Ah yes. A familiar sting.

I keep saying to myself that one day, one time, one person, one life, I will not feel this sting anymore.

But I end up with the blood.

With the sharpness.

With the shame.

With the sadness.

It's always the same. Knowing that I'm the worst.

Knowing that I'm not. That it is just a voice that makes me feel this way. A voice I've heard since I was a child.

I'm sure it will get better. After all, I've been through this before. But at this time I feel a bit more clobbered than I have before as I didn't expect it, no, not nearly as much as I had before.

Oh well.


Tomorrow is another day.

Gil Scott-Heron

I just found out that Gil Scott-Heron has passed. I still occasionally listen to this and get chills at how powerful his words were.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

You will not be able to stay home, brother.

You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.

You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,

Skip out for beer during commercials,

Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox

In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.

The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon

blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John

Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat

hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the

Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie

Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.

The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.

The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.

The revolution will not make you look five pounds

thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May

pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,

or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.

NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32

or report from 29 districts.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

brothers in the instant replay.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

brothers in the instant replay.

There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being

run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.

There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy

Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and

Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving

For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville

Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and

women will not care if Dick finally gets down with

Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people

will be in the street looking for a brighter day.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock

news and no pictures of hairy armed women

liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.

The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,

Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom

Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message

bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.

You will not have to worry about a dove in your

bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.

The revolution will not go better with Coke.

The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.

The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,

will not be televised, will not be televised.

The revolution will be no re-run brothers;

The revolution will be live.

My Pilum is harder than Your Sternum

It's true. 

You may feel like you have the ultimate shield, covering your heart with bony armor; cold and encasing the sensitive organ from the frightening possibility. 

The possibility of exposure. 

Of warmth. 

Of pain. 

Pain which came before. Again and again with each man you cracked your ribs open to so he could gently kiss, he instead bit. Some with betrayal. Some with indifference. Some with lies. Every time with poison. 

So you carefully constructed your defenses; a ziggurat of bone and thorns. Impenetrable to everyone who tried to touch you again. 

But you haven't met me. 

I see the great treasure inside of the sealed walls and I know that I must convince you that I will not try to possess it or damage it, but to open it to my exposed self as well. To merge and create instead of pillaging and salting the earth of where it rests. 

So I take this javelin. Sharp in it's intent. Straight in it's determination. Balanced perfectly in it's truth. 

I stand tall

I draw my arm back

And I let my pilum fly

Shatter

Izakaiya

Beer

Savory meats on a stick

Couples chatting. Some of the men obviously trying to impress their dates. Some of the women not falling for their attempts at bullshit. Other couples enjoying the mood and the wrinkles in the corners of their love's eyes as they smile and laugh.






I notice an older man sitting by himself, enjoying his snack and observations of the younger people.


I notice that he sees the same thing I do when he spies me.

We both nod, take a sip of beer, and enjoy The Beatles as they play over the speakers.

A good night to smoothly let you know

"You are getting older"

Location:Geary Blvd,San Francisco,United States

Clean cut

Rick's is a barber shop on Geary that Juan Puente turned me on to. It's the kind of place that used to be ubiquitous, but is slowly disappearing: a place to get a good, basic men's haircut for a fair price.

Rick himself clips, cuts, edge shaves, and then shoulder massages you for $12. The place is incredibly minimalist; a fading hand-written sign stating the prices, 4 waiting chairs, 2 barber chairs, and an oldies station playing. There is always a few magazines and today's paper there, waiting to be lazily flipped through as you wait your turn.

There is an inherent, simple masculinity about Rick's. Occasional chatter in either English or Tagalog is heard, but it's very no-nonsense, and never loud.

I'm glad to have been shown a small oasis of an older time so close to where I live.

Location:Geary Blvd,San Francisco,United States

不思議

As you can see in this photo, the area I live near gets very foggy. It's part of the nature of San Francisco and one of the main pieces if nostalgia that I have in my memories that I can revisit not just by reminiscing, but by just taking a short drive (or a long walk) to the beach.

What I love about the fog is that it suddenly wraps everything in a veil of mystery, and forces you to heighten your senses. Suddenly things seem strangely brighter because every small piece of light reflects off of the fog, but it's more difficult to see things. Sounds seem to amplify. The cold and wet exaggerate the scent of the world.

The Japanese word for mysterious is "fushigi", and it's one that somehow pleases me in a way that makes no real sense, but I like it nonetheless.

This is my Fushigi City.

And I love it.

Location:Point Lobos Ave,San Francisco,United States

An exciting evening