Countdown to Saturday (Updated until D-Day) February 15, 2011Posted by Richard Bolisay in Music, Whatever.
2/15 11:22 A.M. Finished a book on the train. Tried not to worry about getting late for work. Played my iPod. Funny how Pablo Honey always makes me laugh. As in laugh ha ha ha. Got off the train and got on the bus. I’ve been thinking about you, so how can you sleep? Those lines were so five years ago. I used to sing them in my sleep. Was trying to write a story in my head and memorize it so that when I arrive at the office later I could type it. It went: You could say our relationship started and ended because of Radiohead. But that line seemed a deadend. I didn’t know what would come after that. Then my tummy felt weird. Then I no longer thought this was necessary. /unfinished
2/15 11:41 A.M. “Today is the first day of the rest of your days. So lighten up, squirt.” Please Could You Stop The Noise, Live 1995-1997.
2/15 4:31 P.M. Stuck. Can’t concentrate on work, hence my mind flies. Here comes a drifting memory: “The club is not red. It’s pale, it’s close to a tint of red but not strong enough to start a revolution, or to deserve a space in a national flag, or to stop knives from bleeding. Life in a glasshouse, sort of.”
2/16 12:48 P.M. “I felt shame—I see this clearly, now—at the instinctive recognition in myself of an awful enfeebling fatalism, a sense that the great outcomes were but randomly connected to our endeavors, that life was beyond mending, that love was loss, that nothing worth saying was sayable, that dullness was general, that disintegration was irresistible. I felt shame because it was me, not terror, she was fleeing.” – Netherland, Joseph O’Neill
2/16 3:12 P.M. LOLZ WHO DOESN’T LOVE THE INTERNETZ? IS HE DANCING TO “BORN THIS WAY”?
2/18 2:51 P.M. What’s painful is that the things I remember are the things I’d rather forget. The time when we saw each other after class and you gave me a brown paperbag with a Nutella sandwich inside, specially prepared for me, since my lankiness had inspired you to shove some food down my throat every time we met, which I looked forward to every day, of course, free food and warm embrace. The endless walks around Sunken Garden and the relentless conversations on books and music. The euphoria of finishing a Murakami. The pain of the upcoming weekend. The madness of petty arguments. The time when we sent text messages to each other from 9 P.M. until 4 A.M., back when, thanks to Globe Unlimited, it’s still cool to text to death. The silly status messages on YM we came up with, culled from song lyrics we thought to be cool: hysterical and useless, blame it on the black star, pop is dead, for a minute there I lost myself. The exchange of links to whatever Thom has done and is doing. The many movies we watched together—I’m too poor to treat you—particularly when we saw Syndromes and a Century at Cinemanila and you asked what it meant, straight-faced and sarcastic, me almost asking for forgiveness, but thought better of it because I loved it. Your marathon of Infernal Affairs, my DVD, and then we watched The Departed, which we neither loved nor hated. My visit to your house to shoot my thesis, when, that night, we slept beside each other, not cuddling but still sweet, while your father was in the other room, me always the harmless creature, never touched anyone or anything, and your father whom I had a funny time talking with the following morning, sharing his life with a stranger, the same way my own father shared with other people. I think I used to gloat then that I discovered Radiohead way earlier than you did, way before you saw a performance of Marty Casey singing Creep on Rockstar INXS, way before you bought all the physical albums including the vinyl of In Rainbows. The truth of me getting ahead, of course, is something you won’t admit, pride was always between us, but I’m content with the fact that you exceeded my love for them, that you love them better than I do now. Because that’s the only thing I can give, the only fragment of myself I want you to keep, wishing you happiness, in which I, a poor and pathetic lover, always giving in to the lamest pleasures, shall surrender to foolishness and stop writing about you, hands up, pen down.
2/19 10:32 P.M. HOW TO DIE COMPLETELY THOM LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE I JUST REACHED MY 127TH ORGASM OF THE DAYZZZ
2/19 11:34 P.M. This is it. On my iPod. Shaking like crazy. Off to Baguio in a few. I hope I don’t throw a mad fit on the road. /end