Spotlight

Spotlight - Jennifer Hudson

About a week ago a fellow blogger and I chatted briefly over Yahoo Messenger. We were both taking a break from work (he, at the office, me, at home) and we were just chatting idly until the topic drifted to blogging. If I remember correctly, we were discussing another blogger who discontinued his blog (a good one, if I may so boldly declare) because of privacy issues. In a nutshell, he apparently wrote things in the blog that were not meant for a certain group of friends, who were able to read it, so he decided to just stop blogging (he has created a new blog, and we his fellow pink bloggers heaved a sigh of relief that he jumped back into blogging).

K asked me a number of questions, such as what my vision for my blog was, is, on how open am I with regards to the things I talk about, the extent of editing that I do with each post, etc. I was not surpised that a few days later he came with a post that dealt with this particular topic. I loved reading the post, because it was a refreshing departure to his blog’s usual flippant, bitchy, and frivolous (his exact words) tone. And more importantly, it made me think of the reasons why I persist on blogging. I mean, counting my first blog at Friendster, I’d been blogging for more than 2 years now. This can be extended further if my weekly email column in 2001 will be counted.

I told K that I see my blog as an extension of myself. The Zen Bitch is not my alter-ego, as compared to Mimi Kikimura (my drag name). The Zen Bitch is more like a nickname, bestowed upon me 12 years ago by an old friend (who by the way has not been friendly with me for reasons that escape me). This blog does not represent my hidden desires and longings. I might, from time to time, post stories that can be considered private. But since I decided to commit it to a medium that is accessible to anybody, it means I am at least, unlocking its lock of privacy.

Which brings me to the second point. How open am I with the things I write about it this blog? I cannot provide a quantifiable answer to this, I’m afraid. I mean, I write about things that I feel like writing about. I write about my life here in Phnom Penh, my work, my relationships with family, friends, lovers, and everything in between. I also write about my sex life. When a news story arouses some emotion in me, I write about it and give my opinion on the matter. Same goes for issues like the ineptitude of the Philippine government, the Catholic church’s bullying tactics on Reproductive Health advocates, the endemic social injustice here in Cambodia, etc. Did I mention that I write about my sex life, too?

One can say, this bitch is pretty much open, right? Well, yes, and no. As I told K, it would seem that my life is open like the pages of one’s most-loved book or like the legs of one’s favorite whore. But there are still many things about me that an average reader will not learn from just reading my blogs. When I write about the things that are happening to me, I usually write in broad strokes, focusing on the emotions of the experience rather than the nitty-gritty details. And when I write about other people, I usually use initials as much as possible.

But this ‘editorial’ decision did not happen right away. Reviewing my older posts, I realized that in the first months I was also trying to discover my tone for this blog. Heck, I even tried writing in Taglish (Tagalog-English) in some of the posts! In my experience, it was like a trial and error thing, trying out things to see if they fit, discarding those that didn’t and retaining the things that worked.

This is where editing was put to good and effective use. Usually, my posts are saved as drafts for at least 6 hours before they are published. This gives me enough time to review the post for typo errors and general cohesiveness. Some drafts are re-written entirely while some still are completely scrapped. If my readers notice, I always try to put a lead, a body, and a conclusion in every post. Sometimes I manage to do so, sometimes I don’t. This takes some more work, but I don’t mind, because this is my personal decision.

Also, I think it is important for a blogger to know for whom s/he is writing. In my case, I write for myself so I am largely unconcerned with what people might think about my blog. Because whatever they think of my blog, it cannot be about my person. Like I said, this blog is but an extension of myself; I am not my blog.

And I think this is the beauty of blogging. It puts a premium on individuality. Everyone can create a blog that is as personal as possible. And because this is so, everyone is in control of what s/he wants to share in this marvelous medium. The spotlight can be zoomed in for the closest scrutinizing look, or out for a wider view of things.

Over it

Over It - Katharine McPhee

As I grow older I realize that I am always compelled to re-examine my previous convictions and pronouncements. I think this started happening about 7 or 8 years ago. One of such convictions that was subjected to this re-examination (and subsequently scrapped) was my stance on becoming friends with my exes. Before this, I was staunchly against befriending a past lover. My reason was simple: it is impossible to ‘revert’ to being friends after a relationship is over if we were not friends first before we became lovers. Makes sense, right?

After breaking up with EX#1 (1994-1995) and EX#2 (1996), I made sure our paths wouldn’t cross. And I was successful.

But, like I said, this eventually changed, primarily because of EX#3 (1996-1998). After our relationship was finally concluded, he made extraordinary efforts to befriend me: maintaining communication with me and my family, seeing me regularly, hanging out with me, even introducing his dates to me. I found that I could manage these things. The only downside was the shameless flirtation that we engaged in whenever we were together, even in front of other people. And descending further, these flirtations almost always ended up with EX#3 and I having sex, which was–I have to admit, a tad better than our sex when we were together.

Of course, these post-affair sexual encounters proved to be pernicious in the end, and it almost cost our budding friendship. EX#3 and I are fine now, by the way; still good friends, even if we’re continents apart.

This experience has taught me that friendship with one’s ex is indeed a possibility. I started bumping into EX#1 in 1999, 5 years after we broke up. Each time we saw each other, I found myself flirting with him, and he flirting back. Once, while on a business trip in his home province, he invited me to stay a night in his house and I agreed. When I arrived at his nicely appointed home, we started flirting immediately. Fortunately nothing happened that night, because I also realized that I had no real desire to sleep with him again. I last saw him last in 2003, months before I left for Cambodia.

I saw EX#2 about 4 times from 2000 to 2002 and, like with EX#1, I also found myself flirting with him. I think it was because he looked better than when I first knew him. And, as in the case of EX#1, I realized I had no real desire to sleep with him again. I immediately stopped my flirting especially when I sensed that he was seriously getting turned on by my innuendoes. I last saw him in mid-2004.

Since we broke up in 2003, I haven’t seen EX#4 (2000-2003) other than seeing photos of his naked torso and cock in various gay social sites. He’s always been proud of his ‘endowment’ and I think he was also born with the porn-star gene, hence the streak of exhibitionism. I say only streak because in the photos he was very careful not to show his face. But I know his genitals very well: each vein, each fold of skin, up to each strand of pubic hair.

I didn’t see EX#5 (2004-2005) for almost a year after we broke up. But work-related circumstances forced a new contact. He was apologetic and sweet, and soon we were flirting with each other. Like with EX#3, this flirting led to sexual encounters. However, unlike with EX#3, EX#5 and I got back together for a return engagement (2006-2008). I saw EX#5 a couple of weeks ago, 8 months after our second (and hopefully last) break-up, on a work-related event. This time, however, I made sure that we’d be as far as possible from each other.

From the corner of my vision, I could see that he was attempting to throw me his limpid-eyed glances that used to reduce my legs and knees to the consistency of clarified butter. It was a good thing that the gesture didn’t work its previous effects on me. The effect probably got diffused by the distance it had to travel across the conference hall.

I remain open to the possibility of becoming friends with EX#5. But not just yet.

Ramblin’ rose

Ramblin’ Rose - Nat King Cole

I’ve been having a touch of the flu since yesterday. My nose was clogged, I was coughing mildly, and I had slight fever. I’m not sure though what’s keeping it from progressing to a full-blown flu. Fortunately, I have a lot of work to do in the coming weeks. I cannot afford to be sick.

I’ve also started writing a different post but decided to finish it at a later time. I was hit by the cosmo syndrome again. To the uninitiated, the cosmo syndrome is the need to take up psycho-pop quizzes, usually found in magazines (popularized by Cosmopolitan, hence the name) and, now, in many websites.

This latest quiz that I took is called the Dating Profile Quiz. I’m not sure whether I agree with the results or not. I just took it for lack of a better thing to do…

Take the Dating Profile Quiz at Would I Date You

Not the doctor

Not The Doctor - Alanis Morrisette

On a much lighter note, I found this yet-another quiz in a friend’s blog…

 The Zen Bitch Should Be a Doctor

What Should You Be When You Grow Up?

And, a realization (this test I found on my own)…

 The Zen Bitch’s Inner Gender is Female

What’s Your Inner Gender?

I guess, somehow, deep inside, I’ve known this all along… ilabas na ang scalpel! (bring out the scalpel!) hehehe!

Drinking again

Drinking Again - Dinah Washington

Dear One,

Everything starts with a promise. To eat healthy. To exercise regularly. To be honest. To be faithful. To quit smoking. To forget. To move on. To avoid alcohol consumption. To forgive. To be well. To be kinder. To be happy.

That is, until everything ends with an apology. For unkept promises. Unreturned affection. Unsent letters. Unsaid words. Undone deeds. Unfelt feelings.

I seriously thought I was over you. I mean, all the signs were there. I could hear your name, even mention it myself, without feeling a pinch in my heart, or in my throat. Looking at certain objects no longer cause a torrent of memories that used to flood my head. I could even smile when good memories of you drift into my consciousness like a stray breeze. I could look at other men without wondering about the ways they can possibly hurt me should I get involved with them.

I could smile at them and laugh with them and flirt back when they were flirting with me.

I believed it until I saw you last night. It was just for a moment. I’m not even sure if you saw me. I’m kind of hoping that you didn’t. But you did. I was told by our friends that you did.

I don’t even know what happened. I was fine. Was it the time? We used to see each other at that time of the evening– when I was finished with my work while you were just starting. Those evenings, when the streetlights would make your skin appear luminous against the quickly thickening darkness, flew by without me noticing. Hours with you then just seemed to run and flow like river-water over rocks.

Was it the weather? The rain has always bothered you so much you feel almost paralyzed when it catches you, even if you were indoors. I remember many rainy afternoons when you would make me abandon my office so we can lay in my bed to cuddle and talk softly, until desire or sleep catches up with us. Rainy evenings were most cruel, I think, to your small fear. The sound of raindrops falling on roofs bothered you most; you told me the sound reminded you of gunshots. I would hug you close so my embrace covered your ears. Let the sound of my heart calm you to a peaceful sleep.

Was it your smile? I barely saw it. I turned away the moment I saw the back of your head. I, however, know that by the shape of your jaw, that you were indeed smiling, even laughing probably with the person you were engaged in a conversation with. I remember how your smile can quickly melt all my resolve and determination. Your smile hesitates to show your row of little front teeth, even if I told you that I found them cute and adorable.

Was it your voice? I didn’t hear a word you said in the din of the gathering. Your voice, which can go as high as a child’s, especially in sensual pleasure, has never failed to draw me. It’s almost like gravity: unseen and impossible to resist.

So what was it then? Like I said, I don’t clearly know. I thought, believed in fact, that after almost a year I was over you. My friend told me I won’t feel the same way the next time I see you. Right now, however, this is the last thing I want to do. See you again.

So I accepted someone’s invitation to go out for drinks after the gathering. Let him guide me, first to a car, then to a bar, and then to a seat for two. I let him buy me one drink after another. I let him caress the inside of my arm. I allowed him to whisper things sibilantly in my ear. Let him squeeze my hips and knees. After a few drinks, I secretly hoped he’d turn into you so his assaults can feel bearable. But when he did (at least, in my mind’s eye), all I felt was this terrible sadness.

For I knew that I don’t have you anymore. To caress the inside of my arm. To wake me up in the middle of the night. To whisper silly things in my ear. To listen to my musings and apprehensions. To squeeze my hips in urgent ecstacy. To tell me things that no one else knows.

It’s over. And the sooner I accept this fact, the better off I’ll be. This I know. And no drink, no matter how potent and strong, can alter this reality. Despite this, however, I am drinking again.

Why do you affect me still?