30 January, 2019. The time is 6:23 am. Thank you for meeting me here. I know I told you all that this is my highway through hell, but I feel like stopping my car. We’re going to get out and take a walk on the wild side, only to the edge of the overpass. I want you to look over the edge, beyond the darkness. Imagine there’s some scenery.
I don’t want to plant images in your head. I want you to imagine. I’m a psychopomp. An angel of death. I guide people through their inner darkness. But… my ultimate goal it to help bring out people’s inner light.
Find your light within. Then maybe you could help look out for others, and I can go on teaching others… how to do this.. whatever thing that I do.
My highway through hell is paved with good intentions. But you shouldn’t be following me – I make a lot of stops and detours, picking up hitch hikers across the galaxy, stopping for snack at the restaurant at the end of the universe, and gate crashing sad pity parties to try to bring some cheer.
The fastest most direct way is to traverse the darkness. Head on. That’s all I do. That is all that I did… That’s my method through all this cthonic madness.
We’re all mad here.
That’s a flyer for the musical “To the father” that I stared in. 25-26 August 2000. I was 13. I was the “star” Julie Salvador. It was based off the parable of the prodigal son.
I still remember 2 of the songs from it. “To the father” and “best friend.” Rick and Beverly were my best friends, and Rick died. He was shanked in a gang fight trying to protect me. The proverbial rock bottom that sent me back into daddy’s arms. Rick would never have died if it weren’t for my antics, running away and all, because I felt so damned alone with no one to talk to or who might even understand…
Of course that is not true. It is true. But not. Because that wasn’t my story, only a story I performed. Something that represented a common condition of the human soul – perceived loneliness and isolation.
That above collage is real. Members of my family, but long ago. My dad anglicised his name when he came to Australia as part of the white Australia immigration policy. He didn’t full on change his name, only the spelling so it resembled an English name. My grandfather made all of them do it. I don’t know what year they came here… But that’s a tale for another time.
Names for my book of names: (top) Peter Joseph, Marilyn, Natividad Demetrio. (Bottom) L., S., D.. (names redacted as I don’t have their permission or consent to include in my blog.) I’m sure you can figure out which one I am in the top and bottom images.
Oh yeah, by the way. My dad and nanay are both deceased. Just in case you didn’t know. There’s only my mum left. I don’t count myself as part of the living. It’s impossible to live in two worlds at once.
6.56am. Have a good morning, day, evening or night. Wherever you are. Whoever you are.
O.k. back into my car. I’ll just keep driving us through this hell hole. I don’t know how long it will take to get to the other side. Every soul’s dark night journey is a bit different in terms of time. That’s why I hate time… I mean, I can never get a handle of perfect timing. It’s… just crap and flukes.
And lonely roads and empty jars. I take my tips in cash now. I no longer accept shards of hearts. But… people still need a ride, whether or not they can afford to pay. I’ve been crossing people over the river, or guiding them downstream, since even little moses’ day.