No day but today.

Ah yes. RENT. The 1996 Tony Award-winning, Pulitzer Prize-winning rock opera/musical by Jonathan Larson, who tragically died of aortic aneurysm before he could even see his life's work open on the New York stage. 

I was a teenager back then, but I was enamored by the exuberance, the passion, and the romance of the bohemian characters living for the art and giving it to "the man."

RENT is without a doubt the single piece of literature that has formed me as an individual and informed my decisions and philosophies. If someone wanted to know me better, RENT is definitely one of those places one should start. 

I first learned of RENT when I was watching the 1996 Tony Awards on a local channel. I didn't know it back then, but this clip would change my life.

 As the iconic open chords, to "Seasons of Love" played it immediately caught my attention as the company lined up, "A Chorus Line" (or firing squad) style, and was enraptured by their question, "How do you measure a year?" The call to quantify the quality of one's life is answered by the eyebrow-raising suggestion, "How about love?"

To consider love indeed as a unit of measurement. The great unquantifiable mass noun that is love. How audacious. How cheesy. How true. 

When the rebellious anthem to the bohemian life, "La Vie Boheme" erupted onstage, complete with Anthony Rapp's spastic dance moves it was something I had never seen on stage before. No one else had. It called out to all the misfits and deviants who did not belong to the mainstream of society, "To faggots, lezzies, dykes, crossdressers too," and I answered back with the rest, "To me!" and "To you, and you, and you, you, and you!" 

It spoke to me like no other work ever had and gave me a template to live my life by. 

That said, the years have changed me quite a bit. I no longer yearn for the bohemian life. I may have started out as an idealist-dreamer, but I've settled now more as a realist with ideals.

It was therefore quite interesting to have been able to see it again onstage after ten years. I had grown up quite a bit. I'm a different person now, a full-fledged adult who has been knocked out by life and had for all intents and purposes adapted to life in society, playing myself up to its expectations and marching to its beat.

The 20th anniversary touring cast that played in Tokyo, wasn't the best one that I saw. Granted there were some standout performances, Christian Thompson as Benny being one of them, it lacked the energy and urgency that the piece required. It felt more like people singing along to their favorite songs rather than really embodying the heart of the message. 

By that I mean, it lacked the fear of the phantom threat that is AIDS and the isolation that life at the end of the 20th century. It's quite disappointing especially since it's themes of isolation ring especially true now in this social media era where there's so much isolation despite being so interconnected.

Most disappointingly was the lack of chemistry between Roger and Mimi, the tragic lovers who hid feelings for each other and were fighting off their own respective emotional baggage of living and dying with AIDS. Roger fearfully retreating from it, while Mimi simultaneously recklessly and admirably fighting to live her life. 

This is best captured in the scenes, "Life Support" where the characters attend a meeting for people living with HIV and AIDS and facing the uncertainty of having live and knowingly die with the disease. The mantra, "Forget regret, or life is your to miss." is questioned by a small but no less significant character Paul, who argues that the mantra is good and all, but reason says otherwise. 

What room does the human soul have for emotion and hope when reason says that it is all going to end anyway.

The scene shifts to Mimi in her apartment preparing for her effusive number, "Out Tonight" where even at her relatively young 19 years of age declares her determination to live her life despite all the pain and heartbreaks from "all the scars of nevers and maybes." Really, it's all an elaborate and lusty setup to ask the emotionally unavailable Roger out on a date.

Roger's response is not what she hoped for as he pushes her away to come back "Another Day." Mimi, along with the rest of the chorus, sings in counterpoint that in fact that there is "No day, but today." 

I had almost forgotten about this mantra. Rather had written it off. Last week, I was thrown back into the moment of being 17 again, and how I had sworn that I would live each moment as my last.

In many ways, that seems unwise. To take it literally of course, is exactly that. We should temper our decisions with the reality at hand. No sense in living out every single fantasy. However, we shouldn't always brush off our hopes and dreams aside, if they're real, just because it's difficult or fear that it might not happen. 

Fear can be our friend. It protects us from being hurt. It compels us to survive. But it cannot be our primary driving emotion in life, because at best, fear just allows us to survive, to merely exist.

You may exist and alive, but if life is filled with regret, then have you really lived your life? 

You may be safe and intact, but are you really whole? As a person. 

Last weekend, I sat and watched both as a 34 year old man, and as a 17 year old. I had prided myself in deciding at 16 that I would take control of my life, and that I would act like an adult. It was somewhat foolish, but I have to say, as I looked back on my life, I was had been true to my word.

I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted even back then. I had lived each moment as if it were my last, more or less. I mean I wasn't jumping off buildings or anything, but I certainly worked for what I wanted. My personal measure of success is to be ready to die at any moment and say well, I least I did all I could have done up to that point.

I did not always succeed, as these blog entries serve as testament to my folly as well, but I never really lived with regret.  

Perhaps now, I'm more of somewhere in between Roger's pragmatic (and defensive) stance and Mimi's idealistic (and reckless) beliefs. A little older that before, but surprisingly, still the same.

So amidst all the uncertainties and pain, I continue to choose to understand, to empathize, to love. 

The Mechanics of Healing a Broken Heart

Although general depictions of it say otherwise, the heart is not some fragile piece of glass that shatters once slighted. The heart is made of sterner stuff. It is approximately 300 grams of cardiac muscle, unique to itself and contracts involuntarily, against our own wishes for it to beat at the rhythm of our choosing. No wonder then that we have chosen it to be the metaphorical image of emotion, essential to living yet wild and untamed by our will.

Thus, the image of the broken heart, splintered and fractured in innumerable pieces has gained traction in the collective imagination. Fragments scattered on the ground that leave the owner scrambling to piece it together like an absurd jigsaw puzzle where the pieces that once fit can no longer be reattached. The result is that the entire person himself is broken. Fingers sliced at the futile attempts to mend and the smell of caked blood sickens the senses.

Yet the heart is not a cold, untouchable crystal meant to be kept behind lock and key in a display case.  Nor is the broken heart the emoji 💔 comically rent into two halves by some absurd emotional gash.
 It is warm, organic, and tough. One thing that I will concede, however, is that it bleeds.

Heartache, the genuine difficult-to-heal kind, is not a shotgun to the chest. Nor is it really a knife to the chest.  So not the exactly the moment when Brutus stabbed Caesar, but when Caesar looked into his eyes and "Et tu Brute?" slipped from his lips. The unkindest cut of all is slow and deliberate, as tender as when Judas kissed Christ. Not some momentary lapse of judgment or a fleeting trick of logic, but the premeditated and the purposeful.

In fact, I often described it as an old dulled knife piercing the chest, and left there to rust. Only to be twisted and curled inside the chest cavity to carve out space as it severs sinew.

Ah, but even that's dramatic. And quite possibly easy to heal from. A single traumatic incident while grave and traumatizing provides exactly that, a single incident to focus all your energies on. It is the catalyst and the primary reagent in the reaction. A logical interplay of compounds at the empirical level.

No, the real heartache I talk about is not some laceration, self-inflicted or otherwise.

Instead, it is broken by small things. Daily little moments, gestures, and words that hurt, but only just a little. Things you can ignore, because you like the person. Or in an even more explicit act of self-destruction, I deserve this. So you see, real heartbreak isn't a wound, it's a bruise - hematomic, dull, and persistent.

The days build upon themselves and slowly rupture the capillaries, setting once red-blooded...blood free to clot and coagulate as they blob the walls of the heart. From the outside, the heart is still whole, possibly functional, but diseased.

When this happens, I have mastered the technique to mend my heart and start anew. To do this, I summon all the powers and bitterness of the logical imagination and fashion out the finest poisoned knife I could conjure up.

I gather all the evidence I have, sift through them and find the nastiest bits of that person. He's cruel, a jerk. Selfish prat. A whiny bitch. He cheated on me. All the venom I could muster amass around this weapon of self-destruction and then I fall upon it.

Through the years, I have grown quite proficient at this little exercise. Its an intellectual and emotional exorcism of the soul, and in has served me quite well. Call it a sad defense mechanism or a necessary survival technique, it does what its supposed to do. It cuts through the flesh, allowing the real pain to come through, sweet cathartic pain, and allows me access to the bad blood and pull the dark gelatinous clot out of the chambers and crevices of the heart. Once cleaned, there is a clear, distinct wound to be seen and the real healing process can begin. Fresh blood flows once more and neat mesh platelets form around it, until only a scar remains.

The end result however is that I cannot love that person ever again. My heart has closed, scabbed over and will remain like so forever.

As I said, this is as much of an intellectual exercise as it is an emotional one. When I see a guy again, the whole ordeal I went through often feels silly and I often chastise myself for ever being that stupid. Worst case scenario, I feel hate. Best case, it was a thing that happened.

A recent example is a case of what my friend calls an attraction-frustration. This we mean we feel attracted to someone, that for all the logical reasons should be a good match. Age, interests, and location, but something holds us back. For him, it was a gym-loving sci-fi geek. However, the guy does steroids. He told me how much he really wanted to be with him, but he felt so frustrated about the whole thing.

     Why, I asked.

     It's because we have the same passions. 

Well, that took me back to a couple of months ago. I had met someone who had well, been quite perfect. Even the same passions, or so I thought. My friends were all witnesses to this madness.

So I went through this process, found something about him that I did not agree with and actually realized that what I had mistaken for moments of synergy and connection were superficial. Sure, we liked the same things, we may seem passionate about it, but the reasons are different.

So I told my friend, well, passion isn't selfish. Gym nerd goes to the gym for social media followers, not for the health or the lifestyle. Health for him is just a means to serve his own ego.

Similarly, real passion is attractive. It's like when I see someone talk about something that he really loves and his eyes light up, even if I don't understand anything about that anime or the cars or the sport that they're into. It's because it's something they really love, but it's not about them.

My attraction-frustration guy? Nah, he's pretty self-centered. He only does things, I believe, for himself or the attention it brings him. I mean, he claims modesty and humility, but his actions speak otherwise.

And no, he's not the reason I started blogging and writing again. I have to admit, the whole ordeal kinda made me want to write, but never got around to it and this will be the first and possibly the last about him.

As for the guy that has become my muse.

Well, not gonna lie, it hurts still. But I might just have to change how I go about this whole broken heart business.

The Games We Play

I am downright terrible at these games.

You know, those dating games that have rules that people have dreamed up. 

Don't text or call first. Don't text or call within x number of hours/days. Also, keep an air of mystery about you or else they'll lose interest. 

It all feels so manipulative. 

Sometimes though I wonder, there must be something to those rules, since I feel like I totally suck at this whole game.

I play this whole love game unfairly. Rather unfair to me. I play with the entire hand of cards open. Most unwise for people who want to play this game, as the other person knows exactly what cards I have. No tricks. 

It makes it easier for people to either take advantage of me or take me for granted. 

After all, there's no mystery to me. Then again, I wouldn't have it any other way. Or else it wouldn't be me.

Stuff I Wish I Wrote: Stars and the Moon

I am not terribly poetic. Rather I cannot write songs or poetry. Frustration gets in the way before I ever accomplish a single stanza. So instead I immerse myself in works of better writers than me.

If you've read a few of my older entries, I've used many of Jason Robert Brown's lyrics in them. One such from a decade ago is this one.

But tonight's entry is about the promises we make, dreams we offer, and opportunities we lose. I am an unrepentant dreamer. I don't except me to love this song any less anytime soon.


Stars and the Moon
by Jason Robert Brown

I met a man without a dollar to his name

Who had no traits of any value but his smile

I met a man who had no yearn or claim to fame

Who was content to let life pass him for a while

And I was sure that all I ever wanted

Was a life like the movie stars led

And he kissed me right here, and he said,

"I'll give you stars and the moon and a soul to guide you

And a promise I'll never go

I'll give you hope to bring out all the life inside you

And the strength that will help you grow.

I'll give you truth and a future that's twenty times better

Than any Hollywood plot."

And I thought, "You know, I'd rather have a yacht."

I met a man who lived his life out on the road

Who left a wife and kids in Portland on a whim

I met a man whose fire and passion always showed

Who asked if I could spare a week to ride with him

But I was sure that all I ever wanted

Was a life that was scripted and planned

And he said, "But you don't understand —

"I'll give you stars and the moon and the open highway

And a river beneath your feet

I'll give you day full of dreams if you travel my way

And a summer you can't repeat.

I'll give you nights full of passion and days of adventure,

No strings, just warm summer rain."

And I thought, "You know, I'd rather have champagne."

I met a man who had a fortune in the bank

Who had retired at age thirty, set for life.

I met a man and didn't know which stars to thank,

And then he asked one day if I would be his wife.

And I looked up, and all I could think of

Was the life I had dreamt I would live

And I said to him, "What will you give?"

"I'll give you cars and a townhouse in Turtle Bay

And a fur and a diamond ring

And we'll be married in Spain on my yacht today

And we'll honeymoon in Beijing.

And you'll meet stars at the parties I throw at my villas

In Nice and Paris in June."

And I thought, "Okay."

And I took a breath

And I got my yacht

And the years went by

And it never changed

And it never grew

And I never dreamed

And I woke one day

And I looked around

And I thought, "My God...

I'll never have the moon."

The Dangers of Oppression by Repression

This is the second of my Potter themed entires, a third one is in the works as well

JK Rowling isn't exactly the most subtle of writers, and, expectedly, she has received some flak for this from more "serious" authors and readers. 

I, however, have no problem with this whatsoever.

Her gift, I believe, is more on how she makes concrete complex ideas and concepts. What she lacks in subtlety, she makes up for in layered representations that are still immediately accessible. It's much too easy to obscure "deep" ideas in vague abstractions, far too many literary works already function this way. Her talent is that she brings forth these ideas to readers of all ages with stunning clarity without stripping away depth and complications.

In her original book series, the dementors are a perfect example of this. 

Dementors, a physical manifestation of depression, were the sinister presence that loomed over the wizarding world. These dark creatures suck all the happiness in its surroundings as their air chills in their presence. Their kiss, their deadly, but not fatal form of attack, sucks the souls of their victims, leaving them hollow shells of who they are. Quite apt for a creature that represents the very absence of happiness. 

After all, isn't it considered to be true that there is really no such thing as darkness anyway except the absence of light? And what of the clever antidote to the biting frigid emptiness that the dementors bring? A piece of chocolate. We know that warm glow of comfort that emanates from a piece of chocolate that slowly melts in our mouths. And note the brilliance of that choice of remedy. The immediate relatable comfort that we recognize, the magical simplicity and commonness of chocolate, and the prescribed dosage, just a small bite. 

This highlights the idea that it takes so little to shake away the specter of darkness, and the ideal commonness of the solution to sadness. Of course, she is not suggesting that we eat chocolate to chase the blues away, but rather it suggests that we allow ourselves to feel that thing that brings us the true happiness, the warmth of loving and being loved.

Ah love. That all so powerful magical force that raises us from the death of a life not lived. All too common of a solution that it has become a cliche. But no less potent. No less real.

Of course, to love is not so simple. It is, if you follow my treatise on the matter, quite counterintuitive. It requires the surrender of one's self to another. It necessities that one lets oneself to become vulnerable to pain, nay it demands that you feel hurt in order to feel the reassuring warmth and comfort of being loved. It is by all measures of human experience, the scariest thing we could do as creatures of logic. 

Thus, it is easier to run away in fear. To ignore and suppress. It is far more reasonable to do so anyway to deny one's self of such entanglements. 

In Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Rowling explores this idea in a new creature of darkness, the obscurus. The obscurus is a parasitic force that is created when a magical child's true nature is suppressed or repressed. At first, the obscurus is dormant and simply exists in a noncorporeal form inside the child, but as the child develops a stronger sense of identity and self-recognition, usually before adolescence, the pressure exerted on the child to repress his true nature has built up to such a great extent, that the obscurus forces itself out into existence in an explosive, often fatal event.

Based on Rowling's screenplay, obscuri are described as "oleaginous" which paints it as something richly covered in oil. The imagery of oil is quite appropriate as oil is created from the physical and temporal pressures exerted on beings and creatures which have long since passed on, and as a substance, it is slick, sticky, and difficult to remove, much like the feeling of self-loathing brought about by the guilt of being something you don't want to become.

It is easy to see and equate the obscurus to sexual repression, among other things of course, but being a gay man and knowing her advocacy for LGBT+ rights, it is no great stretch of the imagination to see that Rowling could very well be alluding to these issues. Things like gay conversion therapy among conservative religious groups is a very clear parallel to the abuse experienced by Credence Barebone under his adoptive mother, the anti-magic zealot, Mary Lou Barebone.

However, I am more fascinated with the what feeds and triggers these obscuri. 

One part of course is the external pressure from the parental figures and society at large to repress our tendencies. The primary argument falls along the idea that your true talents or feelings are unnatural, sinful, or wrong. This doubled-up with the argument that if you entertain such thoughts, you are being selfish and that nothing can be done about it, except suffer through it. It is your own fault after all. 

If repression is successful, each time your true nature and feelings, you are overcome with an overwhelming sense of guilt. Now, guilt as an emotion is quite neutral. If what you feel guilty about is authentic,  such as when you hurt someone. You apologize, and try to make it up to them. Ideally make it better than it was before. In that case then your chosen course of action should relieve you of your guilt. However, if it's a self-perpetuating guilt, then perhaps you are creating your own obscurus. 

In the case of Credence, his perpetual self-denial is a process of suppressing his feelings and powers, feeling them bubble up again, layering on another layer of guilt and self-blame for having said feelings, and then another round of suppression. No different really from internalized homophobia. Self-loathing is a masochistic and senseless cycle. Like adding more and more carbon dioxide into a bottle of soda. The ensuing explosion is an inevitable fact. As well as the self-destruction and harm to others that it will cause.

I too have an obscurus within me. It's usually dormant. However, when I was in a relationship, which I now recognize as simultaneously loving and cruel, the darkness and the rage, they just kept bursting out. When the relationship is emotionally abusive, such as withholding affection, cutting you out of the decision-making process that affects you both, condescending tone, it can and will get to you. 

The guilt in my case comes from the love. Perhaps I'm not considering his point of view enough. I should be more understanding. And yet, I did not allow myself to acknowledge that he is not considering how I feel. Issues were always done his way."I will think about it myself." or "That's how I do things. There must be a logical explanation. I will answer it in my head." This kind of cutting me out was not only hurtful, I believe it was abusive.

And so the darkness grew within. The rage simmered slowly, as I used up all my strength to be patient. And when everything came to a head. The obscurus takes over.

At first it's tunnel vision. Like the world has shrunk around you and converged at one singular point ahead of you. My hand moves on its volition, raised, poised and ready. 

But then a moment of lucidity. Guilt and self-loathing overcome me. Shame.

And then everything turns inside out and descends upon me. 

The obscurus implodes.

The Unwanted Tenant

The green-eyed monster lives in the swankiest unit in the apartment complex of your heart.

Why not? It can afford to live it up. It's rich from all the excesses of self-indulgence, and thus, it can live as long as it wants in your heart.

And live long it does. It's usually silent, content to be malcontent in the richness of your heart. The more your heart has to give, the more it can feed. However with its appetite insatiable, it inevitably starts to stir from within.

It feeds on all the gilded beauty that gives your golden heart its luster and in its wake leaves a trail of dross and crud. It claws at the fine finishing of the best parts of its fine dwelling leaving the denuded throbbing walls of your tender heart, raw and defenseless.

That's when it sinks its teeth into the flesh and you feel that first, unmistakable, indelible pain of jealousy.

With your system shell-shocked, the stable, steady, rhythmic beat of your heart is jolted by the erratic spasms of the green-eyed monster gnawing away at the vascular epicenter of your being, leaving it perforated, with stringy sinew where there was once handsome, sturdy, muscular walls.

Left unchecked, this creature will consume you, until you are rendered impotent and incapable of being alive. Until the apartment of your heart is condemned. Its worth far less standing that when run through a wrecking ball.

So beware the green-eyed monster. It dwells within the best part of ourselves.

And it will drive down the property values.

The Reverse Horcrux

This is the first of two Potter themed entries.



Last week, I had an epiphany of Potter proportions.

I had inadvertently made a horcrux.

Rather a reverse horcrux.

Whereas Voldemort's horcruxes were products of an act of supreme evil, murder. Murder, as differentiated from killing, is an act of supreme selfishness. You kill for self-gain, which is the opposite of love, an act of self-sacrifice, as Lily Potter did that night at Godric Hollow.

To rent your soul into two or seven is act of extreme cowardice that gave Voldemort a chance at immortality (or at lease an increased statistical advantage over death) at the cost of his own humanity.

In fact, the theme of Deathly Hallows is ironic. The three artifacts that Voldemort (and in the new film series, Grindelwald) sought out were supposed to master Death. However to master Death is not to cheat or avoid it, but to accept it as an inevitability of life. It is this, among many other instances, that best demonstrates his inability to understand what it means to be alive. To master death, you must accept it. Failure to do so will lead to a life that is cannot be fully lived.

And so the act of making a horcrux, which Voldemort sees as an act of power and dominance is really a means to run away from the inevitable course of one's life, an act of cowardice. Most tellingly in his  hubris, he attempted to kill Harry Potter and created an accidental horcrux which eventually led to his own fall. Something he did not, and could not, foresee due to his inability and refusal to love.

To love is a scary thing indeed. It is to put another's well-being ahead of one's own, and that leaves us vulnerable to being hurt. If we're lucky, that love is returned and that other person would put your well-being ahead of their own. Then maybe, just maybe you could take care of each other.

I can safely say that my accidental horcrux was not a product of murder. In fact, it was an anti-horcrux. I did not mean to make it. However, after the fact, once the dust has settled, I felt like my soul was rent and a piece of me was given away. Never meant to return to me.

It was a letter.

I don't really write letters anymore. And even when I did, it was nothing like this. In fact, I don't even write anymore. People often tell me you should write more. You write well. But I never really do. I had always thought it was out of laziness.

I realize now that that's not true. It's because when I write, it takes all my heart, mind, and soul. When I write, I have to write for someone, an audience whether real or imagined. And when all is finally committed to ink and paper, or pixel and screen, I am spent.

Others write to show off. Others use words to obscure or to hide. I use my writing to reveal the truth, or at least who I am. Naked, raw, and turned inside out.

So when I wrote that letter, it was as if I had given away something precious. No. I did. I gave away a part of myself that I perhaps had never given away before. It was more to me than when I had given away my virginity, spent my life savings on someone, or gave up years of my life. All in the span of a day and a night, pouring over words that individually appeared on my screen, one letter at a time.

It was by no means perfect. After I had sent it, the editor in me keeled over in horror, but he was hushed by the writer. It was all right. It was done.

I had torn myself into two. Gave away a part of my soul. Yet by some miracle, I am still whole. Perhaps more so of a person.

I am constantly surprised that I had still something to give. That still had the energy to carry on. Courage can be difficult to come by, but there are things worth fighting for, even when there is no reason to hope.

I suppose that is the power of, well whatever that is. Or was. Or what it could be. It may seem foolish, but I know it to be real, justified and true.