"You look like Christmas morning"

Merry Christmas, everyone!

This Christmas is perfect! I received so many things that I had to look inwardly and ask myself if I even deserve them. The people I've met, the friends I've made in them, the happiness that they help forge in me every day, the friends and family that have remained the most important people in my life---I just don't know what I did to deserve such blessings.

Thank you, Lord, for giving me the life I have now. Thank you for the struggles that you make me face every once in a while and the courage that I discover every time I conquer them. Thank you for the people who make me want to become a better person. Thank you for my parents who remind me that I have to do things  that will make the people around me, especially myself, proud. Thank you for my cousins, aunts, uncles, grrandparents, people I'm lucky to call family.

Thank you Lord for giving me reasons to smile even though I haven't done a lot of things to deserve them. Thank you for not having the world end this 21st because then I wouldn't have this morning, this moment to feel so thankful for being alive and for this urge to live even more, to cherish the people that make me happy.

Happy birthday, Jesus! Thank you for giving us the most beautiful day to celebrate every year. We remember today as the start of our wonderful journey with you as our Savior and God. We love you.

Anniversaire de mon Sœur

Last night had been one for the books.

It was my sister's 21st birthday, and we all went to this French restaurant that just opened in August. The food on their website and on review blogs look great, and the price wasn't very overreaching. When we got there, we got awed by the overall ambience of the place. It was once an old Spanish house converted into a small but very cosy, very quaint restaurant. 

The waiters weren't exactly friendly, but they were accommodating. (I was wondering if perhaps they were told to act exactly like the French.) They gave us free caviar for appetizers and handed us the menu (an iPad). There weren't a lot of food to choose from. Most of them, because they aren't really exposed to European cuisine a lot, ordered black pepper steak because it sounded familiar. I had quiche with salad and my sister had braised chicken with pasta. The food arrived after a while and then we dug in.

None of us really liked what we ordered. My sister's chicken was tasty, so was the fish, but everyone thought the siders left so much room for complaint. No one liked the rice and no one finished their meal completely. The desserts, however, were perfect.

So then my uncle who has a reputation for having a hard-to-please palate made a bet with us, quite jokingly, about having the bill waived. If he could get the manager to let us go without paying, we would have to do his laundry. We all thought he was joking, so we agreed, even though his laundry heap is about as heavy as a teenager. See, in America, restaurant personnel are afraid unsatisfied customers might sue them, so they bend easily to complaints. In the Philippines, however, you pay whether or not you had to forcefully choke down your food. But my uncle is a businessman and he doesn't believe that it's a cultural thing. So when it was time for us to pay the bill, my credit card ready for our waitress to take, he stands up and in a tone hovering between courteous and menacing, tells her how he thought of the food. The waitress turns pale and fidgets, obviously unfamiliar with this kind of situation. Before she could defend the food, my uncle drops the bomb on her and tells her that he wants our bill waived. I swear the waitress looked like she wanted to faint. She then calls the supervisor who tells my uncle that it wasn't possible to have the entire bill waived. The least they could do is give us another round of dessert for free or a discount.

I thought this would satisfy my uncle but he persists even more and demands that they call the manager or the owner. The supervisor and our waitress leave us to call the manager/owner and we had time to wallow in agonizing embarrassment. We all just sat there dumbfounded and just ashamed; hoping they wouldn't let Uncle have his way. Auntie Vawn kept hitting him with the napkin and telling him that what he was doing wasn't funny anymore.

Waitress and supervisor came back and told us they just got off the phone from the manager and that everything we ate was on the house! Come on! There were nine of us! We ordered a lot! I must say I've never felt so embarrassed and guilty in my entire life; it felt like we were robbing the restaurant. I look at my cousins' faces and I know they feel the same way. But perhaps, no one more than I do, because I was the one who picked that restaurant, it was my name in the reservation, I was the one who was supposed to pay everything. 

Everyone, except my uncle who looked very triumphant, walked out La Maison Rose wearing faces of criminals who know they should be sent to the gallows but for some strange reason are set free. We took Uncle's laundry with heavy hands and went home knowing we would never ever, ever forget that night.

The Life Pursuit

I am in love with this whole record by Belle and Sebastian. It reminds me of a long bus ride and all you see outside the window are beautiful trees and flowers and people who are happy.

Here is the track list. My favorite song from the album is . . . ugh I can't choose!

1. "Act of the Apostle" – 2:55
2. "Another Sunny Day" – 4:04
3. "White Collar Boy" – 3:20
4. "The Blues Are Still Blue" – 4:08
5. "Dress Up in You" – 4:23
6. "Sukie in the Graveyard" – 3:00
7. "We Are the Sleepyheads" – 3:33
8. "Song for Sunshine" – 4:06
9. "Funny Little Frog" – 3:08
10. "To Be Myself Completely" – 3:17
11. "Act of the Apostle II" – 4:20
12. "For the Price of a Cup of Tea" – 3:19
13. "Mornington Crescent" – 5:40

You can download the record here.

Pasubali (A Short Story)

“Bayot! Bayot! Bayot!”

There was a particular rhythm that accompanied his teases that made me think of a badly rapped song. I was at the boys’ CR, taking a short leak before I went home. I would’ve just held it in but nature’s call was so urgent, I had to take it.

I was always afraid of going to the boys’ CR alone. Usually I had my girl friends with me waiting just outside the door to see if no one pushed me against a wall or planted a fist on my face. Boys wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me when girls, especially my girls who were among the prettiest in school, were around. Boys didn’t want to show the ugly side—usually the real one—that they had.

But now that no one was there waiting at the door for me, this boy, who had been shooting me glare daggers since I showed up at school during my first day with a butterfly clip on my hair, took the opportunity to substantiate all the threats that impregnated his glances. He was several inches taller than me and more handsome than I would’ve liked. You see, if he were less physically attractive, it would be much easier to hate him. But I didn’t hate him then, and I wasn’t attracted to his mestizo features either. He had a pretty face, sure, but it would have been nicer if he had an attitude and some manners to match those physical advantages. What I felt at that moment when he whacked my head with his 500-page chemistry book was—curiosity.

I had been gay since fifth grade. Well, okay, maybe I’d been gay long before that, but it was during fifth grade that I became honest with myself. I had lived with my grandmother since I was old enough to remember, so there had been no father to tie me up in a sack or beat me up with a broom, and no mother to pep talk me into being straight. My grandma told me my parents went outside the country to look for work, and that they’d come back for me once they saved enough money to raise me. I was a year old when they made that promise. Fourteen years later and they still, apparently, had not saved enough money. And even if they had and returned to get me, it was already too late. I was already raised—whether or not I turned out to be what they had in mind for a son was not grandma’s problem. Nor mine.

I was never ashamed of my sexuality and had always been open with it. Sure there were times when I cried before going to bed, asking God why I was trapped in a little boy’s body, but I got over this phase and had long since accepted that I was gay. And I would be for the rest of my life.

Not opting to hide in a closet (like several boys I knew) was not the ideal thing to do, but I thought I would rather be bullied than pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. And bullied I was. It started with teases in third grade (I liked to string Santan flowers into necklaces with girls) and progressed into shoving and pushing the year after. When I came out in fifth grade, I got my first taste of blood—after one of my teeth fell off when what’s-his-name punched me. I didn’t understand then why boys didn’t like me; I thought they were just jealous because the pretty girls always hang out with me instead of them. Later I came to realize that their hatred of me was purely because I was different—because I was someone their little minds were too restrictive to understand.

My grandma always knew I was effeminate. In fact, a significant part of the reason fell on her lot. Until I was four years old, she dressed me up in girl clothes, reasoning that she had always wanted a granddaughter. (She should have been careful with what she wished for.) I had always known I wasn’t a girl, of course, but a nagging desire to be one slowly grew in me. When my grandma and I went to church, I always looked longingly at all the girls’ dresses and wished I could grow my hair out and wear frilly Sunday dresses like them. After my grandma grew tired of playing doll with me (me being more of her plaything as opposed to me being merely a companion), she tried to give me the sex talk.

That was when I told her I wanted a Sunday dress for my birthday and not a toy gun. The creases on her forehead deepened, but instantly they relaxed and she shrugged as if she always knew.

She named me “Marion,” after “Mario” (my dad) and “Nita” (my mom). She sometimes called me “Mario,” but I preferred it when her tongue slipped and she’d call me “Maria.” “Maria” sounded too old-fashioned to me so when I came out, I had all my friends at school call me “Mary” instead. The teachers didn’t like hearing my friends and classmates call me that; they said I was making a blasphemy by carelessly using Mama Mary’s name. When I asked them how something like that could possibly be blasphemous—considering that I wasn’t the only one who had the same name—none of them could give me a real answer.

I felt my consciousness floating back, and I massaged the part of my head where the book violently landed. A not-so-small hump began to materialize under my kneading. I sat up and looked directly at the boy. “What did you do that for?”

Of course, I knew why. But I wanted to hear him say it, to keep all of my dignity from slipping through my hands.

“You should kill yourself,” he hissed, his eyes burning with fury. “Guys like you should all be dead!”

I didn’t know what response I was supposed to give him. Should I have cowered? Should I have stricken back? Should I have apologized for being gay? But I had to give it to him, though. Five years of being bullied and this was the first time someone ever said that to me. Did being gay warrant death now? For centuries, the world has innovatively created ways to torture gay people, to make them feel different, to remind them that they are abnormal, worthless, queer. But no one, no one, had ever told me I was better of dead that being who I was.

My dignity quickly rebuilt itself and its near destruction fueled my anger. How dare this boy, this nobody, talk to me this way? He didn’t know me! He had no right to tell me I should kill myself! Why would I anyway? Though not everybody was nice to me, I had friends who loved me just the way I was and who told off people who didn’t. I had a grandma who never judged me and allowed me freedom to express myself. Though not all, I had teachers who laughed at my jokes and who didn’t feel weird around my presence. I felt accepted and loved and normal. There was no reason I should mope around about how some people treat me bad and cut myself because of it. No amount of water can sink a ship without it getting in.

Slowly I got on my feet and picked up his chemistry book. He was still looking at me with those almost devilish eyes; his breathing was slow and hard as if I  hit him with the book. I swallowed all the fear that I had felt before and handed him the book. His eyes shifted to confusion momentarily as he reluctantly but quickly snatched the book from my hands.

He looked at me, obviously dumfounded by my reaction—or lack thereof. I supposed he thought I would cry like a girl, run away, or hit-and-kiss him. As if! But instead, I straightened my shirt before the mirror, fixed my hair, and checked how bad my head bump was. It was huge.

“I’m sorry but you’ll just have to live with me being alive for now,” I said matter-of-factly. “Besides, we have that quiz in Algebra next week. I can’t die before that!”

I went home that day feeling strangely good about myself. I knew I should be feeling down-in-the-dumps, dejected, and yeah, probably suicidal, but I wasn’t. I felt even more proud of I was, and I knew that not hitting back was the right thing to do. It probably wouldn’t make that boy understand, but I’m sure he’d realize that it would be a herculean task to get to me. And the next time he tried something funny, I’d have my girls with me, armed with nail files, hair clips, and other girl what-nots potentially dangerous to rude, overbearing, barbaric high school boys.

My grandma cooked paksiw for dinner, which would probably be our breakfast tomorrow. I looked at her smiling contently that night, and I promised myself that no matter how other people ridiculed me now, I would give them no reason to ridicule me in the future. If I had to earn their respect, then I sure as hell would bust my guts working. I would be a somebody someday. That was my promise, my prayer. Despite those cruel words and my biggest head bump to date, I slept that night with a smile.

The next morning, school was more quiet than usual. In fact, the school was rarely quiet that I found the silence foreign to the point of eeriness. By this time, everybody should have been out and about shouting and wielding stick brooms at each other. But the hallway was empty. I checked my watch to see if I was late. I was just in time for advisory class. I walked with slow, calculated steps to my classroom where I found my girls, as were the rest of our classmates, staring slack-jawed at the teacher.

I had apparently missed a very shocking and sad announcement. Ms. Dahilog had a crumpled handkerchief in her hands; she had obviously just finished crying. She heard me come in and looked up, following me with her gaze as I quietly made my way to my seat. I heard her sniffle.

I looked at my friends in question, my curiosity unbearable now. Rita leaned close to me and said in an almost inaudible voice, “You know Roy, that handsome mestizo who looks at you weirdly?”

So that was his name—Roy. He was the boy who hit me with the book last night. I unconsciously swallowed as if I were getting a warning from my body that Rita was about to tell me something terrible. I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“He hanged himself last night,” she said, decades hung between her words.

Something in my chest came to life and clawed at my lungs, suffocating me. I was sure I stopped breathing for a full minute. Rita’s sad eyes came alive with worry as she asked if I was okay. I couldn’t hear her. I was back at the boys’ CR with Roy, and he was telling me to go kill myself.

Outside, a tricycle with a loud radio passed by the classroom; a familiar tune blared from its speakers. It was a badly rapped song.

Wrote this July of last year. Found it sitting idly in my Drafts folder. Had to post it. :-)

Unhappy Birthday

It's 8:57 PM. The air outside smells of incoming rain, and there are no stars. Exactly 157 people have wished me happy birthday as of now—some family, some friends, some strangers. Though I appreciate their greetings, I can't help but see the phoniness of it all, to use the words of J. D. Salinger. Because at the end of the day, I ate dinner by myself and walked around for an hour like a wandering idiot. I know if I had asked, my closest friends would come, but I don't want to ask them. I want them to be there for me at their own will, not because I'm buying them dinner or because I pressured them. I hate myself for expecting so much, for maybe a slice of cheap cake with a cheap candle or cheap flowers.  I don't care as long as it's from them.

Two of the people I consider very important to me haven't even remembered. This is what breaks my heart the most.

Why try to change me now?

This song hits me hard, right where my heart is.

I'm sentimental, so I walk in the rain
I've got some habits even I can't explain
I go to the corner and end up in Spain
Why try to change me now?

I sit in daydream, I got daydreams galore
Cigarette ashes, there they go on the floor
Go away, weekend, leave my keys on the door
Why try to change me now?

Why can't I be more conventional?
People talk, and they stare so I try
But that can't be 'cause I can't see
Mys strange little world just go passing me by

Let people wonder, let them laugh, let them frown
You know I love you 'till the moon's upside down
Don't you remember I was always your clown?
Why try to change me now?
 
Why can't I be more conventional?
People talk, and they stare, so I try
But that can't be because I can't see
Mys strange little world just go passing me by

So let people wonder, let them laugh, let them frown
You know I love you 'till the moon's upside down
Don't you remember I was always your clown?
Why try to change me ?
Why would you want to change me?
Why try to change me now?

 

I bet you didn't know . . .

I bet you didn't know

that I like flowers

and the noise of markets

or that I like to eat fish

with my hands

 I bet you didn't know either

that I like to listen

to Icelandic music

and pretend I'm a mermaid

or that my favorite day

is Thursday

Possessed by Consumerism

I try not to subscribe to current technological trends because 1) it's a waste of good money, 2) I don't really need it, and 3) I don't want to be any other bloke ostentatiously wielding their branded smartphones around as if they're above everyone else.

Sometimes, however, my self-resolve crumbles against the pressure of technologically keeping up with the rest of the world. I see my friends with their latest touch-screen phones while mine is still stuck in the era of slides and flips. Two years ago when this touch-screen fad started, I didn't really mind having an old-school phone. I mean, a phone only has to be able to call and send text messages, right? So maybe a camera and 3G capability can be useful sometimes, but these are all just vestigial accessories. A phone is still a phone without them.

Samsung G600. My two-year-old phone.

Fast forward (and I mean fast fucking forward) to the present and the definition of a phone five years ago no longer holds weight. A phone that is not WIFI-capable, has no camera, cannot play mp3 music, and does not support faddy applications is no longer a phone---it's a piece of old shit that people use sometimes as decoys when they think they're in a place swarmed with potential thieves. A phone---no, a smartphone, is what a phone should really be today: able to call and text plus3G, camera with some-fancy-name lens, WIFI, a hundred-and-I've-lost-count applications, at least 1 GHz of speed, a fancy-named OS, at least 512 of RAM and 2G of internal storage . . .  the list goes on and on of the much-coveted specifications that hippies and gadget nerds go gaga over.

I think I have lost track of the exact moment when owning gadgets are no longer a question of practicality or portability, when it has become a statement of economic status. When you own the latest iPhone or Xperia, or Lumia or the latest come-what-not, you are rich. Of course you are rich. How the hell can you afford all these things if you weren't? It doesn't matter how you were able to come up with this money or how you could have used that money for more important things--say, food or education---the important thing is you can show-and-tell your friends that you are richer than them (unless of course they have the more expensive brand or model.)

Having said those, you cannot imagine what I felt when I suddenly had a dying urge to buy myself a smartphone. Yes, that was correct. The cynic has relented, which makes me a sad hypocrite. I know, I know---I have chastised myself over and over with the things I wrote above. The thing though is, and it stinks to have to acknowledge it, I'm still human. It's natural for a sane human being to want what others have that he doesn't. It's natural to covet.While I'm not a hardcore gadget/phone enthusiast, I don't want that feeling of being left behind.

See I was waiting for my friends to come at Ayala, and I had been walking aimless for three hours, so I decided to stop and sit on a bench for a while. This lady sits beside me, takes out her smartphone and starts tinkering it. I look at the other person beside me and he was doing the same thing. And I look at my phone and for some reason, I felt really small. There they were playing the latest games, using the latest apps, while I was pathetically browsing through my old messages and restraining myself from looking over at theirs.

At that moment, I realized that I don't want to feel like that ever again. It's one of the worst feelings in the world. So I have decided to get a smartphone while keeping some of my cynic-pride behind. I'm going to get an old smartphone that although doesn't have the latest specs, can still perform side-by-side the latest models. I am getting this:

NTT Docomo P-07c

 Isn't it a beauty? This was released last year July, so the specs are a little outdated, but I think it's perfect! I can afford it anyway, so what the hell. I also just realized that I haven't really bought anything long-lasting with my salary. I've spent it all on food, gimmicks, and groceries. This time I can brag to my friends that I bought this with my own money. Nevermind that I've become a little less strong in my resolve never to join the bandwagon. I'm not itching to get the latest iPhone or the popular brands anyway. I'm going for something that not everyone has. That alone consoles me.

Mad Hatter

For the past few days, I feel like the Mad Hatter. Cheerful and wise one second and angry and irrational the next.

Last night was probably the longest night I've ever had. It was raining very hard when I got out of the office yesterday. All the jeeps were full, so I had to walk half a kilometer to try and get on at that point. I already spent an hour waiting, so I decided to take a jeep to another route. That was a big mistake.

I spent another two hours sitting cold, stuck in the long stretch of traffic. It took ten whole minutes for the congestion to move an inch. I was at my limit, so when the driver said he wasn't going to dare the rain any longer and was going home, I jumped out of the vehicle and brisk-walked all the way to the city.

Not All Gains Are Positive

There has always been an issue with me about weight. It fluctuates too damn frequently. I spend months and months of controlled diet and gain it back over a single weekend of french fries and chicken.

My hormones are probably at fault for my gain this time, but haven't I been blaming them too much for all the irresponsible things I say and do these days? I can't cower forever behind PMS. I have to suck it up and just admit that I have a crumbling grasp on my temper and appetite.

I feel so angry all the time! Experiencing the slightest technical lags sends me off edge, and the urge to tell people "fuck you, pick your shit up" has been especially strong these days. The only thing that somehow calms me is indie music and the thought of babies and animals.

Normally I don't mind gaining a little weight because I know I can lose them in a week of strict diet; but when people start to notice and tell me "you gained weight, haven't you?" and it becomes a herculean struggle of twisting and ass-sucking to fit into my favorite pair of jeans—then I know I am fucked.

My favorite jeans—I call 'em "weight jeans"—is the only authority I trust during these times:

When I lose weight, they will fit me perfectly: I don't have to wriggle and writhe like a worm. When I gain weight (as I have now), they will become almost impossible to raise toward my waist. They will get stuck on my knees, and I will have to jump up and down and chant "suck it in" in my head like an idiot before I can finally close them done.

Sure people will say, "Nobody cares if you become a little fat," "You're still cute anyway," or my favorite, "What matters is the inside" to make you feel better. Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit. People will care and they will call you an ugly fat bitch in their minds. Even when I can't hear it, I don't want people to think of me that way. It's the trauma talking and yes, I am aware I probably need therapy to cure me of my obsession for vanity but it's the ugly truth. No matter what pseudo-inspirational pep talk people give you, you know the outside appearance always matters.

But I am not going to talk about beauty and health and fitness more than I already have. This is a little sensitive topic for me because it brings back so many horrible memories from my childhood. What I really want to say anyway is I need to go jog and do aerobics again. I need those jeans to fit me perfectly again, so perfect that I will need a belt to hold it steady on my waist. This kind of vanity isn't for other people. Really, it isn't. When you've experienced bullying because of weight, you do it for yourself—so you can face the world with the confidence and pride that's been taken away from you.

So starting today, I am that person again.

Weekend Love

First of all, let me just declare the surge of pride I feel for my friends: Mae for passing the NLE and Cherry for doing her best. When I first found out Cherry didn't make it, I swear I almost cried. It's one of those heartbreaks that's a tad more painful because you don't know what you could do to make your friends feel better. I figured being there for them and showing them that I'm proud whether or not they get professional licenses is enough.

Mae invited us over to her hometown in Bogo, Cebu for the whole of Sunday. See, Monday was a holiday, but since we follow American holidays and Sordy had to report for work as well, she and I initially planned on leaving ahead of the group late in the afternoon. However, because we had too much fun and our friends did such a good job of persuading us, we stayed and slept over with the rest of them.

I can't even begin to explain how much we enjoyed ourselves! Of course, it would have been more fun if we were complete. I feel bad for saying this, but all of us are kind of used not having Godece, Patette, Mikko, and Ged around. I wasn't particularly disappointed when none of them came with us. I did however feel really sad when Paul texted me he couldn't make it (but I am done over-analyzing my feelings).

We also made new friends: Darren and Nina. Darren was the guy who offered us a ride. He's really nice and he certainly gained our yes. We've met Nina before but we got to mingle with her closely this time. It was a little awkward during the car ride to Bogo because we had just met Darren and didn't know exactly how to handle ourselves. He however proved to be easygoing and we ended up laughing and talking until we got to Mae's house.

I am also very proud of Jodie. He had been reluctant in going because of the beef between him and Mae. He said he was particularly worried about Mae's mom, but we convinced him anyway. It was time they made up. Seriously, it broke my heart when they fought. I loved them too much to even take sides, so I was really happy when they finally became friends again. Now we can hang out without all that tension and awkwardness!

Aww and the food! We must have eaten a whole week's worth of chow! There was lechon and chicken legs and shrimp and fish and gaaah I could continue for hours! None of us ever felt hungry during the day.

Mae took out her new camera, a gift from her parents, and we took LOTS of pictures! Here is my favorite taken in their living room:

We slept a little before we headed out to Medellin. Mae had been raving about this tarzan jump; she told us we would all thank her after we tried it. I wasn't really looking forward to this because though I can now confidently do zipline without feeling wobbly, I'm still scared shit of heights. The tarzan jump will have you swinging back and forth toward an open field more than 20 feet high. Nina wasn't crazy about it either; she looked really pale when she saw the whole contraption. But I am at that point in my life where I absolutely have to try new things regardless of whether I fear them or not. Besides, I've discovered that the more I am afraid of things, the more fulfilling it feels after I've conquered them.

Jodie went first, and everybody watched him like we were in some sort of sports show. It was hilarious watching him! I almost bust a gut laughing. Of course I knew I'd probably do worse, and I did!

My legs were shaking uncontrollably and I held on to those rails as though I would meet my doom if I let go. I screamed "Mommy!!!" all the way until the swings slowed down. I must have sounded annoying. The rest of them pretty much did better after Jodie and I had our go. Nina though took forever to jump. She was even more scared that I was! We cheered her on until she finally mustered the courage to take the plunge. She looked so red though!

After tarzan, we decided to try the zipline as well because we needed more adrenaline. The zipline wasn't at all high, so it didn't really pose much of a challenge:


We took a couple of pictures more before we headed home. These are my favorite snaps:





The love I feel for these people is unfathomable. We have been through phases in our relationship but we've managed to stay together in the end. There are people in our circle who come and go but we don't need official membership to be friends. There are a number of people whom I love who aren't in these pictures. It doesn't mean that I love them less. In fact, I miss them terribly—like I probably would miss a limb if I lost it.

What I want to say right now is that my heart is overflowing with happiness. I have been looking for this kind of magic for 7 months since I started working: to be with familiar faces in an unfamiliar place, to re-forge old bonds with new experiences. This is what real adventure is. This is what it feels like to live. ☺

Facing the Abandoned

My friends and I are no stranger to performance arts. As literature majors, we were asked now and then to see plays, visit museums, witness live art performances, and once in a while, involve ourselves directlly in these activities. Though I've always kept a fondess for theater and visual art, I've never actually witnessed a performance art show, which I've learned is a rarity here in the Philippines.

I have heard of Russ Ligtas as well. One of our teachers suggested we see his show "Buto" a couple of years back, but for some reason I missed it. Maybe I never really understood what performance art meant then. I've always thought of it as a subtle form of theater, akin to what I could only label as "interrpretative dancinng." But tonight, I was proved wrong.

I will not attempt to confine Russ Ligtas' performance by defining it because honestly, I can find no words to accomplish this. To say that it was haunting or beautiful or philosophically arousing is probably not enough---but isn't that the greatest attestation that his performance succeeded? In its rudimentary sense, isn't this what art is supposed to do anyway? To leave its audience speechless and awakened and more curious?

The performance was formatted as in an exercise, which was cleverly stylized in the information handout as "exor[o]cized," implying that there would be some sort of emotional purging during the show's progress. And in fact it's not in the progress at all. The whole show itself is the emotional purging. Russ Ligtas strips himself in front of us, magnified by the webcam connected to a projector, without the slightest hint of embarrassment and even actually showing hints of smugness. For me, that meant shedding off his worldliness, his agenda, his fears, the established perceptions society has clothed him with. He then produces this box where he takes out two skirts: one red and one white, a wig, a powder container, and a flower band. He proceeds put all these on him, morphing into his alter ego, B. Niyaan.

B. Niyaan sounds phonologically familiar because it is. It is a clever destylization of the Cebuano word biniyaan, which means abandoned. Taking two and two, Russ Ligtas puts Russ Ligtas aside to finally go back to the things and feelings he has abandoned. He becomes the personification of his secrets, his desires, his frustrations. He deconstructs gender by giving life to an entity that is either man or woman but at the same time is neither. We can literally see his pain, hear his anger, feel his catharsis. We remember his memories. We look at his soul and in the process of seeing it, see ours.

I felt like I held my breath during his entire show, and my skin crawled with his slightest movements. The venue, cozy and small as it was, felt like it was closing in on me even more until there was only me and him in the room. I could still hear the jeeps screeching outside, the utensils clanking downstairs, and the the air-conditioning harmlessly humming, but they were all rendered unfamiliar by the silence in the room---the silence I, and every else, unconsciously embraced. And it was that silence, only penetrated now and then by sharp notes of an unfamiliar opera, that allowed us to forget ourselves and identify with B. Niyaan who was in pain and bleeding.

For two hours, I had lost my soul. What was sitting there was the me that belonged to the world---physical and corporeal. When B.Niyaan personified pain, anger, and catharsis through physical movements, music, and lights, it wasn't just his. It was the same pain, same anger, same reconciliation of feeling that I keep to myself. After he made us affirm to his transformation by making us chant with him, he finally dressed back as Russ Ligtas and put B. Niyaan back inside the box. The final instruction of the exercise say, "repeat when necessary."

I know I'm not obliged to analyze his performance or any other form of art for that matter, but something about tonight tugged something hard inside me that I never even knew existed. As I walked home with the streets fresh from the rain, I found myself thinking of the things in my life that I have abandoned and when the right time is for me to face them again. And when that time comes, I can only hope to be as brave and as honest as Russ Ligtas.

On an Ironic Slump

I've been fairly lazy these past couple of weeks. I haven't changed my sheets in over a month; my laundry heap is almost at height with my portable closet, which is now starting to fall off; I can't concentrate on my job for more than an hour; and I feel stagnant and stuck in a muddle of boring constancy.

A friend asked me last night if I believed the world would end in December. I told her a part of me does. Why else would I feel so restless about my job that isn't even stressing me out? Why would I suddenly feel anxious about seeing the world and ticking things off my bucket list? And why do I find so much significance in the fact that I was born on a Thursday, my birthday this year is on a Thursday, and the world will end exactly the day after that? And today is Thursday, I might as well add.

Last weekend I was in Palawan with a friend. The trip was everything (well, sort of) I imagined it would be. I needed that break, but inasmuch as I hoped it would magically rejuvenate me back to being office-inspired, it didn't. It probably made me worse. I am getting less and less productive every day, and I feel bad about it. My company and my client deserve better performance; they had been so understanding and gracious about my whims.

I don't exactly where or how I would attribute this condition. Maybe it's the work; I've always known office work is never going to cut it for me. Maybe it's the loneliness, but I have long given up about him and me that it doesn't really bother me anymore.

Or maybe it's the disappointment.

Of all the people who congratulated me when I graduated and tried to tell me what I should do with my life, I was the one with the biggest expectations. I wanted to try the little jobs for a while just to see if I could do it. And I'd learned that I could, but with so much doubt and weight and lethargy. I am meant for something huge, of this I am sure. I guess I'm just really tired of figuring out what it is.

So now I'm trying to look for distractions. Archery? The cello? Kenjutsu! Maybe even boxing.

Thoughts of a Twenty-Something-Year-Old

When I was eleven, I always thought that when I became twenty, I will have had a high-paying, stable job, a boyfriend, a substantial amount of money in the bank, and a particular degree of certainty in my life. Now that I'm almost twenty-two, I look at my life at a safe distance and realize these things: 1) I don't have a relatively high-paying job, which is fortunately stable at least; 2) I'm still frustratingly single; 3) I'm broke, and 4) I'm unsure, insecure, and pathetically lethargic. 

Being over twenty is sitting on a fence between two space-time continuums. On one side, there's the hissy teenager I've left behind a long time ago; and on the other, the responsible adult I'm still not ready to become.  So where exactly am I? 

I'll tell you.

I am sitting on a swivel chair made specifically to gradually deteriorate all the structures of my spine, which will eventually lead to early osteoporosis. I am rapping on a dusty keyboard, writing things about motor turbines and energy rating systems and heat transfer. I try to drink a different brand of instant coffee every morning to try to convince myself that every day is different. I censure my own lack of motivation because I know that I'm lucky to even have a job when so many others don't—even if it's not the one I imagined I'd be having right now.

That's the thing about being a twenty-something-year-old. There are so many places to go, so many things to do, so many people to meet that we ironically end up in a slump . We settle for the hackneyed process we undergo every day, and we tolerate the mediocrity we once despised. We are at that time where we could be anywhere we want to be and do whatever the hell we want to do, and yet here we are—in a poorly insulated office, staring at a blinking cursor and making up excsuses for being unproductive.

I know a lot of people expected great things from me when I graduated. Believe me, I did too. But all I can really do is just have faith that the day will come when the person my eleven-year-old self imagined will somehow grow out of the impulsive, prone to platitudes, lazy mess that I am right now. After all, I can't rush greatness. Whether I'm just conceited or it really is meant to be, I know something big waits for me out there. I mean, God didn't make me acutely aware and smart to make Powerpoints forever, right? Right. 

So I better stick to his plan and just live without overthinking the concept of living. What did Miguel say to me again when I left Xlibris? He said life is a cheating bastard, and I have to beat it at its own game. So life, you have met your bitch.

Regret

I am imagining myself five years from now.


 I am sitting at a train station somewhere in Europe, waiting to be transported to God-knows-where. I look at the strangers passing by and enjoy their strangeness. I catch myself and realize that I am the strange one here. I am like a shrub horribly mixed up with gigantic trees. I look like an Asian junior high school student lost in the metropolis and can't hope of asking help because she doesn't speak English. But I speak great English, probably better than most people here. Perhaps I'm in Belgium. Or Brussels.


I heave out a sigh and revel in the visible puff of air that comes out. It's cold, so it must be nearing winter or something. I search the faces before me, and I see him appear like the dream that he always was—fragile and susceptible to dissolution. A feeling creeps all over me, overriding the alien feeling one is wont to get when they are million miles away from home. I smile at the association and realize that I still love him after all this time. His cheeky, awkward self.


I want to remember memories that lovers remember when they're apart: walks while holding hands, kisses, gentle touches, the whole compendium of the clichéd and the romantic. But another feeling washes over me, something sharp and heavy and painful. I don't remember us ever being lovers. We were just friends, always just friends. I feel my eyes sting with tears, and I let them fall because I deserve it. I deserve to cry over our could-have-beens because it's partly my fault. 


The feeling ebbs and slowly fades, giving way to the numbness that has allowed me to be here and pretend that I'm happy being alone. The word that I don't want to say hangs on my lips, begging me desperately to let it go. I decide against recognizing it, but it's there. It's there when I eat in a restaurant by myself. It's there when I sit on a park bench and unintentionally observe lovers being lovers. It's there when I look at pictures and remember conversations over beer and cocktails. It's here now, sitting on my chest, suffocating me softly. I open my mouth and my tongue hesitantly slides against my palate. 


"Regret."


The train finally arrives, and I am back on a swivel chair, rapping on a keyboard.

My Writing in Retrospect

Reading my blog posts from way back in 2006 makes me cringe. I wrote just like a child—so immature and foolish. Who would blame me anyway? I was in high school, and my hormones were starting to realize what they're for, and I had every right to make disgusting blog updates about puppy love, bad days, and food. I can't believe how much profanity I used! I wrote in fuck whenever I had a want for the proper adjectives to make the proper purple patches. I wrote about my childish romantic feelings, which all seem so ridiculous and stupid to me now. I wrote in sticky keys. My ideas were a mess. My paragraphs were obese and visually appalling.

I can't really say I've improved much over the years. I still can't find the right adjectives to form the right purple patches. And I've sort of given up and have decided to be a follower of Wordsworth's "rural subject" and "plain language." I find that I like writing using simple words because then I don't have to pretend to be really good when I know that I'm really not. I'm not the type who can use the big words like lacuna or antidisestablishment. Even though they're at my disposal, I can't seem to bring out pinnacle or endemic when I need them. This sometimes makes me wonder if I really can write at all. I don't (or ever will) write in sticky keys anymore, and I have had training in copyediting, so my punctuations are more or less groomed. I have managed to trim down my paragraphs too to a sexier appearance.

But are my ideas really there? Am I present in my words? It sucks to admit that I don't have the answer to that. When I read other people my age, my words don't hold a candle to theirs. Mine seem too bland and just mediocre compared to theirs that contain long and difficult adjectives and lively expletives.

Someday

She feels the weight of the backpack as she walks steadily under the gaze of Persian pyramids, holding a map that points to nowhere in particular—perhaps to a noisy market or another crowded street. She looks at the strangers working around her and wonders about their life. How many kids do they have? Where do they live? What is their mother like? Do they like dogs?

She inhales the air thick with sweat, goat manure, and humdrum labor. And she exhales her freedom. Nobody here likes to speak English. Some Farsi words are too ancient and lenghty to pronounce all in one breath, so she doesn't speak at all, reveling in the homely boisterousness of the people's domestic routine.

Where would she go from here? Her steps are calculated, her fingers snapping subconsciously as they are wont to do when she gets nervous. It feels like summer. Maybe, maybe it is.

What Makes You Happy?

On this random Monday afternoon, I came across a question that has haunted me all my life: what makes you happy?

Wise men say that happiness is a choice, a state of mind—slightly like freedom but a little more tangible. It can come from the strangest things, from the most random moments, and from people we've known all our lives but still sometimes feel like strangers.

I am happy when I write. When I am lost, and somewhere in that vertical axis of nothingness, I am found. I am happy when I get reconciled with ideas and when I discover the right words to bring them to life.

I am happy when I hear people laugh because it is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.

I am happy when I hold someone's hand— to be reminded that I'm grounded and that I'm still here. I am happy when I am embraced and kissed.

I am happy when it rains and there is good music and coffee to keep you warm.

I am happy when I don't have to wake up very early in the morning.

I am happy when he's with me, even if we're just friends. Yes, I can be happy that at least we're friends.

I am happy when I am in the familiar presence of my family and friends.

I am happy with long and meaningful conversations.

I am happy in a four-walled classroom, in a vandalized chair, with theories that deconstruct the world around me.

I am happy when I get some time to think and immerse myself in the necessary pointlessness of life.

I am happy right now, with the miracle that is a new morning, a brand new chance to change and do something.

So be happy.

Thank You for the Music

I feel resolutely happy today. And I haven't felt like this in a very long time. So thank you, Rachmaninoff. Thank you, music, for bringing me back to myself.



It just makes you feel thankful and takes you back to why you're here in the first place. Everything exists for a reason. There are no coincidences, just miracles. Little touches of the divine. Something to let you know that it helps to smile every morning and remember that every day is special.

Thank you, God.

Downing the Bottle

I don't think I can put into words exactly how bad I feel right now. It's partly because of the embarrassing situations I have again managed to get myself into when I got drunk last Saturday night and because of the post-effects on my Sunday.

I'm above pretending to be drunk just to see how much people will make fun of me. I've proved that they will laugh at you but then take care you after. I actually like lasting longer in drinking sessions because the conversations take on really interesting turns, and I wouldn't miss out on that. But I can't help it if I get dizzy after three shots. I've always been a cheap drunk . . . and a bad one too.

I wouldn't have minded waking up yesterday with a major thumping headache; I've been in that sheet one too many times. But this time, this time, I missed something that I was looking forward to for three weeks with someone.

My 10-kilometer marathon with Hannah.

Thinking about it breaks my heart in pieces. The first thing I did when I woke up and found out that it was almost seven was cry. I had to cry. Drinking all that lethal combo of Gatorade and rhum wasn't worth missing the marathon. It just wasn't worth it.

Give Me Music

This is one of my favorite songs. It reminds me of so many things all at once.

Life News

Gained three pounds since last week.

I blame coffee and the nice old lady who knocks on our office door every 2:30 PM selling snacks that look too inviting to ignore. I usually buy two bananas, but they are dipped so generously in caramel that I might as well have bought two doughnuts. And it isn't only for the sake of eating that I indulge myself with an afternoon snack; it's mostly to ward off sleep—which took up a lot of my time at work last week. Thankfully, I was so well rested last weekend that I could probably stay up for one whole day.

Plus, I'm really broke (this doesn't stop me from eating though) from the theft last week and from that trip last weekend. It has me a little worried about that trip to Palawan. I'm thinking of pawning my class ring, but I honestly cringe at this idea. If all else fails, however, I guess I will have no choice.

I am currently in the state of pushing my lifestyle down a notch. No parties. No shopping. No movies. No pigging out in plush restaurants. No out-of-town trips. I realized that it feels strange and ironically enfeebling to stay in all day when you're so used to being out and about on Saturdays. It doesn't help either that on weekends I miss him very terribly. This will sound corny, but I truthfully feel more complete in his company. And my weekends, regardless whether they're awkward, silent, or generally confusing and painful (for my heart), are now irrevocably tied up to him, dependent on his invites and lack thereof. I've been so used to his company that I just can't enjoy being alone anymore. And it sucks because I don't like feeling lonely when I'm alone. Before we started going out on dates (I don't know what else you'd call being alone together for most of the day), when I'm at the mall and watching a movie by myself, I don't feel sad or pathetic; I feel independent and empowered. Now I feel aimless and deficient.


Going back to my considerable weight increase (considerable because it's not easy losing it again dammit), I am subscribing to Fr. Rex's homily last Sunday, at least those that I remember.

1. More walk, less ride.

Would do it willingly if the office is but a walking distance. Unfortunately, it's two-rides far, so I'm applying this advice on other circumstances. I love walking anyway, so shouldn't be hard.

2. More deeds, less words.

Hmn, I'm really more of a words kind of person, so I'm not sure how I'll go around this. Probably, shut the hell up when you don't need to speak. Or don't make promises (especially to yourself) that you won't fight for to keep.

3. More chewing, less eating.

This is good advice! See, according to this book I've read, taking twice the time to eat your food makes you full twice as fast. I'm a fast-eater, so I tend to eat more to get satisfied. I tried that this lunch. It's a little hard when you're feeling ravenous, but getting yourself distracted, for instance texting or watching TV, will help make you chew your food longer, and hence make you feel full sooner.

4. More prayers, less worries.

This one's my favorite. I felt really awful last Sunday missing church because I was feeling lazy. I've also noticed that my prayers aren't that solemn or long anymore. It's like I'm giving God words out of a template. Sometimes, I'm ashamed to admit, I just resort to "Our Father" or "Glory Be." I know it's not really wrong if you mean it, but God deserves more than a pre-made prayer. He deserves something personal and heartfelt. When I'm tired, my heart falls asleep before it can begin to open itself to prayer. But I'm always praying—when I talk to myself (to God, really), I guess that's some sort of prayer. And it does lessen your worries because you know that you don't have to face them by yourself.

Now I feel awful cursing. Oh but I guess I'm allowed to some degree of profanity.

Get your ass back to work, bitch!

Stop Smiling!

He talked to me again today. No, actually, he made a joke that I didn't even hear. I know I should have laughed anyway, but I was so caught off guard that I just stared at him like a clueless dork (I was wearing my glasses) and half-murmured, "Huh?"

And he said, half-laughing, "That was a joke." And I just half-chuckled because I wouldn't want to be over-responsive like last time when he said "good morning" quietly and I practically screamed my good morning back. That was embarrassing!

He's quite tall too! When we were struggling to fit ourselves in the narrow pathway of the kitchen, he towered over me with his probably almost 6-feet height. Oh, but his voice! And that childlike, weirdly familiar laugh!

Okay, I have to stop smiling. Stop smiling, I say! And get your ass back to work.

Endless Morning

Just beyond
the thunder
is a slow pluck of a
guitar string
and a finger
heavily pressed
against the black
keys of an old
piano.
I sit there
remembering
a little girl
who once danced
in the rain
and her dog
whose fur
licked sunshine.

Compared to Rocks and Mountains

“What are men compared to rocks and mountains?”

It was Elizabeth (Pride and Prejudice) who said this, and I knew then that she was right. Nature gives you a different kind of romance that is more peaceful, more pure, and more profound. It’s a love that transcends the physical and is almost paranormal—like somehow you’ve been touched by something divine.

This weekend, my friends and I went to a remote village to try their new adventure park. It was quite far from the city; we felt like we passed around ten mountains or so. But when we got there, the seemingly endless road trip was well worth listening to annoying kids sing Justin Bieber songs and narrate their life story to friends who were obviously not interested.

The whole park was, according to our very friendly guide, 133 hectares wide and is owned by a Chinese family whom we had the pleasure of meeting that day (such a lovely lot). They offer several activities that satiate adrenaline and adventure highs that some of us are wont to look for after being stuck in constancy for so long—a price that comes with living in the city. The adventure rates and packages are quite reasonable as well, so it was a perfect getaway.

We did trekking, caving, zipline, and horseback riding. I had the most fun during the zipline and horseback riding. I’ve always wanted to ride a horse and see if it feels good like the movies make it appear. The truth is it hurt! I couldn’t feel my legs for three minutes after I dismounted. I think it was probably because my legs are too short; my feet didn’t even reach the frickin’ stirrup! But all was well.

I also discovered when we were walking toward the cave and during the caving activity and especially during the zipline that I wasn’t that afraid of heights. My stomach turned a couple of knots of course, but I wasn’t dizzy or nauseous like I’d normally feel when I’m climbing a high staircase. I think my fear of falling isn’t triggered because I know that when I fall, I’m going to land on soft ground. In contrast, if I fall on a staircase, I’d hit my head on concrete and get brain damage or die.

The weather was cooperative too. The sun would be smoldering for one second and be covered by nimbus clouds the next. It never rained on us, which was great (but then I secretly hoped it would). Ah, how the air smelled good! It just makes you want to roll on the grass until gravity takes you somewhere nice.

We got home that day with little cuts from the grasses but with memories that we bragged to everyone on Facebook.

On Sunday, Hannah and I joined an eco-marathon whose proceeds are going to a team of engineering students who will be building a car that doesn't run on petroleum. We ran the whole six kilometers; it was so much fun! And I'm sure my body appreciated the sweat (which was offset by the pounds of food I ate after *groan*).

But the best thing about this weekend was the part where I walked drenched in the morning rain. I felt so beautiful—like I was meeting nature for the first time after being separated for who-knows-how-long, like meeting an old friend. The streets were empty too, so I was at liberty to smile and close my eyes without having to fear about people thinking I'm some kind of wet lunatic. I got home that morning feeling a special kind of happiness, the kind that words will never be able to describes, the kind that only God can give. It's the happiness of knowing that God is there, holding me with the rain, whispering to me through the wind, loving me by opening my eyes to the beauty that he made just for me to behold.

What are men compared to rocks and mountains? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Hasta la Vista

I am alarmed at the rate of madness my mind has been running on these past couple of days. I want to try everything! I just booked a flight to Palawan for god's sake, and I don't even know how I'm going to save money for that trip! But the feeling is majestic--yes, that can only be the word to describe it. For the first time in my life,I made a decision that was just me. I didn't even gave myself room to rationalize my choice; I just frickin' made it! And it feels wonderful.

I don't know why I'm suddenly feeling the urgency to live my life this year. I want to learn a language, travel, meet new people, fall in love and be hurt again. And even though I don't really have the money to do all those things, I feel as if it doesn't matter as much as my willingness and enthusiasm does. I'm high on freedom, on life, and on the things that are waiting for me in places I've never been.

They say March is the month of growing things. So I'm going to grow in the best possible way I can--in places that will not hold the certainty that comes with comfort and with people I will just have to trust.

Wish me luck then.

A Rose for a Thought

Today I asked my workmate LJ if I could have the rose that someone she probably didn't like gave her on Valentines. I feel a strong attachment to that blooming huge rose and those white rosebuds. Even if they aren't mine, I'll make sure they live until they outgrow their beauty. I love flowers. If I had a garden, I would spend whole day planting.

Wardrobe Malfunction

My portable closet has been falling on me for a week. I told it to wait until I get my next paycheck, but it really collapsed for real this morning. I sneaked in looking for used closets yesterday while working but found they were way beyond my wage capacity.

I fought myself against asking Mom for money, but I don't really have much choice. Moreover, it's Valentines and I need to do something (like shopping for another portable closet) to distract myself from feeling a little lonely seeing all those happy couples.

Someone always manages to give me flowers on Valentines, but I won't raise my hopes today. I'll probably buy junkfood later and enjoy the Leverkusen-Barcelona game on YouTube.

I meant what I said that I'm not bitter today, that I am happy despite the things that are missing in my life. But when everything reminds you of that deficiency, I guess it's normal to feel a tad bit sad. All singletons earned that right, just like couples can bury themselves into each other's neck today without fear of being judged.

Oh well, I guess happy Valentines then.

Drop a Heart

I guess I'm wont to admit that I expected this year's Valentines to see some kind of improvement. If going on five unplanned awkward dates that end up in me trying desperately to convince myself not to read too much into it counts as an improvement, then I guess I must have done something right. Or maybe not.

My girl friends and I watched Something Borrowed yesterday, and I hated myself for clinging to that hope that I might be reading him right after all, that somehow at some point, he might have felt the same way for me. I am just so tired of waiting and hoping and pathetically expecting more from this complicated thing between us and being disappointed every time.

I hate that I feel happy when people mistake us for a couple. I hate it even more when he becomes all defensive and immediately corrects them with "We're just friends." It sucks to be "just his friend." It's fucking heartbreaking.

But I have learned to be absolutely casual around him, to act unbelievably platonic and loud when we talk because I know somehow that the silence will sound haunting, and it will create some sort of awkward distance between us.

In short, I will spend this Valentines as I always do—alone with some plausible excuse to ward off people, especially myself, from feeling sorry for me. But underneath those layers of being too fucking smart, being happy, being okay with being single, being afraid of relationships, being "just" a friend—I am vulnerable like all other girls really are. I want to be able to blush and be disgustingly sweet in public places. Because the truth is I don't really hate seeing couples being couples on Valentines. I don't hate seeing girls bringing bouquets and chocolate boxes. In fact, I revel in those sights. I love the gooey looks and the soft kisses and the gentle touching of hands.

Though it makes me want to have someone to call special even more, it also reminds me that someday, somehow, it will be my turn to have something as special as the reason why Valentines, and all other things in a philosophical perspective, exists.

Coffee Stains

Thank God it’s Friday. Really, really thank God.

I need to catch up on some sleep. My body is not yet used to waking up deliciously early in the morning, and it still wants to sleep late at night. It might be a contributing factor why I’m still not yet completely well. I just consumed three rolls of tissue (none of them Kleenex, I might add), and I wake up in the middle of the night thankful that it’s still in the middle of the night and I don’t have to really wake up yet—and disappointed that I even woke up in the first place. It’s been like this since Monday. No straight sleep.

My fruit diet never includes coffee, but I’m almost always sleepy at nine in the morning—at work no less. And I can’t afford to recklessly doze off because 1) my boss has made it a habit to pass by my station every 30 minutes, 2) I have to maintain the good and “timely” work that my client says I’ve been doing, and 3) we’re just five in the office and I’m sure my workmates will notice if I unconsciously bang my head against the computer monitor.

They also gave me a mug, which I’m sure was a freebie from the tissue company. (Because it has “smooth bathroom tissue” magnanimously splattered on its front.) It looks outrageously boring, but it does a good job of keeping me alive and warm. And I like how the coffee stains look splashed against its dirty-white roundness.

I’m glad I don’t have to say “it’s just another day at work.” They give me different things to do every day, so I am kept at suspense until I open my mail. It has been a good—more than good—first week.

Now back to work, woman!

Marked Fragile

There are times when I like being sick—usually when I’m at home and can sleep whenever I want as long as I want. I find however that I never get sick during these times. I get sick on my first day on the job, on the Christmas party, on Sinulog. I get sick when no one’s there to take care of me and make sure I’m drinking my medicine and getting enough sleep.

I hate nursing myself basically because I don’t want to nurse myself. I feel so weak and ugly and disgusting when I’m sick, and I don’t like being all those things.

This weekend, Aya and I had to go to the emergency room from food poisoning. We were throwing up every five minutes. I had probably vomited all the food I’d eaten during that day that when I threw up the last few times, nothing came out but violent spurts of air that seemed to drain my stomach of its contents. I tried swallowing pills, but I vomited them too. Mom called and told us we should just go to the hospital. When the lab results came out, we discovered that nothing was wrong with us. Doctor said we just probably ate something bad and asked us not to eat cold and spoiled food. Noted!

Then Sunday came and I woke up with a sore throat. I knew what that meant. I probably gargled at least a glass of salt solution; it still persisted. Come Monday and my nose is starting to congest. Tuesday and I'm weak. Now I'm with a fever, a flu, and a cough. Hopefully this doesn't progress to asthma because then I'll be coughing like it's the end of the world. I wouldn't want that. My cousins who will be studying wouldn't want that. My workmates who will be working wouldn't want that.

Curse this weak, weak body! I hate feeling so fragile!

Whistle While You Work

It's only been two days, but I feel so comfortable at my new workplace already. I don't feel intimidated or pressured or threatened. I feel relaxed, appreciated, and secure. I guess this is the reason why I didn't last very long with Xlibris. When I was still there, I felt like I had to overcome mountains every day without really knowing why, without ever pausing to check if I'm still all right, if I can still go on. But here, I feel taken care of. My boss checks on my progress every once in a while, and not the kind that has you stiffened scared like an idiot. He monitors me like a child, looking into my work and asking if I have problems. He guides me step-by-step into the process, as if teaching me how to walk. And I'm slowly standing up. My work environment feels so wide, feels like it has so much room for me to learn and grow. This is the kind of environment where I thrive—where I know I will rise and be great.

And that was exactly what this job has given me: an opportunity. I'm the first and only person working on this projet for now, and I feel so privileged that they chose me to define the standards. I haven't been assigned to the real deal yet but so far the feedback has been good on my performance. My bosses say they expect a lot from me, and I'm in a place where I know and am willing to meet and exceed their expectations.

On my first talk with the COO, he asked for my commitment. I hesitated because I didn't know if I could live up to my word if I gave it. But I chose to believe in myself and said yes. And I'm glad I did. I feel so positive about my work that I don't mind waking up very early in the morning. I could definitely last here for two years—maybe even more. Let's cross our fingers and see!

Those Days

I'm in one of those moods where I just need to rap on the keyboard and rant. I really wanted to write a post about Sinulog and truly how moving an experience it is. But my Sinulog spirit has worn out and replaced by a hollow anticipation of work. The company hasn't "exactly" hired me yet, but I did such a good job during that work simulation test that—modesty aside—it would be foolish to let me go. I'm very confident about my skill set, and if they don't want me, I'm sure I could find another job in a heartbeat. The thing though is, I'm not really sure where I'm headed right now. Everything in my life—work, boys, friends—they're all a little surreal. I used to think that I know the different versions of myself when I'm with my different set of friends. Now I find myself confused, asking myself if this who I really am, if this is what I want people to see me as. And am I really afraid of stereotypes or am I actually obsessed with them that I try to fit in every category?

I just feel so cowardly right now. The first moment of inconvenience, the first sight of a glitch, and I'm running scared. I'm running away. Always have been. And what sucks is I'm not really going anywhere. I just don't want to stay in one place that I allow myself to be sucked into the illusion that I have somewhere good to go. To feed my ego, I have lie to myself that I can survive without my friends, but they can't do much without me. But I'm wrong. Everyone in my life would be happy without me. I'm just a passing, a memory that will stay alive but will also wither away. I have to admit that I'm not that important, not that smart, not that special.

To be honest, I really don't know why I can't let myself believe that people can genuinely care about me. When they try to get close, I always think of the day when they'll go cold and leave me wondering if we ever even had something to begin with. Friendship is something that is still unbelievably strange to me. I have so many people who smile with me in pictures and laugh with me over beer, but I always find myself drying my own tears and facing my own problems. No one ever asks if I'm okay and actually want to know the answer.

Or.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just paranoid because I'm so extremely jealous of people who have best friends and boyfriends. Maybe I'm just sad because I still can't fucking convince myself to feel beautiful. And I'm trying. I have to try. Maybe my friends are all there if I just call them. And maybe it's just me, too damned proud to admit that I'm vulnerable and too cynical to believe that someone cares. And maybe it's the shallowness of it all—of love and life and everything that hangs in between. No one ever ones to dive deeper because we're afraid of drowning, of not knowing what those waters hold. Because reality isn't like the movies after all; things never turn out the way you expect them to. And you're almost always disappointed.

This post is pointless, and maybe that's why it's necessary for me to write this. I have to give myself the chance to enjoy the pointlessness of my life. I have to open myself to the people who make an effort to break my walls and see the wretchedness behind it. I am a mess; most people don't know that because all they see is a shrew who knows how to down a bottle and talk. But I am mostly an idiot. An idiot who is too proud.

The Beginning of the End

I don't want to think that the world will end this year. But if it's God's will, then so be it. I'm not very confident that I'll be one of the lucky people on judgment day, but 2011 was such a special year that I don't have that kind of fear that makes you want to be violently religious all of a sudden. I doubt religion can save me later, but my faith has always done miracles for me. And I believe in goodness and love and family. I've had these things and more. I have the best family in the world. I've done things that have made myself and the people who matter to me proud. I've been on a date. I can die happily anytime.

I can't begin to describe how special and wonderful this year's Christmas and New Year have been. I've never felt closer to my family in these past few weeks than ever before. I'm so in love with every one of them—my cousins and uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews. I'm more open to my mom and my stepdad. I've had pretty funny conversations over beer with my friends. Mishy even visited. 2011 was one of the best years in my life. And for this I'll be forever grateful.

But this post is my perfunctory New Year's resolution post. So I shan't dally no longer.

1. Never lie (if you can help it).
2. Often laugh.
3. Always love.

I doubt I'll get to keep number 1. I've already broken it in fact, thus the parenthetical element. I've always been a good liar, and I've gotten even better at it. It's just always been a part of me that it's practically impossible to get away. Because lying is what makes people listen to me. I tell them what they want to hear, and they almost all the time love me for it. I'm not really proud of it, but sometimes it helps. It helps me cope. So I will try NOT to lie if I can help it. If there's really no reason to say something that isn't true, then I'll shut up.

I love laughing. It's one of the things that remind you why life is beautiful.

I'm sure I'll keep number 3 until the world ends. Oh yes, pun intended. I guess the real point to number three is not just say I love people but more importantly show them. I'm also extending this resolution to myself. I need to get over my insecurities about being pretty. I need to give myself a chance to think and feel beautiful. I want to respect myself more because in the end, that's all I'm going to have.

People change, and the things that people want change. I change ever so easily that sometimes I'm confused about who I really am and what I really want. I guess I'll try and get along with the idea of constancy and that need to have and feel something familiar every day. I don't always have to change; sometimes I just have to make do with what I am for the moment. I realize this now.

Twenty-twelve, I pray you be good to me and everybody else. Whether or not you're the beginning of the end, we will welcome you with courage and prayer as you come and pass. Here's to another fruitful year! :-)