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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.

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Thursday, February 12, 2004

28, Eric, is a wonderful age. It is when you have more money to splurge on your personal pleasures, and it is not from your mother. In fact, you don't even live with mother anymore. Living with mother when you're 28 is the absolute hell, you've come to believe. Like being Bondying, like being in a Freudian horror drama. But you soon realize, beyond the days past the birthday, that there is an unease about you with regards the meaning of life, something we all thought was always a sophomoric occupation, but there you go still, asking questions, but this time more silently, as if to ask aloud is to belie the adult you are supposed to be. "Questions dilute the process," we are told, and we nod, just because. You soon think this is strange because you've always thought that getting older affords you better understanding about how things go. But no, there are more questions, you realize, and no ready answers -- but you never take that much to heart anymore: you know that life is all about living by the skin of your teeth. "Making plans," we are told, "is our way of making God laugh." We are also told: "Don't sweat the small stuff." We don't really know what that means, but you nod anyway because there isn't really anything else you can do. 28, Eric, is also when you sit tight and watch the fruits of the early years bloom, or wallow longer in shadows. It is a heady year, not so much because there is so much more to enjoy, but also because you sense the gravity of the last two pulling you closer and closer to abject denial of age--30, after all, says Queer As Folk's Brian Keaney, is death. 28, Eric, is the beginning of our dying.



Make it a wonderfully fulfilled death. Happy birthday, Eric.




[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich




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