Since I'll only be awake for another three hours (in keeping with my 7am to 7pm sleeping scheduel), I might as well post something semi-meaningful.

Lately, I've been thinking about all the resources parents have to muster (monetary and otherwise) to raise children. You can blame the misanthrope for not liking people in general, but the need to have a next generation is an urge that I lack.

Moreso, I wonder why nearly millions of dollars are spent on something as fragile as a human life. One could argue that it's built in our genes; in order to propagate the species, we have to WANT to have children... But I've seen so many parents (especially in this do-it-yourself nation of America), upon their offspring's 18th birthday, give their kids $50, open the door and say "out." Perhaps they only fulfilled a legal obligation instead of an intrinsic one in caring for someone until "adulthood" before swinging the machete of consummatum est on any familial ties with their children.

Maybe the urge to propagate (which is different from procreating, since that only involves the messy and enjoyable act of ejaculating into a cup/turkey baster) was not strong enough for those parents to ensure that their genes are carried on in the next generation.

In fact, that may be the answer to the need to spawn: immortality. The actions of one individual in a world of over 6 billion is small, and with the inevitability of death upon our short lives people rely on the memories of their fellow men to remind them that yes, they too existed once. The only way to continue living beyond death (that we know concretely of) is to create proof of one's existence through a legacy, be it monuments, nations, histories, or children.

And since so few aspire to greatness (let alone achieve it), creating someone whose genes will perpetually remind them of where they came from is the easiest of choices. Need proof? Look at the numerous cultures (especially in Asia) whose central spiritual belief lies in ancestor worship. What better way to become immortal than by becoming a god?

(Hey, if the Egyptians managed it... and they even built time-resistant monuments to boot.)

...

I ask these questions not only to observe what can be called an ethical flaw in my thinking, but to justify my own existence. Why have I been brought into this world, why have my parents spent so much of their resources to build me into this imperfect being when I would've sooner put a cavity through my head?

My existence, from this stand point, is merely an inconvenience. The supposed joy I bring others is lost on me because I don't want to be an inconvenience. And if living to consume is as nonproductive as I know it is...

But would I really waste the investment my parents placed in me for delusions of inadequacy?

Let's just say that you know you've been raised Catholic when you parents can guilt you out of suicide.

Want to see what I've been busying myself with these past few nights?

sketch1.gif
sketch2.gif
sketch3.gif
sketch4.gif

(For a change, it's not all that explicit.)

(Well, I didn't scan in the bondage hobbits...)

(...what? Told you I was bored.)

It's the inauguration of the new president of the Philippines.

Which means the family is huddled around the big screen TV watching TFC for all the coverage.

You can find me huddled in the corner with the computer and the headphones on full volume.

Ye gods, why does this happen to me?

I spend an awesome night with Taylor and friends (caught up with JR, an old acquaintance of mine and DJ's from middleschool) and got an amazing new CD.

Eastcoast Tyler IM's me after nearly a year of non-communication, and we get along as easily as if we'd never broken contact. And I had a lengthy conversation with Rocky about stuff.

Then I open my email and find a message from the res guy at MICA... except I get the email five days late. And now--

I'm sorry, but since when was reading about contacting someone's office suppose to make you bawl your eyes out.

I blame Rachael Yamagata's beautiful music for something so trivial.

This is my life in syncopation.

So, a few days back I foolishly accepted a favor to paint a portrait of one of my estranged, thrice removed cousins because she wants to see my prowess as an artist.

First off, I call it a favor instead of a commission; had this been a commission, I would be reimbursed for my time and materials. Unfortunately, the painter has to carry the burden alone.

Then, having never met the girl before, I have no idea what her personality is like. To rub some lemon salt into the proverbial wound, I only have a small, wallet-sized photo of her to work from...

Not exactly an ideal situation, but I tried to make the best of it.

Which really didn't amount to much. I have half of the painting finished, and after the first afternoon... okay, first hour of painting I could tell that I would definitely NOT like how this one turns out. Lo and behold, I was correct.

Call me Cassandra, the prophet of doom.

This is quite possibly the worst attempt at chiaroscuro I have ever committed, and that says a lot if you've seen the travesties I've created before I painted over it with a wash of white.

Then, she has one of those really obscure, zombie-like smiles where you can tell that she's not sincere about it (no wrinkles by her eyes). Due to that insincerity, she looks like she's smirking rather than smiling. At me. Smirking at me.

I swear this painting conspires to bring me down.

...

And in other news, if I ever get old enough to rely on Depends to keep my defecations in check, shoot me.

While treading the hallway in the dark, I stepped in something quite squishy and... warm. Walked carefully to the bathroom, took a glance at the bottom of my foot and... Yep. Feces. Rather recently created feces.

If I remember correctly, the paternal grandma was the last one to use the restroom that night.

...

I know. I can practically hear all (three) of you retching at the moment.

Like I said, shoot me. Please.

There's something in Diego Luna's expression that captivates me. I don't know exactly what it is, other than I've seen that look on another's face before.

Watched Lan Yu again because it was on, and I tried to start on that commissioned portrait of one of my cousins in Canada, but I think insomnia is one of the more sparse muses out there.

Not even listening to Margaret Cho talk about eating disorders can stave me from what I'm about to do.

Maybe it's a reaction to the slight emotional breakdown I had a few nights ago, but tonight I've been searching Google for:

• "I don't want to be an architect."
• "Asians who don't want to be doctors."
• "Asians who don't want to go to med school."

I think I'm searching for someone or something to connect to. I think that and my recent lack of purpose or drive have caused me to...

That's a load of bull. My emotional breakdown came about from obsessing over my self image. The incompetence and loneliness were just fuel for the pyre.

But, I want to learn the stories of other Filipinos and Asian Americans who shirked their familial duties and obligations to become doctors, lawyers, and engineers. Maybe I need reassurance that I'm not the only one out there who feels this way.

... And, I guess, I really am lonely in this house full of people. (Very full at the moment; we have aunt and maternal grandma staying for another two weeks so I get to sleep downstairs in the family room.) The only person I can relate to at all is my sister... but it's hard to do that when you're trying to not let your pity show.

I remember a time when I did make amazing connections with others. When I took down the bricks and barracades to peer out and see who else was in this world besides me. And I found them, and we got along famously.

But now it seems that every single relation I have is strained. The once innocent quips my father and I fling at eachother are becoming more personal and damaging. My mother is reacting to her mother's presence by increasing her need for perfection. Both grandmas (including the one I actually like) have conspired against the rest of the family because no one will eat their cooking; what they don't understand is that their food really does taste like shit. I've caught sis staring at the mirror and I find myself gauging how much longer it will be before she's bent over the toilet like I do.

Friendships are becoming even more strained. Rocky and I have short, usually stinted conversations about everything. Even the hour of rabid discussion about the qualities of different Final Fantasy games compared to other RPGs had trickled down to mere droplets. Communication with Matt has been almost nil for quite some time. When I feel like talking or sharing bits of entertainment info, Mike's never on. Karen seldom talks for four lines now, a stark contrast when I read the conversations we had when she still attended Gorman. Then, Tyler's grown quite well at ignoring the signs I let slip when I really NEED to talk to someone.

Fuck, even Sarah, who I seldom talk to save once or twice every few months, can tell instantly when something is bothering me.

It came to a head today during the farewell dinner I had at Buca with my cousin Joe. A lot time ago, we used to be really close friends, even best friends. But now... the topics don't come so easily anymore and really, this might be the last time that I see him for a few years.

I...

.....

The cabin fever is getting to me. Both the one caused by this household, and the need to discard this current body.

....

I've progressed past wanting to kill myself.

...

I want to kill the world.

So.

I've really come full circle since my freshman year. Back then, my artwork consisted of a lot of gore, sharp objects, and draperies being mysteriously suspended in mid-air. Think a combination CLAMP and Utena style because, really, that's where I stole the ideas from.

In my mid years I grew tired of fantasy motifs (and, frankly, stealing other people's ideas) so I began searching for my own truths in what I observed around me. That cummulated in my series of portraits painted from candid photo shots of my friends in their most honest moments.

And now...

Reality bores me. I think it's all the constant amateur psychiatrist/couples counseling that I've been doing for friends that's really making me want to stop observing. Oh, and the presence of both grandmas in the household. Now, I draw from my knowledge of human anatomy and compose images and paintings first without the aid of models, and then enlisting models and posing them so they match each composition entirely.

Then I removed the real life/photo references entirely, drawing from complete memory and a stockpile of facial features to sketch out a possible painting or two. Or twenty.

And now, I find myself returning to surrealism.

Lately, for a few months or so, whenever I find myself in a particularly stressful situation, I come back home and paint myself dying in some manner because of it. In "AP Week" my head explodes from all the stress, resembling Yggdrasil. Then, in "Cut Away the Excess..." I... well, you really have to see it first before I explain. Then, earlier today while picking graduation photos, I realized exactly HOW FUCKING MUCH I let myself fall.

New painting will be of me succeeding in caving half of my head into the glass wall that I sat in front of while the females of the family argued over which picture gave me a smaller chin/gravitational pull.

...

Margaret Cho was right about gay men taking eating disorders one step further.

Today, hung out with Emmelle at her graduation party which went from her and the teens (who were stuck in the first room of Fatal Frame 2 until I came along and... took a picture of a door), to swarming with older relatives (with much DRUNKEN UNCLE KARAOKE happening).

The best part was that none of these people were related to me!... except when Tito Silver and his wife came into the house. Small small town.

Now, back at home as the family are playing mah jong (surrendered my spot to dad since I wanted to get on the computer) while watching the new Margaret Cho special.

And the sickness is finally ebbing away.

It's another one of those sleepless nights. And, instead of spending it like I usually do (i.e. reading fanfics and gourging myself on whatever food I chose not to eat while it was still, you know, light outside), I tried battling it out with my muse to create something... anything... that would make an excellent piece.

Three ruined canvases and 20 pages of sketchbook later, and my muse was standing over me with the champ belt held above his head. Cheeky bastard.

There's so much I want to talk about, so much I want to express, but thanks to the visiting relatives it feels like someone shoved a nice, conservative butt plug up my ass. And not in the pleasurable sense.

Plus, the throat still renders it near impossible to eat or drink anything. When I have to fill my stomach up with water so I can properly digest my medication, I have to bite down on the glass to keep from gnawing into my tongue due to the pain.

...

In other news, watched a few short films on IFC, and one of them was about a kindergarten substitute teacher with relationship problems. He's shy, slight of build, dark brown, short hair, and the most adorable puppy dog look?

Could it be Chris Carabba? Naw, didn't have enough ink on his arm. But in the half-dreaming state which I watched it, sometimes I wondered...

This was followed by a film called "Blue City" (one of the few I actually remembered the title of) about a suicidal old man, a lil brat, and two car thieves.

The best scene has to be when the old man drew a circle in chalk on the ground so he knew where to land when he jumped off the roof. Along comes the brat, sees the chalk, sees the circle, and proceeds to add his own graffiti. Meanwhile, up on the roof the old man opens his eyes and looks down... and sees a smiley face looking back at him.

...

I would attempt to sleep, but dad's snores and general company probably won't make that at all possible.

Hello again.

So, I'm really rather sick, and for some reason I smell like myrrh whenever I get that whole sweat-out-the-fever look. ::shudder:: Then again, I could use this illness to my advantage. I could waste away a few pounds, but I think the 'rents (with their med school degrees) would catch on to my AIDS-victim style diet.

Speaking of, apparently Filipinos are the top ranked HIV carriers of other Asia Pacific Islanders in San Francisco. Heart disease is the number one killer of filipinos in the bay area, with AIDS being a close second. And on the topic of heart disease...

With [Isabel] Roces leading the way, Peta (pronounced "PEE-tah") wants you to dump the meat and start eating your pinakbet!

The group has had success using famous models to plug its cause. But frankly, naked models protesting fur doesn't make it in the tropical climates of the Philippines. Too bad. But a sexy woman wearing lettuce leaves is a nice alternative...

Filipinos with our love of patis, bagoong and other salty foods are prone to hypertension. Add to that the high-fat content of meat and you have the perfect recipe... for heart disease.

- Emil Guillermo, from the Philippine News

Tried going vegetarian once, but it only lasted a summer. And really, it was a ploy to keep from eating grandma's excessive amounts of food. But still, asking a pinoy to give up his lechon and menudo is just... sacrelige.

It's like asians going on the no-carb diet and completely forsaking their lifeblood: rice. ...What? Utterly impossible.
And now to down another pitcher of water. Being sick sucks.

At the moment it's a constant struggle to eat, to not eat, to not digest, all while I'm suffering one major sore throat. Well, I don't think it's a sore throat as much as it's my formerly long fingernails leaving long gashes at the back of my throat.

Watched The Wedding Banquet again today. Nice, pseudo domestic bliss... followed closely by The Fluffer. If I had the body, I wonder how far down THAT line I would have taken myself.

Sleep. Wake up. Fiddle around on the computer. Eat. Have sex. Sleep. Repeat.

Nihilism is excessively fatiguing.

Tomo... well, today, I have to confront the cameras at Burkhart and Williams for my full-regalia graduation pictures. It's bad enough I've had to live with the ghost of myself circa July for the past few weeks thanks to graduation.

Need to finish my painting about bad habits.