CAN'T CHANGE ME
By Chris Cornell, Euphoria Morning
She can do anything at all
Have anything she pleases
The power to change what she thinks is wrong
So what could she want in me? Yeah
But wait just one minute here
I can see that she's trying to read me
Suddenly I know
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
But she can't change me
No she can't change me
She has the daylight at her command
She gives the night it's dreams, yeah
She can uncover your darkest fear
And make you forget that you feel it
But wait just one minute more
I can see that she's trying to free me
Suddenly I know
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
She's going to change the world
But she can't change me
No she can't change me
And suddenly I can see everything that's wrong with
me, yeah
But what can I do
I'm the only thing I really have, at all
But wait just one minute here
I can see that she's trying to need me
Suddenly I know
Dearest Shivaun,
I should probably just post a comment on your blog for the golden-prosed praise for my quasi-intellectual efforts at being literary.
You are indeed a true friend, one need not elaborate. My pants stil smells of piss from the thrill of being in the same sentence as Zafra. But being the closet narcissist, I have to shout out my appreciation through my own blog. Or, maybe then I again, you as always, propel me from my stupor and make me want to write. Kisses. Hugs. Merci beau coup. Domo aregato. Er, teri makasi?
I received the card you sent a few days before the b-day and you were the first of the few that matter who gave me the greeting. Close second was the tele-associate at the claims department of Bank of America whom I reported to the loss of my credit card and the fraudulent use of my checkcard after my wallet got yoinked. I am now officially on my last year in that infernal proverbial Pinoy "kalendaryo".
First of all, I wish you, albeit late, the HAPPIEST of Christmas and of the New Year.
This blog was a long time coming. The Holidays were just a blur of fatigue & burnout. My days were merely classed into the days I am working, and days I'm not working. There had been no weekends, no dates, no Mondays and alarmingly, no Sundays, no hours, no food. There was just the circadian rhythm of very deep slumber and the Sisyphean task of getting up as though from a coma, away from my prison of pillows, down comforters, and the vortex of the E! Channel.
The beginnings of this blog (including the title) has been hatched in late November after Thanksgiving. Now it's post-New Year'07. Go figure. I have created a mongrel. An overdue one at that.
This was intended to be a diatribe on people and (borrowing from Bill Clinton) their boxes, but this could be a levigation of several intended blogs in incubation inside my puny procrastinating brain. Bear with me.
Once and for all, I do not subscribe to the idea of suburban fairy tale endings. I am a work in progress and do not wish to define myself by anyone may he be Joe Blow or Di Caprio. I may be a mess but I am my own crutch. Save the saving for those who are starved or near extinction. The world is a vast place with plenty of concerns other than living vicariously through one neurotic singleton. Save it for the Anistons, the La Lohans and what have you. I am and always shall be a gypsy until I and The Powers That Be will it to be or not to be. I shall always not be people's expectation not out of spite but borne of a drive to grow a backbone.
I think this should be the year to finally start running my life in the tangent I want it to be in and not let outside persons and circumstance do it for me. Cease pleasing and appeasing everyone. Be honest and unmerciful, specially to myself. Let the drums I march to beat a little louder as it is different, defiant and definitely right. It should be the year to let the punk out in me- the Clash had they lived long enough to be Bono. Audrey Hepburn meets Nancy Vicious. Carrie Bradshaw and Mother Theresa. Jane Austen on (mycophenolic) acid. My own Brangelina. (Please don't hate me for the Brangelina bit).
Now, must desist from the I's& me's and on with the how are you's. How's your dad? How's your mom? Ill health in the family is a pisser. We love 'em. We leave 'em to serf to higher currency. The bittersweet part is being able to provide for their rainy days as we wring our hands with worry across oceans, connected only by faceless sound through wiry telecommunication. Chin up love. Do I need to say this? You've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for. Hang on. Hang on tighter.
My best regards to Ant as always (does he mind being called Ant? It's a Kiedis reference not as in Ant & Dec). BTW how did the mister find the idiosynchrasies of our tropical islands?
Thank you for getting me.
Much, much love.
John-john Love
