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02/23/2010


Dear J.,

Don't get me wrong -- I didn't really start this blog just because I wanted something I can vent out my frustrations on, nor is it just for the sake of honing my craft.

Do you see this blog's title? It's for you. You're the only J in my life now, and you might as well be the only A B C D E F G H I K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z too.

I should be sleeping now, but I find myself wanting to talk with you. You know, the type of talk we used to have -- giddiness and sugar rushes and pesto dip and Tanduay Ice. That sort of thing.

I write this because, frankly, I don't want to slide back into that funk anymore. And it's frustrating whenever my wheels slide an inch or so.

Listen, whatever I said or did last night, I didn't want it to happen. Same with this morning, too. It never was in my intentions to hurt you; all I wanted was to make you smile. To make you laugh like before. Now, I don't know. I know you're busy and all, but everything we did last Sunday -- the talk, the dip, the hugs, the kisses, everything -- is sorely missed. Like the first few days. Like this weekend.

I know I told you I'd let us simmer down, but I just wanted to say: I miss you. Badly. I can't wait for tomorrow, if it does come, and I hope it does. And here's hoping I don't take any more bad steps, since I've taken one too many and stepped on your foot a lot of times now.

I'm sorry, J. It's hard to regain one's footing when one has slipped a lot of times.

The Winter Olympics were on TV the whole time. There was this judge in the skating competition, pointing out everyone's mistakes, except for this one couple. Not that I want us to be perfect and all, but I want us to be right for each other. I have my flaws and you have yours and I love you, flaws and all. Even if sometimes, it takes a couple of Advils, a half-pack of Marlboro Lights, and a bottle of The Bar to make me sleep after a fight. No, I'm not drinking right now. Yes, I'm smoking. And I had my last Advil last night. Turns out it was toothache and it went away as soon as the pill went down with the water.

I'm sorry. I'm rambling again and I know this is boring you and I've put too many "I"'s here like I always do when I write. It's hard to pretend to write from the third person, from a bird's eye view, much less a SuperSampler point of view.

But whichever way I look at you, you are beautiful. In all your RGB, CMYK, colour-separated glory. In your technicolor, life in 3-D, larger-than-life IMAX beauty. I hope you know that, because I don't feel like I've done a lot to make you feel it. But you are, really. There is no doubt about that. You are pink and lilies and bubble baths and red wine.

Again, I'm really sorry. There are things that I regret saying. "I love you" is not one of them. No matter how many Advils I have to take for the toothache. You're the only one. I need to declare it to the world.

I should go back to sleep now. I hope those three words make sense to you, because they do to me, and I don't want to close my eyes without letting you know that you make sense to me.

I love you,
J.
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February 18, 2010


Dear J.,

I know Sunday opened a can of worms, and up to now, I don't know if that was the right thing to do. On one hand, we both agreed that we needed the honesty, the effort, whatever we'll need to do. Part of me, though, tells me I shouldn't have gone down that road, that things would have been better if I didn't say anything.

While we were in the cab going from the play back to the hotel, you were asking me to tell you something, anything. You asked me about her. I remembered the pain. You must know this, J. -- it is the pain I remember, not the one who inflicted it. You told me you won't leave, that you'll be there, always. And frankly, I don't know what to make of things now -- now that you told me we have to stop right here, and think, and hope that fate will be on our side this time. Like this time is something else. Didn't this time start last December?

I decided what I would do. I'll go over to her place and dump all the shit she left in my house, and it's quite a haul, too.

The other day, I read one of my friends' poem -- something about lilies and getting killed in Maguindanao and searching for the right words to write pain with. I started to write. You asked me what it was about. I told you about it, and there was this ghost from the not-so-distant past telling me, Jonar, you should be writing about her, not about it. This other friend told me, Jonar, you're washed up, you're nothing. This guy's been writing a lot of good poems lately. You have written nothing.

I stopped writing that very instant. What was I writing for, anyway? Was it for you? For the "people", whatever it may be? For myself? I suddenly realized -- I was writing for nothing. I was just pushing words around.

Yes, I'm confused. And yes, it's been quite some time since I wrote my last songs, too. I'm a jealous guy, you know, and there are times when I wish that I'd written something, if I'd just looked at something long enough and thought hard enough about it. Maybe in the future. But not now -- I need to be a man first. Look at myself. I love you to bits, that's for sure, but this guy needs to be a man first.

I'm not going anywhere, just like you said you won't be going anywhere. But for now, I need sleep. I need to think. I need to start writing again, doing new songs. I need to walk back to your workstation and smile inside when I get up from the Lazy Boy. We need to rest.

But no, I'm not going anywhere. And I'll keep on writing until I get that beat back into my words and I'll have something I can show you.

I love you,
J.
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