Missing Art

 Just got in my transient room 15 minutes ago. Was with my kids in this tribute gig for The Strokes and Arctic Monkeys. 

Music. That is what will make young. That is one connection with my kids. Their mom may be a painter and now more popular, but I hope they know that the restless spirit to express comes from me. I hope they know. I hope they are thankful.

I feel Art getting farther from me. But I am taming my reactions as it may be just an aftershock of puberty. I just miss her clinginess.

Her little body trying to guard the gate so I won't leave for Manila.

Her choosing to join me in hotel accooms to sleep beside me during getaways and gigs. 

Her not wanting to put my forgotten shirt in the laundry because she misses and loves my scent. 

Now I feel like I am trying hard to earn a spot on her life. 

I just hope she can see the value I place in fatherhood. 

I know I am away. I know I am far. Just want to feel that my kids can feel proud of what I offer as a person and as a father. 

I hope. 

On a Bus to Manila

 I notice I am still afraid to be alone with my thoughts. 

Now that I am in a bus, I feel vulnerable. Nowhere to go. Numbing my fear with stand-up specials. What if my CP's battery gets drained? I feel like crying. 

That narcissist really did a number on me.

 Worst part is I let her. I know I have nothing to gain. Can't really be free. Still alone. Can't even brag about her or I'll look like a fool. Nowhere to go. Yet I stayed, just in hope that we will recapture the spark. 

I feel like I grew older by like 10 years instead of 3. And though I have the confidence, I admit fearing that I will never be happy with someone for the rest of my life. 

Sob Fest 2024

 I watch Jesus movies and open the bible app to trigger a sob fest. I do need it when I feel like I am so lonely, I have no direction, and I am going to explode. At least I can rely on faith that someone up there is taking care of me.

Care. I need that.

The alternative would be talking to my kids, but that has a running time of one hour til I became a blabbermouth without anything exciting to say. 

I miss what I had with Mary. 

The comfort. The solitude. 

The boringness of having a plan to stay indoors. To be with someone I can be comfortable with, even showing my imperfections without the worry of being condemned.

I miss being loved wholeheartedly. 

I miss being someone worthy to be loved.

Because of this emptiness, I am always secondguessing my identity and legacy. 

It has been 4 years and I have not regain my confidence back in who I am and what I offer in art. 

I wish I can be better.

I am tired of being a patient.

Redemption?

 Thinking of killing myself again. 

Think about it: a narcissistic man killing himself out of spite for himself.

I am crying at my own imaginary funeral.

Who will miss me? 

Who will take care of my cats?

What will Dylan and Art say?

Who will talk shit?

Who will recognize all my efforts, my art?

What will the ex-wife think?

Where should I be buried? 

Does it even matter?

I have been forcing myself to lock up these earducts ever since that fight with Gracel, seeing Guillermo struggling for his life, and feeling guilty for counting the money I am paying for my pet's vet bills.

I thought I found a way out but I am nowhere near redemption. 

I have been thinking again of killing myself. 

Losing my kids. Losing myself.

 I fear of losing my part of being a father.

I fear the memory of me in their minds slipping away.

I am just a holiday fixture. Another endorphin rush.

And to think that I am convinced that this is the only job I am doing right. Why do I feel like a fraud?

I really hope I am just imagining things, but I hope they still can see the value of us staying together once in a while.

I appreciate tbe mundane things. 

A story post. A surprise photo. A proud note.

Never felt that coming from my kids lately. I know I should let them be, but I have noone else to remind them how these things are important.

They don't know how I am breaking down in a transient home somewhere in alternate road alone, thinking that they would consider guy more special to them than me. 

I worry. I worry. 

My God, I am crying and worrying. I don't want to lose my only role in their lives.

I hope this changes when we come home to Iriga. 

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. I just don't know if showing vulnerability did any good to our relationship.

 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 them, 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 get giddy 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 easily 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 in the same verse is a no-no, unless for and only for emphasis. 

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.