Sometimes I fake it (yes, I can). Sometimes I do it with reason. But I do smile, a lot, and I hope I make people happy when I do. Last night I sat down to write the reasons why I smile. I wanted to write only ten, but I got carried away.

I smile at my officemates cus I think it's rude if I don't.
I smile secretly at A, my secret partner in Imesh downloading.
I smile at M - he pops me every now and then, and checks on me.
I smile cus even if he broke my heart, he helped me build it up.
I smile every time M pops because he always is good news to me.
And I smile too because he's the only ex who still keeps in touch.
I smile at the love that has ended but is changing my life still.
I remember that cruel fight and how it felt like playing chess with him again.
I remember coffee and how it helped me a lot when I was breaking.

I smile at Tabs for being there, for loving me despite my inadequacies.
I smile because he brought meaning to life at a time when I so needed it.
I smile at my brothers because even with my temper, they always try to make me happy.
I smile thinking about mom who loves me so much even if we fight a lot.
I thinking about papa who once wanted to be a lawyer but couldn't because he hadn't the money to.
And when I miss him I take myself back to summer of 2003 when we first climbed Mt. Apo in Davao.
That was three months before he died in a car accident.
I smile thinking about the fact that at 21, I now am saddled with the task of a 40-yr-old.
I always remind myself every morning. I really really need to get rich.
Funny, but I smile too, looking at my empty wallet, staring at poverty in the face.
When was the last time it had something on it except ID cards?
But I smile too cus even if I am desperately poor, I don't look like it.
I smile when I think about uni and that terrible day I fell on the staircase in my school uniform.
I remember J who laughed hard at me but agreed not to talk about it to our other friends.
It was J who once said that when I cross the road, I always look the other way.
I smile thinking about Mr. B. who asked me to explain what "consummation of marriage" means.
I turned red explaining the answer in front of everyone in our Family Relations class.
I smile at the thought of I from high school, and I remember that funny love letter he gave me.
It was so perfect a 13-yr-old could not have written it.
I smile when I remember a friend who sketched my face and wrote "I love you" on tissue paper.
And I smile when I remember how shocked he was when I threw the paper back at him.
It was supposed to be romantic, but God, I was 13. How would I understand?
I smile thinking about N, my first Romeo, who talked a lot about Mao and proletariat struggle.
I'd never forget that day I laughed hard at him when he told me the story of his tooth god.
It was supposed to be a prelude to a "belief and nonbelief" discussion, but I felt tickled that day.
He got angry when I wouldn't stop laughing.
I haven't seen him since, but I hope I find him back, as a friend, of course.
I smile when I remember JS, the filthy road's son, who tricked me into addiction.
He was so unlike everyone, but he enchanted me the most.
I smile now thinking about Lama Dorjee from pol sci and how I constantly drooled over him.
Unlike N, LD was into Oriental philosophy and meditation.
I smile at myself now because I really like my choice of men.
I smile thinking about S and how until now I couldn't get over my fascination with Sumerian language.
And I smile because for days I searched the net for the Sumerian translation of "I love you."
And the closest I could get is only ze ki angu, "my beloved."
I smile at D, my idol, because even after years of studying his writing style, I still couldn't get it.
I smile at another S, who lived his life learning from the Tourettees, the possessed, the visionaries.
And I tell myself helplessly, if I could only have even half is brilliance . . .

You don't answer my text, you don't answer my offline messages. Why, darling, why?

I do not know now what to do. I feel sadder and sadder every day, anticipating every post in your blog, searching the net for your name in case you have something new, checking out her status message looking for signs about how the two of you are going, checking my mail, checking my phone in case you called. You can't imagine how I feel every time I talk with her. "Ten thousand lifetimes." That was her status yesterday. What does that mean? Does it have to do with you? Things like that leave me breathless every day, and I honestly don't know what is happening to me now.

She is probably chatting with you, sharing secret blogs with you, planning things with you. And it's killing me knowing that things like these are happening now when just a few months ago it was I you were talking to.

God, I still love you. And the more I think about it, the more I realize how selfish I've become. I shouldn't have allowed you to be with her, I shouldn't have held back, I should have fought for that love. I shouldn't have given up. I should have waited for you.

you must be healed by now
on the outside at least
i hope you're not too ugly
what a collection of scars you have
never forget who gave you the best of them
and be grateful
our scars have the power to remind us
that the past was real

we live in a primitive time, don't we?
neither savage nor wise
half measures are the curse of it
any rational society would either kill me
or put me to some use

do you dream much?
i think of you often

Ten things they didn't orient me about work (and sadly, I had to find this out for myself only later):

1. There are bound to be assholes in every workplace.
2. Assholes are insecure people whose tasks may include snooping into your window through some remote administration tool and reading your mail and YM conversations.
3. You would never know why they did it.
4. Or how many times they have done it. You could just speculate.
5. Assholes believe that they're the world's best people.
6. So when they find someone better, they make every effort at pulling this person down.
6. Assholes exist to make other people's lives miserable.
7. My advice is, try hard not to be affected by them. If they peep on you, don't let them know that you know it.
8. Keep cool, but never ever try to step down for them (of course, if you want to be canonized 100 years after, you may dismiss this and take the other way).
9. But I stick to my advice. Never ever waste time for these assholes.
10. The workplace is not an institution. If you have reasons to believe that these assholes deserve to be institutionalized, call a doctor. (The workplace should be freed of these assholes.)

*Peeping Toms are Peeping Toms for a reason. Believe me, I have tried to be friendly with some people, but some people are just assholes, and that's something I now have to accept.

Someone finally had the nerve to put words into beautiful "Claudine" by Maksim Mrvica. Chinese Edmund Leung, apparently captivated by Maksim's brilliant rendition of the song, asked permission to make a lyrical version. The result is a bittersweet ballad called "Xin Wang Ai," translated in English as Trust in Love.

Trust in Love
(Translation by Jay Teoh).


Like the spring rain at morn, tears remain unshed;
Maybe you still don't believe that everything must come to an end.
Spirits fallen, companions dead, maybe everyone will leave too.
But I have learnt to cherish, the trials and tribulations of love.

Heroic deeds surround us, scattering under the scorching sun;
Dreaming of you here, but whenceforth have you gone to?
If you should ever face this, don't turn back again.
Fight, why not go down fighting?
I might meet with your disapproval, why not let's be honest?

Every season of the past I've walked this path with you,
Tomorrow is just another dance in a circle,
It needs two pairs of hands--one left, one right--don't fall.
My dear, you and I have fallen,
have continued our journey,
just another dance in the circles of time.
In trust and hope, our love now lost,
no way to dance no more.

In the empty sky surrounding the harbour,
the clouds are dancing;
Maybe you, too, believe memories do not hurt.
As the city closes in, you have no choice;
When you're free, drop me a line.
Maybe you've got a new future, full of colour and confidence.

::::
Twenty-nine-year-old Croatian pianist Maksim Mrvica, famous for making classical music hip, is scheduled to release his upcoming album under Emi Records. The album, Variations Part I & II, features "Olympic Dream," the main anthem for the Athens Olympic Games 2004.

It's difficult to be writing good things now. There's no use staying here anymore. I AM drunk. (Oh, yeah. This is the only bar in town where you can get drunk without taking a single drink.) I am in my place again, looking around unnoticed, waiting for my cue. A few minutes from now we'll start playing. Zerg, the beast, is coming towards me. I wanna punch him hard, like THIS hard. I wonder how he'd look like in his coffin.

He's now sitting in front of me, grinning presumptously, almost mocking me. His face seems distorted, spent out, his appearance reflecting a mirage of his deceptions (which I know he carefully conceived with every effort at enhancing his stature). He's wearing the same maroon shirt he's been wearing every other day for almost two years now. I think it is fading. Or maybe it's his face that's fading, I don't know. I can't see him clearly, especially at night. I once told him about this. He said he fades with me; whatever did he mean by that, I honestly don't care. He stinks; I wonder why he's still alive. I hear him bursting loudly in the room--he may be dying, I'd love that. All the world is bursting. My heart is bursting. Right now I think I should just go away. Maybe I should lock myself in my room and overdose on coffee. What was that he said to me earlier? "If something breaks your heart, how do you keep it from breaking the rest of you?"

Oh, f--k!

Cara mia,

It's almost 2. I am at the bar, waiting for you to come onstage and sing your number. They're now playing soft jazz, and Bob is still here, fat as ever, mad for Strawberry Hills, but I don't mind him. The man is nuts. Hell, these men are nuts, work drives me nuts--thoughts of you drive me nuts--ah, let me get this liquid into my system. The easiest thing to do now is to get drunk and dream of you--your dark brown eyes, your exquisitely arched brows. Your rounded lips, your lithe body, your translucent skin that turns red when I touch it, the sweep of your arms, your tiny hips, your arched back. I am wondering if you still wear the same button-up skirt you wore when I first met you. But then again, it's really not important. I just need to see you, to see if I had gotten over you.

Two becomes three, and as I sit here, I am thinking of those happy nights we were frolicking, jumping like two wild kids in a pajama party. That night in Davao, you were sick, you were crying, both happy and sad at our meeting. Sometimes you'd kiss me, make love to me with your eyes, undress me in front of others, stroke me mercilessly, touch me with your bare hands, slip your fingers inside my shirt, tease me endlessly. You were a child still, but god, you were unstoppable. Where did you learn all that?

Ah, Lolita, my princess, you were mine once, and even if others will come after me, I know no one can replace me.

It's now 4:30. C is here, telling me to go home before sunrise. It has been like this for years now, cara mia, and I still hear you in my head, as though life is punishing me for what I did when I was 20. You were both blessing and curse to me. (And maybe you came only to punish me--I don't know, but I don't hate you, Lolita.)

C says you don't work here anymore, but I don't care. Tomorrow I will be here again to wait for you. Hope you will be here by two. Hope I will see you.

I love you.

I hear you
the first brush of your hair
against the morning water
The first song you sing, the first line
that gruff, lazy sound you make
when you wake up.
I can't make out what it is
But I hear you.

I hear your breathing
I hear the tingling of your skin
The early light bursts out in orange and in red
And I see the silhouette of your body
Your fine legs, your toes
the lines that you draw in the sand.
I am not with you,
But I hear you

I love the Pacific air
As it wraps your salted skin
And you smile; you call my name
The wind hears you. I hear you.
I feel it, and I now believe
That the connection you talk about
Exists. But if it does, how deep?
And for how long? And how often?
Because I feel you now, this second.
I know it's not just a connection
It's something else, something more
I don't know what it is,
but I like it.
I do.