Tuesday, September 26, 2006

It's 1:30 am, and I'm here at Dunkin Donuts, cold and sleepy to the music of my hero, Norah Jones.

In front of me is Marianne - a blabbermouth, as most people who know her would say, but a brilliant writer nonetheless. It just amazes me how much life and charisma emanates from her stories, whether verbal or written...i wager she'd someday be one of the best storytellers of our time.

Even at this hour, she's usually really still boisterous, but tonight is different. All her energy's been used up after she told us about how she forgot her key yesterday and couldn't get in her apartment at 3 am in the morning. After exhausting all efforts on texting people who might be able to help her, she resolves to just walk around Dumaguete and wait for the sunrise. No wink of sleep for her.

At this very moment, she's here with us (when she's supposed to be in her apartment sleeping her weariness away), arms folded upon the table, with her head resting down and her eyes shut. I hope she's dreaming of more stories.

Two empty seats to my right is Kuya Razcel, our beloved (or not so beloved) SG president; but I would rather think of him as the die-hard environmentalist-slash-indie artist who happened to be famous and decided to do some people a favor by running for president. Anyway, he's buried in 'Shanghai Boy' by Chinese author Wei Hui.

I finally ask him what the book is all about after a few shrieks of "Holy SHIT!" and moments of watery eyes.

"Feminism, a philandering woman caught between an addicted artist and a German guy. It's a sad, sad story."

"It shows." I snigger. Kuya Razcel is TOO different from the other guys today. He's got more sensitivity than all the occupants of Doltz Hall combined (no offense dirg), and he's extremely emotional. I remember how he once cried over crickets, which eventually let to our constant banter on him; and he keeps a journal for God's sake! (p.s. I love that journal)

Anyway, I'm asking for an artwork from him -- just in case he becomes some famous artist someday.

At my back is Lyde, the resident gay poet. It doesn't surprise me that he opted to sit in another table - the very table he spent his 18th birthday on...alone. He actually has this fetish for being overly-melodramatic about his life, or as Denver would put it, "He makes simple things complicated." I would agree with him, but if it weren't for Lyde's 'emote' moments, he wouldn't have made the poems we love.

Glancing at my back, I find Lyde beaming with pleasure. He rolls he's eyeballs, seemingly examining the area, fixes his eyes on me and gives me a nod, as if signaling for me to do the same. I give him a squint, and I look around to find out what he's so happy about.

"Oh, ok." I sneer with Lyde at the sight. Eight out of fourteen tables are occupied by two guys (who seem like they're dating).

"This is really the era of Brokeback Mountain," Lyde comments nonchalantly, almost giggling, causing Marianne to fidget and give a smile. (Kuya Razcel is still indifferent... he's almost crying now. What's that book doing to him???)

I eventually engaged Lyde in a debate/conversation about possibilities and prejudice. My gaze broke off and turned to two guys drinking coffee at a nearby table. They seem to be getting more uncomfortable by the minute. I'm not sure if they've been eavesdropping, (or maybe they had no choice but to listen because our voices were too loud anyway). Funny - I wonder if they're guilty or not.

Everything is quiet again, and the two guys stand up to leave. One of them is wearing an "I love Party Chicks" shirt. "Yeah right," I muttered under my breath. Closet case.

Sigh. I realize how much I love hanging out like this - chilling over coffee and hot chocolate in the wee hours of the morning, just using up the creative juices left before retiring for the day.
And I couldn't think of a better crowd to just do this with.