The Red Knight

What is a beso-beso? It’s a Filipino word, and it’s one of our ways to greet (and I don’t know if people from other countries do that). It’s like kissing, but instead of lips-to-lips it is cheek-to-cheek, and as such is more casual than romantic. So when people ask you to give them a beso-beso, they’re less likely to mean that they want to sleep with you than when they ask you to kiss them.

So if anyone here didn’t know what beso-beso is then I hope you keep what I just mentioned in mind. Remember this, verbatim: cheek-to-cheek, nothing oral.

I sure wish that the Nightdreamer from two hours ago could hear anything I say here. See, a while ago I was just about to part ways with this woman I watched The Dark Knight with (great movie, btw) when she moved her right cheek towards me and asked for a beso-beso. And after I gave her what I thought was a beso-beso she laughed, “Hah, Nightdreamer, beso-beso! You kissed my cheek!”

I vaguely understood what she meant but I could already start feeling an embarrassment like that of a person who dived to a moshpit, only to fall to the ground. Nervously, I asked, “Huh? Did I do it wrong?”

She replied, “Well, sheesh, cheek-to-cheek, man!”

Wow. Like, my legs just got uncontrollaby wobbly there. And as if it wasn’t bad enough that I knew nil about beso-beso, my reaction was even stupider! After throwing what seemed like perpetual apologies, I added, “maybe next time you oughta teach me how to do a beso-beso.” Then I asked myself just what the hell I meant by saying that, because I sounded more flirtatious than genuinely needing to be corrected!

I’m actually worried because I might’ve offended her. I asked her out because I hadn’t spoken with her for a long time and I just wanted to get in touch with her (and other classmates from high school or college) again. I wanted to have a deeper understanding of her because I like her personality a lot; but then I also wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t trying to flirt with her because she kind of thinks that I was. You probably wouldn’t believe me either, grinning while hooting, “Wow Nightdreamer, you got smooth moves, you smooth operator!” Well, shut up! I am honest when I say that I am not flirting with her. So why did I have to screw up the first day since 2 years that we met? All I did was made myself more easily misunderstood, and that’s just great, because I may have ruined the chance of making her agree to see movies with me again! Worst of all, I can’t even explain things to her, because I will only sound more stupid!

Good grief, I don’t know what to do! I kissed a woman who wanted a cheek-to-cheek! Please gimme a paper bag so I can hide my shamefaced face in it.

Cast My Fate to the Wind

Blue in Green (Miles Davis)

June 1, 2007

She was pretty cool to me before, and I was happy because I felt like we were beginning a beautiful friendship. But then post-vacation, after the time we were at each other’s presence, she refuses to talk to me. She didn’t answer when I sent her text messages and when I tried to call her. It was just very strange. While this may read as if I was being too persistent, I actually wasn’t. I’ve only tried to contact her thrice, and all I was trying to do was to thank her for her hospitality.

January 2, 2008

I came to the office today a tad earlier than usual. A new organizer sat atop my desk. It was left there by a girl I used to have a huge crush on (I was out of work the previous 2 weeks, so I didn’t see her when she came to visit). Why did she have to leave an organizer on my desk anyway? Such a painful reminder of her. If she wants me to remember her, couldn’t she just phone me and say, "I have something to give you let’s meet up somewhere"? Yeah, me and my silly fantasies.

So… thinking of this girl made me feel miserable. How could she be so friendly with me during the vacation days, and then treat me like I was a phantom after that? I was bothered by this for several months, because it’s not the first time I’ve met such kind of person, and I’m certainly not the only one who’s ever been "befriended" by those who do it only because I was a convenient way to shake off boredom. At modern times - or maybe just in an adult’s life - this happens a lot. Overnight friendships. One night stands. Something about how ephemeral all the warmth of such companionship never fails to depress me.

January 15, 2008

Sometimes the funniest things happen in my life. I was just complaining about how unexciting my life was when this happened: I saw that girl again.

We recognized each other, and she greeted me with the same hospitality that I recall was her characteristic. So we spoke to each other a bit. You know, the typical "comment allez vous" stuff. I really should write "how are you" instead but since I just ate French bread, I was still feeling a tad French-y. She recalled coming to my office two weeks ago and leaving a gift on my table, and she wondered if I had received it. I said I did. I never told her that I did not throw it away, nor did I tell her that I had been mad about at her. I do hope that she hadn’t read my blog. But I’m going off-tangent so, back to us. It was a conversation of two people treating each other professionally, meaning we’re pretending to like each other more than we really do. Or, at least I don’t like her as much as I appeared. I hope she likes me though.

She also said she’s being transferred to another department. She will now accommodate Makati clients instead of the Ortigas ones, although I could still contact her if I wanted to. Why, guess what, girl, pfft! I’M GLAD TO HEAR THAT YOU’RE BEING TRANSFERRED! Guess I won’t be seeing you again now that I won’t even try to contact you so out of my life you go mwuahahaha can I ask you out some time?!

May 19, 2008

Woman, you ought to know how annoyed I was when I heard that you’re coming here at an unspecified time tomorrow. I was neck deep into finishing the job assigned to me, you see, when that announcement was made and it disrupted all my train of thoughts. I spent the rest of the day fumbling about, not convinced that I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, although somehow I made it home without being carried by stretchers.

May 20, 2008

Despite saying too often about how much I don’t like being reminded of you, the rest of me are more fond of you than my words would admit. They like you so much, that I need not see you to know you’re already here. I can sense you from the way you speak, that unmistakable Ilonggo-accented Filipino words being muttered like the way a saxophone could play any notes beautifully. My brain suspends thinking about all mundane things they pass off as logic when you’re present. Every time you giggle the sound of it reverberates inside my ears for hours as if I need to let marinate every nuances of it. You look like a splotch of colors in the middle of an unused canvas that begs to be painted. 

Did you notice, the moment you held my elbow, that I was incapable of talking, incapable of thinking straight besides wishing that this moment lasted longer? Did you count how many times I said something very random and how I would get embarrassed after that? Did you realize how frustrated I was that I only have to remember 5 minutes of the span of time we talked because that was how long it lasted, because the world had set to expedite this meeting? Why did you have to leave so soon? 

I wrote too often about my reluctance of seeing you again. Today I realized that these words were flatulence, and that I was a fool all along for not being honest with my feelings. Truth is, I was indescribably glad I saw you last Monday, even if I didn’t know if the smile you gave me meant anything, because that smile could’ve been just a fake bankteller one. But that didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter that I knew nil about you. The time you got on that cab, and as I watch it drove farther until you were merely a dot, I felt a sense of loss, a loss of vibrancy in my already dreary life. It only proved one thing that I was all along too hesitant to admit: I felt strongly about you.

I have taken everything in. And that’s why I’m letting everything go.

If you’ve been reading my blog and have been aware of this love-and-hate dilemma I trouble myself with whenever I think of you, know that I have let go of the hating and I will no longer hold you accountable for whatever anger and sadness I have felt in the past. That is all you need to know, and I can accept whatever that happens, even if it means never seeing you again. Sure, I still want to know you better, and if I can meet with you again I would feel terrific. But if that never happens, I’ll be fine, and will still be cheering on you from afar. Because, like how Toni Morrison said it, sometimes, seeing your kind of beauty is enough. I don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. I don’t need to write about it or even have someone to share it with. I just let go, because I can.

You Gave Me the Mood Indigo

There’s this bit about Truman Capote that never ceases to amaze me. According to him, he can remember 94% of his conversations with anyone. And while I can only wish to share his genius, his superb writing skills, and his ability to document about killers in non-judgmental way (see: In Cold Blood), today I can gloat about being able to remember more than 94 percent of the conversations I had. 

Because it was you who I was talking to. 

Despite having said too often how much I don’t like being reminded of you, the rest of me are more fond of you than my words would admit. They like you so much, that I need not see you to know you’re already here. I can sense you from the way you speak, that unmistakable Ilonggo-accented Filipino words being muttered like the way a saxophone could play any notes beautifully. My brain suspends thinking about all mundane things they pass off as logic when you’re present. Every time you giggle the sound of it reverberates inside my ears for hours as if I need to let marinate every nuances of it. You look like a splotch of colors in the middle of an unused canvas that begs to be painted. 

So you did not come wearing that white clothes after all. So it was red. So you made it apparent that the color of my cheeks was trying to compete with that red polo shirt you’re wearing every time you say something too cute. Did you notice, the moment you held my elbow, that I was incapable of talking, incapable of thinking straight besides wishing that this moment lasted longer? Did you count how many times I said something very random and how I would get embarrassed after that? Did you realize how frustrated I was that I only have to remember 5 minutes of the span of time we talked because that was how long it lasted, because the world had set to expedite this meeting? Why did you have to leave so soon? 

But you said you might come back tomorrow. I can tell you this much: I was at the edge of my seat this entire day, probably anxious, probably too fearful, probably could not feel the ground no matter how hard I stepped. Yet if pressed to say whether or not I want you to come back tomorrow, I’m sure you know how I feel. I’m sure you know that remembering the things we talked about in five minutes is less than satisfying to me. I’m sure you know how much I cursed the taxi for arriving too soon. I’m sure you know I’d like to spend more time with you, if only to test how long I can sustain remembering 94% of what you say. Maybe if our conversation went for hours, I’d still prove to be better than Capote in that regard, but I’d still not be satisfied. 

Isn’t that right, woman?

Heart of Mine, Be Still

Remember (Hank Mobley)

Woman, you ought to know how annoyed I was when I heard that you’re coming here at an unspecified time tomorrow. I was neck deep into finishing the job assigned to me, you see, when that announcement was made and it disrupted all my train of thoughts. I spent the rest of the day fumbling about, not convinced that I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, although somehow I made it home without being carried by stretchers.

But let’s talk about you. I resent that despite my insistence to not think much of you anymore so I can let go of bitter memories, you are some of the things that have clung to my recent musings like barnacles to barge. What irritate me more about you are why I become so invigorated whenever I wonder about you, why I keep thinking with certain fondness of all the possibilities of the day when you’ll come comes, and why I keep recalling the way you promenade gracefully and the way your smile makes me delirious like I wouldn’t believe. We’re not close. We haven’t spoken for months, and days of your absence haven’t exactly been reassuring to me that you think much of me as I do you. So what’s going on, then? Why the uncertainty, mixed with resentment, then hopefulness and anticipation?

I have a request for you, woman. Don’t try to act cute by wearing that diaphanous white clothing that I saw you wearing a year ago. I try to avoid talking to people about what my muse looks like, after all.

My Encounter with Rabid Paolo Coelho Fangirls

A while back, I went to my favorite bookstore so that I could vacillate about whether to buy a certain book or not. It’s easy to find where I am when I’m at this particular bookstore – if I’m not browsing the classics’ corner, then you’d find me at sci-fi’s; and if not, then children’s, philosophy’s, art’s or comic’s.

So anyway, I was skimming the first few pages of some books, when a bunch of giggling and attractive women walked briskly to my direction. Deluded into thinking they’re giddy by the chance of their lifetime to finally speak with me, I hand-brushed my hair a little and ahem’d as if to make my voice baritone-ish. It was a few seconds later when I realized just how foolish I was acting, as I saw them actually dashing to the books they wanted to buy, as if these books will disappear if not immediately attended to. These books were next to me.

“Okay, fine,” I thought, “I can still strike a conversation with them if they start asking aloud for recommendations.”

But I merely have to overhear small parts of their yapping, to realize that they’re determined to buy only one author’s books, and I can’t recommend any of his books at all. And of course it was Paolo Coelho’s, whose books seem to be regarded as the must-read for every caffeine-consuming and coke-sniffing college undergrad. I was flummoxed by what these books were doing near me. I suppose it’s at this point when I should tell you that the bookshelf where they’re located at were filled with heavy classic texts, like novels by Chinua Achebe, Margaret Atwood, Albert Camus, Anthony Burgess, Truman Capote, Jack Kerouac and Milan Kundera. I’m trying not to sound snobbish here, but I’ve never heard of anyone reading Paolo Coelho, and saying “Oh, his books remind me of The Fall, In Cold Blood and A Clockwork Orange”. And really, the titles of the books should be enough to tell you the tones of their contents are so far removed from The Alchemist, that the bookstore might as well put Harry Potter besides Fight Club!

So what of the girls? Well, as I said, they’re very attractive, but they also sounded like the most empty-headed valleyspeak-tongued ditz. So this first girl who was light-skinned, had long straight hair, wore high-heels, had great legs and smelled like Dandelions, said “Oh my God, Paolo Coelho! Did you know ba that I so like reading his books noh? I feel so saya whenever I finish his works! Grabe, he’s so classic!” Uh, compared to the books beside Coelho’s? Even at the more modern contemporary-corner shelf next to them - where I was - was teeming with Chuck Palahniuk, Haruki Murakami, and Orhan Pamuk, all authors who wrote intelligent stuff that actually criticized the society and had any urgency. Where are the intelligence and the urgency on any of Coelho’s work, like The Alchemist, Veronika Decides to Fly, and By The River Pasig I Sat Down and Puked?

The second girl who was bespectacled, beige-skinned, and sporting a Lisa Loeb look, wistfully remarked, “Alam mo, I really love to read short stories. What kaya kuya Coelho book has them?” (KUYA COELHO?!) Uh, there’s a Truman Capote collection above you, a Portable Jack Kerouac below you, a Margaret Atwood collection above you, and even after the quake beside you, and you choose Paolo Coelho? The third girl seemed to be the only one who doesn’t like Paolo Coelho. It’s too bad, though, when she said, “I don’t read books eh, they’re so nakakatamad”. Now that’s the most depressing. I’d choose someone who reads Coelho to someone who completely doesn’t read.

And not to propagate a stereotype or anything, but the girl who didn’t read was the boobiest. Her breasts were so big they could hold a book! Holy mothers! Anyway, you know where Paolo Coelho’s books should belong? Next to The Secret and Dianetics! And, yeah, way to dodge a topic, Nightdreamer!

I left the bookstore with Choke chucked inside my bag, and with more chips on my shoulders.

I’m Hopelessly Clueless

So I was at the coffee shop last Friday, and at the next seat and facing me was this pretty girl. So she was alone for a long time, and so was I. And she seemed to be just looking around. So there was me, that was Nightdreamer, and I could hear my chest pumping louder than the coffee blenders of this shop. What did I do? I freaking wrote about her! I wrote about how she had a laughter that my memory would associate as the sound of euphoria. I wrote about how her smile felt like the kind of unrestrained grinning I get when I feel good about my achievements (of which there aren’t many). I wrote about all those cheesy poetry crap that wouldn’t be very out of place when sung by glib musicians trying to pander to teenage girls. You know, these were really productive as opposed to taking initiative and attempting to talk to her.

And then a while ago I got on a bus, and then this pretty lady also got on a bus. So she was wearing a really low cut top. So there was me, that was Nightdreamer, and I can’t decide what was worse: my limited grasp of fashion terminologies, or my tendency to give my eyes secret detours to her… her eyes! We even had eye contact once, and all the time we were shoulder-to-shoulder. And for some reasons she looked at my direction so much I became self-conscious. What did I do? Why, I watched the TV and laughed wryly about this poor kid who was wishing for the president to do something to our country’s education. Because, it’s so important that I evoke a wiseass image! Oh dear!

People who have only been with me in my college days will say "preposterous" after hearing this, but I’m very shy around women. And you know what’s funny? I didn’t use to be like this. I used to be confident, and I wouldn’t hesitate to approach those gorgeous women who are coming down along the road, just to say hi. So I really don’t know why I’ve become so shy around women ever since I’ve graduated. It is true. It’s like after I’ve removed my toga, I’ve also left behind my extroverted self, and have become introverted since then. And this was almost three years ago. Right now, I’m utterly clueless when it comes to trying to open up to one hot mamma that happens to be around the area.

I mean, how exactly do I introduce myself to someone that I find attractive, in ways that would make her remember me, and with her having a lasting positive impressions of me? I’ve always bothered myself with those questions, by my, perhaps, naive notion of if I am to know a girl that girl should definitely keep in touch with me, as opposed to us just delighting in each other’s company today, and then forgetting each other tomorrow. So, idealistic expectations aside, I really want to know how to do the things cool guys can do to last long in the conscious part of a woman’s mind. How do I start? Do I ask something so arbitrary as "do you have a blog?" and then follow that with "I have one, and it’s the Nightdreamer, and it’s sort of cool when the author puts some effort on his writing (not true in this post), and the author also sorts of dig you". Or what? Help!