"Dude, you can't be a statue. Even if you're all down and out, that's the least job you should ever get into" said my sister when I showed my ultimate restless mode during mass yesterday.

I can't be still. Something always gets in the way of repose: random thoughts, brow-raising recollections, posture problems (I keep on shifting weights on both legs) and er, my imaginary insects.

Don't you admire sentinels of historical places for their ability and patience to stand still even for hours and hours mindless of their busy and mobile environment? Why do they have to be still when they want to protect the place? It would be more appropriate to show activity and alertness at the very least.

Why am I even bothered about stillness? I mean, yeah sure, in this century of clicks and tricks, you can't be stationary. Even if you don't want to move, you will be moved. There is no such thing as a slow down road sign. There is no room for idle and still adjectives in our vocabulary. There is only movement, change, flux. Otherwise, death. And that is why we keep forgetting that once in awhile it is important to be still. You need to be still to have a closer look at Things. You need to be still to have a closer look at yourself.

The Fire Set

My sister and I have started to take the zip lessons. We are excited to play with fire. Ha! Just a teensy comment, they should really break the classes into the modules as per level. It’s really frustrating to see everyone twirling when you can’t even master a simple routine. Eight more weeks? Ugh, I have to gain more kerosene, I mean patience.

Instrumental

Booze is tasteless without music. Same thing, music without talk seems empty, seems instrumental. I mean seriously how many people go to an unadorned if not a hyped gig bringing some piece of commentary about what is being played if less than who is playing? Ugh, few. The wick of provocative conversations remains unlit. Yeah, sure a lot of people would insinuate that you don’t really have to talk when you are in a bar with pounding sound system that knocks the hell out of your eardrums but at least tads of ‘ear notes’ would do (whisper, oops, I mean more of yelling at someone’s ear while the music is in volume or cramming wise words during song intervals). In that way, the music being played blooms in maturity and we are ready to pluck its meaning.

Talkative Bunny

Ugh, there he goes. I’ve never met someone who would actually perk the mood up the way he did. You would find him annoying if you would not give him a chance to prove his point for being energized. But he is indeed an interesting character. I’ve never talked that much in my entire life. I have finally gained access to that particular pole of my personality.

Incendiary

That’s the word that I have learned from Almost Famous. Loquy (pronounced as low-key, taken from the word soliloquy) played at guijo last Saturday. I was invited by a friend who is, you know friends with the band (ugh. here I go again reviving my groupie antics). I am not really a fan per se. All I’ve heard from them was their released radio friendly song that had hit the airwaves one or two years ago. Yeah, that song inspired by Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. I’m not even sure of the title. I haven’t watched/heard them play live as well (of course, technically Kevin, Louie and that drummer of Wolfgang <forgot his name> are not inexperienced crowd pleasers). After hearing them play three to four originals, I have agreed with what my friend has said that their songs could be categorized as “mountain music”. Their lyrics encapsulate the nature in us. Just a digression: I was expecting a low key/subdued performance when my friend advised me it’s going to be quite heavy so it seems kind of strange because the line-up includes Kalayo (the new Pinikpikan) who are world music performers. Indeed the night was severely gratifying when Loquy played great classics from Led Zeppelin, DMB, Peppers and Jeff Buckley. He brought his Razorback trademark side of him. It’s funny he even made a side remark that he feels as if they are just playing/jamming at home. Moments such as these make you want not to go home, make you wanting for more and more.

Sunday Too Soon

When the clock strikes twelve I know it’s there: the dreaded day of the week. I feel like Cinderella with a heart in rush— as if my coach will actually turn into one big squash and everything else goes back to being imaginary.

Anino

Watching Ronnie Lazaro, I was reminded of those kids whose smiling faces I’ve captured, or as Raymond Red has put it, I’ve stolen. Maybe I could find time to return everything. Maybe I could still find them.

Un Secret

I am in love with Cecile de France.

Pre-Serbis

I didn’t realize too soon that genuine people of the arts could talk, giggle and even hum along to a boyband tune. All of a sudden, I feel like a stranger in this room.

Kinatay

Hear ye, hear ye! Thus the king has announced: CCP or UP on July.

“I want Filipinos to watch it in its entirety the way they showed it in Cannes.”

Post-Serbis

Coco Martin and even Ping Medina aren’t really sell-outs. Though they are visible in that show in a local channel with its confetti of praises due to high ratings, their acting prowess seemed to have hibernated in the mainstream compared to their respective roles in Serbis and Maximo Oliveros. Was it done in deliberation to preserve the holy indie waters?

Sleepwalk

Why did my feet have to walk in the same pace? Why did they bring me to this same place? Why this same heart race?

The act of leaving is far more depressing than staying. It requires motility. It requires space. It requires change. It must dispel habits. It needs renewal of deeds to make one self adaptable to the new setting. It is a new kind of beginning, perhaps ending. It is a whole new loneliness. But staying, being left behind requires less toil. It is too a miserable spot. But period requires no other space. The idea of settling gives a slender slice of solace.

The weather’s fickle. A student from my remedial class watched CNN the other night and reported to me that there would be sporadic rainfall within the summer season. I recently bought a piece of my favorite umbrella from the Japanese store. This time the blue one. I still have never thought of bringing it to school. Maybe some things are just meant for display satisfaction.

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My mother’s overtly paranoid about my schedule. Before leaving the house, she always asks me what time I would be coming home. I never should have told her about my Wednesdays. As if shift of religion is the answer to all of my problems.

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I like going to department stores on a weekday this summer. I am blissful to see kids shopping with their parents. As if weekends have never existed. I am just reminded of my own childhood summer: bargain of kiddie bathing suits, basking in the land of never-ending ice cream and beholding Barbie dolls and sorts.

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Friends have finally come out of their work-lair. I’ve been haphazardly signing up for summer plans. I should really check the calendar. I do not want to wrestle in this heat with hot-headed people. 

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If I could only hush the Facebook-conundrum. This is such a pity. I obviously must overcome this monotony.