I'm coming home.

It's Thursday night, my last day of work in Bahrain. I'm sitting in front of the Managing Director's desk, the boss, sitting right across of me, eyeing me sternly, even his glass eye, yes, demanding an explanation of my departure, me, fumbling nervously for the right words, simpler words that could somehow concretize the abstractions, and perhaps, the absurdity of my reasons for quitting the job that I was basically shackled to for about 7 months more.

It's a whole compendium of rationalities that has been stacked on and on from the first day I stepped into the workplace some 16 months back, see, and the guy is pressing them all out of me, again, as though we haven't sat through this already that day five months back when I first handed in my letter of resignation.

How do you explain burnout, emotional and psychological exhaustion, depression and inner emptiness to someone who does not even know basic business management principles, including human resource and fiscal upkeep, as reflected by the lack thereof in the company? It'll be pointless. There was my personal shit, which obviously only I could sort out. There was the company shit, the internal bickering, the hiring of totally unqualified persons - a slap on our professional qualifications, the shit of a pennyless company that overprices but have workers who haven't been paid for five months running already, and no cash for some things as basic as petrol for the vehicles and materials for projects. It'll be pointless.

I did utter some sort of explanations that I had to stop mid-sentence because the absurdity of it all just wouldn't stop tickling me, I ended up chuckling at every phrase, like the last time I prayed. It's all pointless.

We parted ways without closure. Think it over, he said. No, you think it over, I said. We'll talk again. I'll call you or you call me. He didn't. I wouldn't. And that's that.

I've made up my mind.

I had to leave or I'd forever be trapped. I had to leave as a matter of principle, a statement of my dissatisfaction, a protest, a walkout, if you must.

There's no time for proper goodbyes. There was little pending jobs, what's left, we were just finishing up. To fend off explanations, the official statement to clients was that I was going on vacation. It'll be easier this way.

I'm running away.

I'm coming home.


*** Even all of this is absurd. This is published late (but dated as it should be) because nobody at home knows of me coming home. Or of life in Bahrain. This was my doing, it'll be my undoing.

My Name is Sea

Because I've got nothing to say, but too much to say. Because the Maestro Pablo Neruda could say it way better.

Ode to the sea

Here surrounding the island,
There΄s sea.
But what sea?
It΄s always overflowing.
Says yes,
Then no,
Then no again,
And no,
Says yes
In blue
In sea spray
Raging,
Says no
And no again.
It can΄t be still.
It stammers
My name is sea.

It slaps the rocks
And when they aren΄t convinced,
Strokes them
And soaks them
And smothers them with kisses.

With seven green tongues
Of seven green dogs
Or seven green tigers
Or seven green seas,
Beating its chest,
Stammering its name,

Oh Sea,
This is your name.
Oh comrade ocean,
Don΄t waste time
Or water
Getting so upset
Help us instead.
We are meager fishermen,
Men from the shore
Who are hungry and cold
And you΄re our foe.
Don΄t beat so hard,
Don΄t shout so loud,
Open your green coffers,
Place gifts of silver in our hands.
Give us this day our daily fish.

---

Ralph Fiennes reads this fine in the Il Postino soundtrack. Text here. The music can be Googled, or Bingd if you may. Listening to the tracks at times gives me the 'daily fish' I need, sometimes.

♥ my twitter background

So I probably look stupid in the picture, but fuck it, it's cool, IMHO.

Speaking of twitter, I think it's this cool place where I feel safe to rattle off, mainly because I'm a nobody, amongst a vast ocean of strangers, some popular, extra-ordinary ones, but still strangers. So yeah, hail twitter!

And it's cool, too, that sometimes I get replies and mentions from really cool people like @jimparedes and @bryanboy. The closest thing I could get to celebrity meet-ups. So yeah, hail twitter!

What d'ya know, I'm baskin' in tropical sunshine right in my bedroom.

Or not.

I can't daydream. I'm incapable of that. It's just me, thinking. Thinking of the good things I'd do back home. That would retreating, of course. Like completely shutting myself off in a cocoon, like for a week, nay for a whole fucking month. I've done that. Now, I'm blabbering.

I'm going on because of that book Deaf Sentence by David Lodge. It's there, the title, if you could read, merely spelling it out for the keyword hits. Right. So I'm still like in its first twenty pages or so, and man, what a read, a linguistic delight, I'd say. It's that kind that you can't rush, you gotta mince the words, savor it. Which could be said less on the ice cream I'm having for lunch right there.

Toqar

What am I supposed to do? All these freaking questions. No answers. Is there ever an end to this? Am I going to wade into the shallow, muddy, murky pool of desolation forever and ever? Is this how's it gonna be? Is this it for me? I'm so freaking messed up when I'm not supposed to be. Any longer. I'm no freaking teenager anymore, am I? There's gotta be a point where all this throbbing palpitating constant pain would go away, fade out, stop. This is ridiculous. It ain't romantic anymore. It's stupid. The excuse of reckless abandon of youth is over. Like years ago. My time has past. And yet I still live as if I was sixteen. Seventeen. There's an expiration date to juvenile delinquency. To indecisions. Indifference. Indolence. It's gotta stop. I have gotta stop. But how? I can't. I can't let go. There's so much to hold on to. I must keep something for me. Some things. Or I'd carry on, but I'd burst, combust. Just like that. What the fuck am I even talking about? Oh yah, my future. Just my fucking future. What lies ahead for me, eh? What's looking up? Nothing. Nada. And so I hold on to this iota of hope, of this one tiny speck, a promise of happiness, or at least a taste of it. I mean, I deserve so much better. I want so much more. But I don't know what to do. I don't freaking know what to do. I've been doing stuff. Little stuff. But what more have I got to do?

Bahrain National Museum

From June of last year. I'd have to come back one day. This was for work and doesn't count. Here with my boss, he's local and 50-ish and it's his first time here. Whoot! Glad I've set foot on ours (Museong Pambansa) when I was like 16. Encounter with Spoliarium was awesome. Would have to go back there too, one day!

I wrote this for you.

I've always wished that I did this blog, I Wrote This For You. No erase that. I wish XXXX did write it for me. But apparently, from someone, somewhere:

I Wrote This For You is written by two lovers who respond to each other only through the blog as a way to hide their romance. Collectively, they refer to themselves as Iain Thomas, a character based on a friend they met while traveling in Africa, although sometimes they also refer to themselves as Jon Ellis, whom, it is assumed, is also a character based on a friend.

This was revealed in phone-in television interview on National Singaporean Television in December of 2009.

What then? It's never written for me, that's for sure.

Watch out for Mr. Postman, 'Nor!

Sending one back at my sister in UK. And a postcard for my Philippine-based self, too!

Snail mail is fun. I'm thinking of getting people's postal addresses and send them postcards from Bahrain and stuff. It'll be a nice surprise I guess. And I'm feeling the vibe, like saying hi from out of the blue. Should be fun.

Email/PM/Text me your postal address, will you?

Mamma Mia!

Kang Mama kining adlawa.

I got moles in my soles. I got Chuck Taylors.

These Chuck Taylor's are made for walking
Running
Loafing
Jumping
Partying
Living
What the fuck am I still here for?

Scott...

Puntod Island, Panglao, Bohol. 5th August 2007. This was the first amongst our gang's many adventures with Scott Graham (9/10/1979 - 1/31/2010).

It's been a pleasure to have known you, rock star.

---


P.S. Reflections, Ruminations

I'm not sure if I was allowed to grieve, or that there's supposed to be a way to do so, being who that I am, you know, only this much, and this way for you, and this for them. I dunno. This is weird. It's a weird feeling because it's the first time I've lost someone in my circle of friends, our age, barkada, just like that, so abrupt, so sudden, so unnecessary?

I mean, I've had other deaths, or I mean parting of people close to me, my grandparents, they were dear, it's cruel to say there's was expected but they were at a certain age that neared the end of the tunnel, they had their time, and it was well-lived, there was some sort of ailment involved, and so there was a process, more or less, there was some sort of preparation, for us and mostly for them.

I dunno, I can't really rationalize everything. All I know is that this is different. Same pain, same sadness but probably more muted, numbing, because I didn't know what to do. I couldn't cry, tears wouldn't come out. Actually, I didn't want to cry. I felt that it wasn't right to.

And so my thoughts flew all over the place. For instance, that Bohol, my beloved paradise home, Mt. Padhan, that ethereal Mt. Padhan, is where Scott's earthly adventures end. Earthly, for we know what they say about death, that it's "an awfully big adventure." I remember his last tweet, Scott's, that he lost his faith in the Phili or something, he got pickpocketed or robbed or something. And now, I'm thinking, that's my mother country, I'll never lose faith in it, not even if it's a paradise that also takes lives because it, most of all, is a wellspring of life and more.