3:00

The sky is red. An hour ago — two, it was red. It never gets dark anymore. Just red. Deep like an aging scab on something dead. It's red like a rose trying to be black.

The herald of the morning is early.

The herald of the mourning is early.

A bit of FOCUS

I woke up this morning and after a trying series of events, a few words from yesterday's post-race lectures rang in my head. YOU HAVE TO DRIVE AHEAD OF THE CAR.

A book I read said exactly the same thing, with a significant difference in words and context. SUCCESS IS ANTICIPATING CHANGE. The fact remains, when things get hairy, it's always better to know beforehand. Once it does, you don't want to be following every lead, trying to do everything. You want to know the single most effective path, the exact sequence of events you need to set into motion to get you out of the fire.

These past few months I've found myself chasing after everything and reacting to everything. Maybe not just these few months. I might have been doing it all my life. As far as I'm concerned, up until now, it's been working out for me. Fast hands, fast eyes, the works. Never the best, but always impressive, and always a spectacle.

Last night, I drove aggressively, braking and accelerating abruptly. I drove the way I always do. I drove the way I've always lived.Taking inches.

The track was slick from the rain, and I felt helpless. I spent most of my time with my hands raised. It's a signal to track hands that I've spun off beyond correcting my course. I was spinning off at every sharp corner, frustrated at my inability to react. I was doing it wrong. I wasn't supposed to react. I was supposed to drive ahead of the car.

I was supposed to counter steer, so I would balance out after the slide that would happen a split second later. I was supposed to caress the break, and take my weight to the front of the car, to control my drift. I was taking inches when I was supposed to be taking meters, and miles.

It's about time I drove ahead of the car. The last few paces of chasing around end today.

Tomorrow, I have an exam. Networking. I'm gonna study, and while I'm sure I can get by just remembering bits of the lecture, like I've always done, I'm going to start anticipating.

Friday is a night out with a girl I met last Friday. Five minutes. I hope to turn those five minutes into something longer and more meaningful. I have a sneaky feeling she's something special (wishful thinking).

Saturday is when I when I interact with the more modern concepts of leadership. They know I have it in me. The president of P&G Philippines knows I have it in me. It's about time I found out myself. It's about time I led myself.

All the while, I will be continuing my implementation of the LAN to Bluetooth Streaming and working out the implications of Rizal's life course as a role model to OFW's (or maybe just a proposal for a Philippine History Wiki).

Same as racing, you can only anticipate the next turn, or the next few obstacles.

Putting Yourself OUT THERE

It's tough. Wearing your heart on your sleeve is one thing. Hoping against all odds that someone decides to take it, is another.

Meeting women is fine and dandy. Conversation is always great. Moving from hi-hello to you look great is a careful sprint between moments that might or might not mean anything. Right now, I'm taking that sprint.

Five minutes say I'd like to see you again. I'd like hear your voice again. Mostly, I'd like to get to know you. Speed dating is iffy that way. But five minutes is enough time for you to get in, smile, and get out, before you get in your own way.

I sincerely hope I didn't mess anything up at this point. I'm going out with someone I met, last Friday, on Friday. That's a full week after five minutes. I wasn't able to reply to one of her messages. I was carting. Hopefully, she fell asleep on me. And I dearly hope she's not pissed.

I'm paranoid about this sort of thing because I've been in a relationship before. Women have the largest tendency to be pissed about nothing. This usually happens in one of two situations, (a) when she's comfortable enough to be pissed around you, hence the freedom to get pissed at you and (2) when she needs an excuse to purge you from her life. I've encountered both situations well enough to know that this sort of thing strikes like lightning on a sunny day.

Right now, I really don't care about the consequences. I desperately need somebody to care about, it doesn't matter if I end up on the wrong side of the frying pan. Right now, I'm writing, the way someone else would pray. I'm hoping to high heavens that this works out. I'm begging, to nowhere in particular, for the composure to make this happen, and the sense not to overdo it.

Earlier this late evening, a friend described happiness. He said it was like peeing in your pants. Everybody can see it, but only you can feel the warmth. It's true. Happiness can be pretty embarrassing. But I sincerely hope to be able to put that smile on somebody's face and bask in the spectacle of that someone unhindered amusement (I was going to say naked pleasure, but that message shoots too far off)

Really, those are the surprises I look for. Those little signs of happiness. Broadening smiles, eyes lighting up and the many other facets of female happiness. I'd like to see that. Especially those trademark tells, like crinkling noses and lip biting and toe curling and triumphant conservative fist shaking.

Ria is a pretty enough girl, 21, an English teacher at Xavier. her social life is 'blah' and she's looking to have fun. Her course was an unexpected roller coaster that shot her out and she's been shaping young minds since. Five minutes. I greeted her with this paraphrasing: "You don't look like someone who needs to go to these sorts of things." She wore a purple top and jeans. She has beautiful eyes and lips.

My name is Chris, and...

Angel's Breadth

There are no angels.

Just pretty faces and chime tune voices.

There are whispers - theirs, but they don't know. Like the warmth they shed, that they don't feel. Like the promises they make, that they never really made. With smiles, they speak of paradise. With each breath they promise bliss.

When their soft lips open, there is only what you want to hear. When their eyes smile, golden, there is only what you want to see. No, not girls, not women, but angels.

How do you suppose tears roll down the face of the sun. How do you suppose others see, when all that remains when tears become vapor, is the salt that might as well be sweat.

How do you suppose we listen, when their words are a song and the tune is merry. The truth of their sentiments drown. The pain in their hearts is lost. To us - lost.

Angels remain like salt remains, when the soul of the tear has departed. Why is it that, for the angel we long. Where does the soul's beauty make home?