We all have our good Fridays for being bad.
If you have baggage (like I do), and if your life's been colonized by a dissertation (like mine), and if you try to behave and be responsible for the most part (like I do choke choke choke), and if you are self-centered (like me) but live with other people (lovely though they may be) and have a precocious adolescent to think of besides yourself and on a daily basis too (like I do), then once in a while, you just want to let things rip and give the whole world the finger. Like I just did. Hee hee hee!
Here are a few fragments I collected from friends about last Friday's opening at the Victor Oteyza Community Art Space, a.k.a VOCAS. Randy and Bong put up their first two-man show. Touches of the surreal, breath of the mountains, metal aftertaste of the city, and shades of the Igorot in us all. If you're in town, go see the paintings. Pogi Reggae, Batotoys' Blues, and the Uptown Rascals played music that made the crowd dance. That much I remember. Most of what follows I don't remember. Some switch had gone off (on?) in my head and I was barreling forth into drunkenness. No brakes.
In my last moment of lucidity, I asked Lovely Mother-to-be to hold my Red Horse beer and took a nice snapshot of her. She was good and didn't take a swig, though she looked tempted.
While dancing with the boys, I actually said: Fuck the phd! Fuck my dissertation! What am I doing with my life?!?
I accosted any one who wasn't holding a drink and ordered them to get a drink! Drink!!! I accosted every one who had a drink and exacted a few gulps of red horse or shots of gin.
Every one saw me go onstage and spout 'spontaneous poetry' into the mic while the boys jammed on the drums and bass and electric guitar. Oh god, I wonder what I said. Kawayan says it was beautiful. I'm not sure I would have agreed if I could hear myself, or at least remember what I said. I vaguely recall telling him to shut up, and also talking about trees. Ferdie had to carry me piggyback off the stage because I couldn't negotiate the steps going back down to earth.
I danced til I couldn't dance any more. I couldn't even stand on my own two left feet any more.
I threw up into a white sando bag until way past the point when I had nothing left in me to vomit. No spills.
Ferdie declared that I hadn't gone that far in 15 years. So I guess I was vomitting out 15 years of angst and demons. Kawayan saw a fat little demon plop out of my mouth and into the white sando bag. It looked annoyed, he said.
Doods was jealous of how drunk I was. (He intends to follow in my footsteps soon). He and Randy had to take turns carrying me down La Azotea's five flights of stairs to Session Road.
Big Little Sister transformed into Manang and took me home in Chef-to-be's truck, since I had transmogrified into a deadweight, useless Ate. She gave me a banana and put a warm towel over my forehead, and slept beside me.
The next morning -- the next morning was searingly clear, glaringly bright -- I had to get up at 6, shower, and take the Artist-in-residence to a skills test for high school by 8 a.m. When I could crawl back into my own bed, Number 1 biker boy drew the curtains and put a cool wet towel over my eyes, and I slept until the Artist-in-residence got back.
I could barely function the rest of Saturday, but I was happy and I felt cleansed and I felt loved and I laughed at myself in a day more than I did all year last year. Thank you, everybody. That was better than having a breakdown.
If you have baggage (like I do), and if your life's been colonized by a dissertation (like mine), and if you try to behave and be responsible for the most part (like I do choke choke choke), and if you are self-centered (like me) but live with other people (lovely though they may be) and have a precocious adolescent to think of besides yourself and on a daily basis too (like I do), then once in a while, you just want to let things rip and give the whole world the finger. Like I just did. Hee hee hee!
Here are a few fragments I collected from friends about last Friday's opening at the Victor Oteyza Community Art Space, a.k.a VOCAS. Randy and Bong put up their first two-man show. Touches of the surreal, breath of the mountains, metal aftertaste of the city, and shades of the Igorot in us all. If you're in town, go see the paintings. Pogi Reggae, Batotoys' Blues, and the Uptown Rascals played music that made the crowd dance. That much I remember. Most of what follows I don't remember. Some switch had gone off (on?) in my head and I was barreling forth into drunkenness. No brakes.
In my last moment of lucidity, I asked Lovely Mother-to-be to hold my Red Horse beer and took a nice snapshot of her. She was good and didn't take a swig, though she looked tempted.
While dancing with the boys, I actually said: Fuck the phd! Fuck my dissertation! What am I doing with my life?!?
I accosted any one who wasn't holding a drink and ordered them to get a drink! Drink!!! I accosted every one who had a drink and exacted a few gulps of red horse or shots of gin.
Every one saw me go onstage and spout 'spontaneous poetry' into the mic while the boys jammed on the drums and bass and electric guitar. Oh god, I wonder what I said. Kawayan says it was beautiful. I'm not sure I would have agreed if I could hear myself, or at least remember what I said. I vaguely recall telling him to shut up, and also talking about trees. Ferdie had to carry me piggyback off the stage because I couldn't negotiate the steps going back down to earth.
I danced til I couldn't dance any more. I couldn't even stand on my own two left feet any more.
I threw up into a white sando bag until way past the point when I had nothing left in me to vomit. No spills.
Ferdie declared that I hadn't gone that far in 15 years. So I guess I was vomitting out 15 years of angst and demons. Kawayan saw a fat little demon plop out of my mouth and into the white sando bag. It looked annoyed, he said.
Doods was jealous of how drunk I was. (He intends to follow in my footsteps soon). He and Randy had to take turns carrying me down La Azotea's five flights of stairs to Session Road.
Big Little Sister transformed into Manang and took me home in Chef-to-be's truck, since I had transmogrified into a deadweight, useless Ate. She gave me a banana and put a warm towel over my forehead, and slept beside me.
The next morning -- the next morning was searingly clear, glaringly bright -- I had to get up at 6, shower, and take the Artist-in-residence to a skills test for high school by 8 a.m. When I could crawl back into my own bed, Number 1 biker boy drew the curtains and put a cool wet towel over my eyes, and I slept until the Artist-in-residence got back.
I could barely function the rest of Saturday, but I was happy and I felt cleansed and I felt loved and I laughed at myself in a day more than I did all year last year. Thank you, everybody. That was better than having a breakdown.
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