makati city
It is now a week delayed. And it has nothing to do with melon. It’s just I think it would look more poetic and cutie using this title. Anyway, to some extent, it would matter as I just doused the Tuesday afternoon heat wave away with several glasses of melon shake.
My Tuesday afternoon was not in its usual boring fashion. I woke up early (in my ordinary days, getting out of bed at 11am is record-breaking) and tried to brush off the cobweb that had been lodging in my gray matter for the longest time. Playing on the background were the early 90’s songs from women-led bands (Hole, the Cranberries, 10,000 Maniacs and Moonpools and Caterpillar), I couldn’t help looking back when I was romantically-attached to everything surrounding me. I was flammable by then, which made me explode and swell at no exact point in time.
Songs of grunge bands, Eraserheads and women-led bands encapsulate my mood in my juvenile years – a tug of war between being angst-ridden and dreamy, almost chimerical. This is the era of being "cool," the household word at that time it had already lost its meaning and sense. If I would be asked what made me cool at that time, I would definitely cite my engrossment to the bands with women as the vocalists, more than the Tretorn, loose tuck in, date with whoever were the coolest guys and gals on campus and Penshoppe.
Around that time, I was a hopeless romantic trying hard writer, oozing with "I hate myself I wanna die" attitude as it was a compulsory for soon-to-be English major and pa-literati crowd. With our throat alternately sucking up black smoke of Marlboro and black coffee, it was a de rigueur for us, pseudo-quasi-semi writers, to write heart-wrenching short story over ear-splitting Jeremy or Smells like Teen Spirit. This only shows that at that time, hearing these bands was a requirement to be cool in our crowd.
My liking on this music genre actually transcended the preference and taste and the trying to be cool. It became a part of attitude and belief. Although they’re undeniably pleasant to the ears, they do not just pierce my heart; they smash my soul into smithereens. That’s the real score on my decision to lock myself in my room when Kurt Cobain committed suicide…hehe…
It was a time-capsule experience; my mind was being rewound to the flush of life. Could’ve-beens and should’ve-beens crept through my synapses but I was too busy to care. Until Courtney Love’s voice was drowned by the alarm clock that reverberated around the room.
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