IN THE END

 I hope when I die and all the stupid bad stuff comes out of me being narcissistic or selfish or aggressive or depressive or simply a bad person, I pray that my daughters will be wise enough to accept my imperfections and not let that define my legacy and the memories I have with them as a father.

May Art and Dylan not lean on any gray area because they know, in their hearts, that though their father is far from the ideal son or citizen or lover or even friend, he has done everything to be a good father — and that is enough.

I hope that they will understand that I was brought up in a trauma-bearing multicultural home with an absentee immature mom and a a patriarchal-thinking dad. Not that I am blaming my parents — it is what it is. They did their best. But I always wonder about the what-ifs.

I became so sensitive and angry and envious that I am what I am. I always needed validation.  I remember telling Dylan one time about my "pagtatampo" of her being not proud of me. Cringey. But I dont believe that parents shouldn't show weaknesses.

 Sometimes I wonder if being open was the right thing. But I know no other way.

I did my best when it comes to being a father. Yes, not economically. Yes, not distance-wise. I hope they still see all my efforts; how I am affected easily when it comes to my kids.

I hope they will defend my memory. Because nobody ever does. And nobody will. 

I love them both so much — art and dylan.

Both so different, both so unique.

Both came out from my flesh. I can see big pieces of myself in both of them. 

Dylan may be anxious (as I am) than the typical kid but she is naturally a kindhearted girl. She is born to lead. She adds magic to anything she touches. She knows what she wants. May she trust her instincts always and stand up for what she believes in, and avoid the pitfalls of pleasing anyone but herself - and her loved ones.

Art may be rowdy and hardheaded (as I am) but her search for uniqueness, her voice this early is astounding. She may crave attention, but I hope she realizes that she doesn't need it because her presence commands it without effort. Her lightheartedness can turn a dark room bright. May she learn to slow down and focus on her gifts and not take it for granted. May she have the fire to learn and learn more and not let ego get in the way.

I am sorry I wasn't that around and telephone calls can't ever replace the real thing. I try. Not enough, but I tried.

I love you.

***These letters are not addressed to anyone. But I hope it finds its ways to my kids when time is right.***

more than words

 Had an epiphany one weekend ago.

What makes me different as a lyricist is my love for words. Sure, songwriters will claim the same thing, but not as much as I do. 

I enjoy phrases and words used in movies. I pee over properly placed figures of speech. I don't care if it is too british or not used in the vernacular; if it sounded great, it will find its way to one of my songs.

This is also a curse. That is why people can't sing along easily. It is not as if these are deep jargons noone would understand. Listeners who claims to be music lovers do not like dissecting. They want words to be eaasily digestible. Think Lang Leav. Why is she more quoted than the witty lines of Frank O Hara? EXACTLY.

I helped Art rewrite her song last night. I find it cute that she is trying to find her voice. And somehow, now, she is listening to his geeky old man babble about the importante of a rhyme or why repetitive words is a no-no. I treasure times like these. These are a few of the instances I know I am doing well as a father — that I am needed.