep several hours before but I was in that transition between wakefulness and sleep when I started feeling something.

The lights were out. I was not moving on my bed. I was listening to my iPod on shuffle mode.

Ladies and germs, I felt Brandon Boyd making love to yours truly.

I told myself, “What the eff? I’m still about 36% awake. Open your eyes Trixie. Open them and you’ll see you were just dreaming.”

The groggy Trixie: How can I be dreaming when I’m not even completely asleep yet?

Just open your eyes.

Rrrrrr.

Open sesame. Dark empty room.

Hala. Walang ganyanan bilang Halloween na, okay?

I closed my eyes. There it was again. I could feel his body. We were in motion.

(I just talked to VidaFaith about this and she asked me how it felt like.)

It felt like dancing underwater.

And I could really absolutely feel it. I could feel his limbs, his torso, his hair, everything. All of his with mine.

Then I talked to the Universe. I said, if this is real, if Brandon IS in a similar vibe or transition at this exact moment, then tell me.

Lo and behold, begrudge, belittle, the next song plays—Here In My Room.

Woke up the following morning. Went straight to the toilet like I always do. I noticed that my body was sore, I felt tired. My muscles hurt. I tried to remember what I did the day before. I didn’t run.

Whoa.

In that transition between wakefulness and sleep equivalent to a moment in a parallel universe where time and space mean nothing; with our metaphysical, transcendental selves, we made love. 

Neat-o.

While You Enjoy Summer

I was watching Irreversible. I saw a clip of the film several years ago and figured that I first needed to prepare myself emotionally before watching the whole thing. Took me years. Now that I feel like I have a smudge of enlightenment, I watched it holding my breath.

Can I just say that Gaspar Noe never fails to agitate and disturb me? The flow was genius (screenplay and editing-wise). The cinematography was very appropriate. The actors, well, they made me cringe and shrivel inside. Disturbingly beautiful. Even the OBB and CBB*! I think those are the best parts actually. And what's cooler is that the film starts with the end of Noe's other film I Stand Alone which is one of my favorites.

And because I don't like watching stuff that people shove into my face, I'll probably watch 500 Days of Summer after a year or two. Or 500 days.

* opening and closing billboards