Reality displacement. Disassociation from the self. Life affirming questions align like dominoes waiting for some benevolent force to topple its very existence. Channeling the mind to stay focused on what is believed to be true and virtuous, only to find that what one dreams could be what they see on a day to day basis. Fractals dance and merge from one another as carnal pleasure becomes a priority, to distinguish one from a beast is the cause of my ambivalence. The facades getting thin, the mask is melted down, and all I see is hallucinations of oneself floating through natures causalities manifested in the mind.
Nerves running wild like fire through my hastily thinning blood.
Millions of tiny pixies running riot in my minds sandbox with placards and chants, setting fire to parked thought, praying for the moment when Mt Anxious explodes over the populus and eradicates all thought to a cu de ta of numbness and stillness, preventing any presence of what was known of myself.
My mind aches
As potential dignity
Flows down a sewer
"Get a hold of yourself man"
“Dont give into the fear”
To be fair, all these quotes and cliches just made the bus fare outta here…
I keep pushing my body too far.
In 2012 I got my wisdom teeth out and played 3/4 gigs (don’t remember exactly, due to immense painkillers) directly in the week and a half after. I lost my voice and a lot of my range and couldn’t really sing properly for months.
Now after only having my hand out of a cast for maybe two weeks I have once again further damaged my hand. Its now swelling a ridiculous amount and I am left wondering whether or not I have done irreparable damage to it.
This needs to stop.
I need rest.
I need time to heal.
Please don’t let me say yes to gigs when I physically can’t do it.
I might cause myself permanent damage and never be able to play properly again.
Broken synapses in the melting pot, enough ambition to grind back a clock, lost confidence in myself, my will, my fire is coming to a halt.
I had a dream, it fades I have ideas, they fray At the seams like stitches of an open wound, the puss of which is the disease of a tired and empty wasteland sucking the soul out of anything it comes and touches.
I have ideals. they fade behind loose morals of the mind, trapped in an open well. There’s a ladder to climb out, even a helping hand, but none of which seem certain. I’m used to this well. Its home. I can see its reflection in the puddle of my own selfish self victimizing tears.
How do I solve this issue of the constant internal battle of contentment versus passion. Creative juices flow with no where to go, growing older round the sinews, going colder cant continue as ice holds me still. just enough to breathe, just enough to breathe
“Never, ever let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do. Prove the cynics wrongs. Pity them for they have no imagination. The sky’s the limit. Your sky. Your limit. Now, let’s dance.”—Tom Hiddleston (via black-coffee13)
We travel to town to meet Maylen’s mum and sister and the judge in Kananga town
The judge is hilarious, his text to my dad yesterday was corrupted and we asked about it he said its probably just the CIA tracking him
Genius, what I loved thou was amongst the the law books on his desk was - book entitled title “how to have an hour orgasm”. I was gonna enquire about it, but considering its Dad and Maylen’s big day I kept my mouth shut. From there in that little room. Chaos ensued, light chaos. Nothing crazy, just lots of Tagalog and very little English, mostly to do with when we were gonna wear the formal wear and can I get a witness or 4.
We head back to the hotel, have a decent family sized feed, consult the marriage organiser thing. i think they’re called planners. After dad and maylen sort their special day out we all then head into town. I must add I’m doing this in the black skinnys I just bought. Thought I’d test my ability to withstand heat in my little legs.
Jump in a tricycle which is like a tuk tuk but powered by a motorcycle with a little cabin on the back. Not as scary as the little egg things in Angeles.
The mall in town was fun. Thou I still want to explore of the weirdness, more of the culture. But that will come with the ceremony and the proceeding days with family. But still shop assistants keep asking me if I’m getting the jeans for one of the girls, then they are astonished when I try them on. I spend most of the time trying to entertain the locals. Just by being weird, polite and white. The way you shop here is different. You can’t just pick things off the shelves. Because everyone is so willing to help and possibly all have OCD. I can’t tell.
Anyway purple reverse able jeans scored, hypermarket energy drink achieved with bonus mouth wash. Level up to ignorant foreigner plus because I still can’t remember basic words. I’ll get there thou. We leave the mall to get Maricel a new cellphone. They fuck up the order and I’m standing on the street guarding the groceries for the wedding. Now sure this would work if I wasn’t so white. I think I was as confused looking as the locals wondering why I was loitering outside. Maybe they thought I was the new local drug dealer, I mean what kind of estranged white man would wear jeans outside. I got the flirt the death stare the suspicious glare, usually all at once, I know this must seem strange, but the Filipino’s can tell stories with their expressions. It’s true. I’m pretty sure a nod means 9 different things here.
Hotel bound again. We say goodbye to host mum and sister and get on a less terrifying journey back (I’m in the front this time). Time for a quick rum before siesta. Although, the siesta never happens. I just sit their watching fashion tv. Then I remembered that the house band was playing at seven. There was no way I was gonna miss that. Shower power, shave, new jeans on. Time to get some resemblance of drink on.
Now there is nothing better than a lounge house band by locals in a foreign country singing English songs. Especially not with rum and apple flavoured French fries. These unbelievably amazing crooners belt out classic tunes. Smile, yesterday, fly me to the moon and most unforgettably how deep is your love and sunshine of my life among others that I can’t remember the names of. It makes me grimace, turned on, turned off, tingly, and smile all at the same time. There’s two singers who alternate and a keyboardist who has a drum beat programmed to each song, maybe a bass line too, it’s hard to tell. Pure gold.
I was gonna make this a video, but it turned into this. I might make one later. Laziness and rum pending.
Peace love and crooning Filipinos!
I knew it wasn’t too long before I did something utterly fucking stupid. This ridiculous act of hilarity happened to take place in the Manila airport bathroom. After using the facilities I went to flush the toilet. Unfortunately I hadn’t yet seen the flusher and what I instead used was the bidet. To my absolute surprise I was squirted on by the infamous naughty porcelain beauty, right on my crutch, it was like something out of a back alley porn film. Luckily I’d pulled my shorts up, and I only put it on the low setting. I mean what’s the point in having a bidet and one of those awesome hose things. Looks like I got that shower after all!
The toilet guy was ever so nice as I think he saw me trying to mop up the floor with toilet paper, he probably thought I pissed myself!! Unfortunately I had no Filipino money on me so I gave him 1 Hong Kong dollar and 2 NZ dollars as a tip.
The flight to tacloban was reasonably uninteresting bar unnerving turbulence, and the complacency of almost all other passengers regarding precautions.
The arrival at Tacloban was probably the smoothest landing of them all. The airport was tiny and once all our luggage was off the turnstile, Maylen, Maricel and David all head to bathroom as I proceed to build luggage fort in the corner. We have a specific driver here called randy, who takes us through the chaos of official and unofficial taxi drivers to take us to the luxurious CRV. We accosted by begging kids. It’s incredibly hard not to give them anything. Their poor me faces and out stretched hands. I had no coins on me although even if I did there is no guarantee it’d actually go to them. Unfortunately it’s often their “job” to beg money for tourists on the street, and you never know if it will go to them. There are extreme cases across south east Asia where folk are either purposely disfigured or injured to be more likely to be given money out of pity. Incredibly unfortunate and sad.
We start to head to Kananga & Ormoc city and immediately you get a better glimpse of what life can be like here for the not so fortunate. Unlike the drive to Manila, where most of the journey is through vast countryside, here there are houses, shacks, sheds, businesses along the side of the road the entire journey ( which is about 3 hours, I managed to stay awake this time). There is the occasional rice or sugar field, river or uninhabitable terrain, but even then people will attempt to set up anywhere.
Occasionally you’ll see a massively beautiful white clean building hiding behind high walls or fences with fancy cars outside. Then it dawns on you that it’s a church, and that these are generally the only buildings apart from city centres that have decent architecture and safe building ethics while everyone else seems to live impoverished.
Along the way we stop off for drinks next to a world war 2 war memorial. This was the place in which one the biggest naval battles of ww2 happened to take place. The US were stationed here for a while and it was a massive win over the Japanese.
We drop off Maricel in Kananga where the family is from after passing the Newtown pharmacy. Yes the Newtown pharmacy. I’m gonna take a photo and buy something from there before I leave. I promise!! About half an hour later we arrive i
At the Sabin hotel resort which is beautiful. It’s also where the reception to the wedding will be. We quickly get our rooms together have a feed in the Mario’s restaurant and get a nap. Xcept I decided to have a look what TV had to offer and was pleasantly surprised at the adventure time blaring from the Screen. There’s a very out of tune piano here and also a drumkit. Hopefully I have the ability to utilise both before I leave.
The people here are beautiful and amazing, very kind natured, almost everyone here carries a sense of humour. I think me and dad might be the only white people in Ormoc city so we are looked upon with pleasure, curiosity, distain, smiles and indifference. Kinda like wearing a Native American headdress through Auckland on a unicycle handing out leaflets about the state of our democratic freedoms. Note. I must do this at some stage.
The telephone to my room screams in my ears and vibrates throughout my entire body before I realise what it is. The time is 4am and none of the me works yet. I pick up the phone, thank them politely for the courtesy call and fall directly back onto the pillow like a brick being chucked off a high riser.
Again, noise happens.
This time the warm toupad erupts but again I silence the evil noise and resume my slumber.
Fuck. It’s almost five and I should’ve really been up ages ago. Damn my auto pilot sleep pattern. Damn my inherent laziness and my fundamental calling to the dream palace. No shower for me then I guess.
I stumble around the room attempting to gather my belongings into specific luggage compartments, we have to be out of here in 8min & the monkey operating the cogs in my brain engine obviously pushed the snooze button too and had only just put the jug on. His excuse was that the human inside his head had also slept in. Like an inefficient infinite Russian doll complex of useless sentient night owls, procrastinators and non-morning entities all trying to get back to sleep. Luckily though, when travelling I’m not particularly messy so it was relatively easy todo in zombie mode.
The two hour ride from the Clarkton to Manila held some beautiful sunrises, a volcano, and intermittent sleep. I wanted to retain as much as I could from the foreign country side, but alas, the weight of my eyelids won the battle over my will to observe and understand this place.
Manila airport was reasonably fascinating. A no bomb joke sign, drug trafficker information, beautiful Seattle coffee that awarded me the ability to pen this very anecdote…
“Yes, the Bechdel Test. It’s named for Alison Bechdel, who is a comic book creator. The test is, are there two named women in the film? Do they talk to each other? And is it about something other than a man? I actually think the Bechdel Test is a little advanced for us sometimes. I have one called the Sexy Lamp Test, which is, if you can remove a female character from your plot and replace her with a sexy lamp and your story still works, you’re a hack.”—