Sunday, February 17, 2008

Almost Perfect

As chronicled by Glenn Ala at 11:19 AM
He was almost perfect.

But then he failed to mention one tiny detail: he was currently involved. The guy had a girlfriend.

The old me would have just shoved that detail into the nooks and crannies of my immaculately dirty mind, but that was then. Now, those things are part and parcel of any serious decision making that I do on matters of love.

Plus there's the matter of honesty. It wasn't as if we were both hiding our interest in each other. The conversation was heading toward exploring something together. Yet he did not think to mention he was involved until Piper/Eve (who so lovingly volunteered to drive me to Batangas to meet the guy - love you!) and I were all set to go.

Besides, I'm tired of introducing, baptizing, or welcoming "converts" into gaydom. Done with that.

I am so done with Valentines. It's one big joke.

(I hope this doesn't predispose me against mechado. Maybe one day I will write a song about this. Hmmm... mechado, the song. Has a nice ring to it.)

Well, enough said. I will leave you with something Piper/Eve said after hearing about this:

Bring out the drum and lyre band and let's shoot them all down!
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The Chronicler's Creed

Where there's water and sun, where there are friends to see or new people to meet, where there's something new to learn, experience, or do, where there's life, there I will be.

LA POESÍA

Y fue a esa edad... Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I do not know, I do not know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I do not know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

- An excerpt from LA POESÍA (Poetry) by Pablo Neruda