Thursday, August 25, 2011
Blog Soup #12 -- A Succession of W's
**It's a soup of topics that don't really follow suit. Or it's me with all that material but nothing to write.
**Meanwhile, the following paragraphs were taken from that big notebook I almost always have with me. I try to write a lot, when I'm not drunk or lazy, and these notes represent my mostly sober moments.
1. What is Self Defeating?
I remember this local whatshisface recording artist, Jed Madela, and he was endorsing his new album in some whatsitsface noontime show. He's promoting this album, and it's this collection of remakes and revivals of hitherto bastardized songs from the 80s and the 90s. I think it's the first of its kind most especially here in the Philippines. Anyway, Jed Madela goes ahead and tells the viewers to not buy anything that's "not original." I know he's addressing the piracy issue, but "not original" is a very loose phrase. It can very well refer to his remakes. Which is what his new album is all about. Which will be in deep shit if the viewers tooks his word about "not buying anything that's not original."
Bad call, Mr Champion Something.
2. Worst Shits
**I remember writing this was when I was still in the five year relationship.
I was taking what can be one of the worst shits in my life, because I had to do it in the office, twice in two hours, when it dawned on me that, as far as I go, I'm just making the third party up. The infidelity is all in my head and, for what it's worth, he just doesn't measure up to the love of my life. What troubles me more, though, is that I can't seem to say this with the conviction that it deserves. Maybe I'll give it a few days, and then I'll say it again. But what troubles me, even more, is why I'm getting these epiphanies while sitting on a toilet bowl.
3. Wet Dreams
I had the strangest dream last night. It had all the elements of a good wet dream -- a curious half story, a comely young stud equipped with a raging erection, and, like in real life, the idea of getting caught as your head gyrates in that familiar, circular dance. I don't remember what it smelled like, for it was a dream, but that familiar sensation of choking remains distinct. And pleasurable. What makes it far more queer was the series of events which consummated in that fantastic fellatio.
He was this undercover cop, and he was doing surveillance work on a witch. Literally, a pins and dolls kind of witch, the sort that's equipped with a cauldron and chants, and employs her victim's personal effects for her black magic.
I couldn't make heads or tails of the whole incident. Heads, yes, but reason?
4. Writing Thought
Because when you're this dime-a-dozen nobody who imagines he can write, and he does so with not as much as any formal training to his credential, and all you have is passion and pluck and punctuation, then you revel and bask and glow at every validation you get. Most especially when its from the one female you think, as a gay guy, you've been impersonating all these years. What I'm saying, really, and this goes out to you insecure haters, is this -- fuck you and your ideas.