These Boys Look Familiar?

Who wouldof thought, right? Click on the image to fly to the whole collection. It's almost criminal for art like this to be stuck in just one community. Spread the love!


Thanks to a friend who shall remain anonymous for sharing this. :-)

An Exercise In Passive Aggression

I have been more aggressive than passive this week more than any other week in my whole life -- channeled at the wrong people, unfortunately -- and I suppose I have you to thank for that. I love you fiercely, the Universe knows that, but sometimes it gets terribly frustrating the way you think of me as less of a person because of what I am and how I feel for you. This might sound like a foot in the mouth now, but from the way you've spoken to me the past few days, I can't help but feel offended and completely unjustified.

For instance, it really didn't sound fair when you told me the other day you can't "waste your time trying to help me anymore." First of all, I wasn't asking for your help. I never did, ever since we met. Not that I'm ungrateful -- the Universe knows how much I appreciate your choice to stay within the swirl and swivel of absolute fuck-up that is my life -- but to point that out and slap me in the face with it? That was thoughtless, rude, and almost mean. It made me feel like a clueless, pathetic charity case whose worker suddenly decided to verbalize how ridiculous and pretentious and unoriginal his life was and that he should get back to dealing with his own issues instead of working with sad and hopeless little people who did not ask for his "guidance" -- but thank him -- anyway.

Also, I don't think you understand nor acknowledge the fact that I am a person capable of reason and coherent thought just because I am one of the legions of guys who have fallen in love with you. Sure you tell me I'm smart, but see, I don't think you believe that because in your mind, I belong to that exclusive little box you have for people like me. Now, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, I know -- I understand -- I can't make you reciprocate how I feel for you. I'm owning it, and it's completely my fault that I've made it out to be such a long and painful process, but finally after almost three years I got it to my head that You Do Not Like Me.

And it wasn't some lovelorn 16-year old plea for you to like me back when I told you the other night that I liked you -- especially when it was in response to a question that you asked. If in case you don't remember, you were asking me why I don't bother fixing my life anymore -- again, another attempt at "guiding" me I supposed, but I took the bait and answered you nevertheless. I told you in response, because I felt there really was no reason for me to fix it then, since you -- my insensitive little raison d'etre -- were not going to be a part of it anyway.

Do you remember your knee-jerk reaction? Do you remember what you said? "I'm not attracted to you, P." I wanted to punch you in the face then and there and shout, "I KNOW THAT, YOU ASSHOLE, HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING? Can't you get over yourself for one second and actually listen to what I'm saying?"

Sigh. You really didn't have to say it again. It hurt everytime you say it. But I suppose it was partly my fault. I could be really patronizing whenever I talk to you. I'd follow you like a stray dog. I can't fully place the blame on you for seeing me as someone not worth wasting your time on -- because I act like I am someone not worth wasting your time on. I hear it over and over again, "You're too nice, P." From you, from the other guys I've dated, "but..." But I don't have to hear anything else anymore. "I'm not attracted to you, P," that's what you said. I wanted to punch you in the face because in my mind, what I heard was, "It's not my fault your life is screwed, P."

We can't really be friends, you said so yourself. That's another thing I have to learn to respect now. No matter how much we talk about music, about books, no matter how many papers I help you with, I guess we can't really pin each other down as friends. With you, there's "Friends," and there's "People Who Fell In Love With Me But I'm Keeping Around Anyway." Knowing where I stand in your life makes me feel a whole lot better.

Just Friends

From xkcd, Dec. 5th posting:


The scary thing is, I can see my pale-skinned face all hollow-eyed and thin-lipped superimposed on the eighth panel.

Things Worth Staying Alive For

Last weekend was made of all kinds of awesome, I couldn't even get a serious minute to sit down and dissect everything that happened over the course of a day past on my journal. Each time I'd get home (early morning, usually -- mere minutes after my aunts have gotten up and are only starting to set up our sari-sari store), I'd be itching to get things written down but exhaustion kept on winning me over. But now that weekend's done and I'm back to living my lazy, languid, and generally unproductive life, I can sit myself down and do a proper recording of events. So while things are still fresh on my mind, let's start with the awesomeness that happened on --


Friday

Actually, if I wanted to be really accurate, it all began on Thursday. Barny, who started working near where I live, wanted to hang out before he went home, so we met up at the Salcedo park to talk and ogle the cute evening joggers in the vicinity. He told me about a party that was happening Friday evening for people in the ad industry and he said he could sneak me in. I reluctantly agreed, but I kind of wanted to go because I knew the food in these parties were sure to be really good and definitely there won't be any shortage of eye candy either.

I wasn't disappointed. Sure, the weather was being mean at the earlier parts of the evening, but gradually it gave way to a clear night sky and crisp, cooling, constant breeze and the Universe let me and Barny have our fun. The food was amazing, and my senses were drowning in a veritable visual feast. Of course there was free beer too! Add to that the intoxicating sensation of having crashed a party, and my brain was shooting out fireworks in every spectra of color.

And if that wasn't enough, I unexpectedly met two people I greatly admire -- Ms. Leigh Reyes and Sir McVie! Turns out that Barny knew Ms. Leigh back from when he was still working as an intern for Adobo Magazine, and Sir McVie is one of Ms. Leigh's good friends.

A little backgrounder: When I was still in college, just about the time I started The White Room, I posted a poem authored by Ms. Leigh entitled Looking for Lightning. It was originally published in a Filipino literary publication called Pen & Ink, and, as the Universe is wont to do, I encountered it at a time when I needed to see something good and beautiful in my life. Here is a reposting:

Looking for lightning,
you stumble constantly.

You walk the nights,
inviting electricity.

Each flash you name
after the lovers you left,
the lovers who left you,

the friends whose last names
you have filed and forgotten.

What can I tell you
that no one else has tried?

I stare at my hands,
their embossed veins.
We have newly met,
under this tree dripping
with the day's rain.
I didn't ask for your soul,

but here you are,
pushing it towards me
with eyes I cannot believe
can still see.

An old man hurries by with his cart
of bottle goldfish. A veiled woman
walks towards us, stops,
moves away.

I want to follow them, but
you grasp my arm.
My heart locks its exits.
You laugh and ease your grip,
then point up beyond the leaves.

I have to look, and there it is.
Streaks flare across the dusk.
You are gone before I can speak.
I close my eyes and see a red smear:
It could be blood.
It could be light.

I have to admit, I still feel the same prickling at the back of my neck everytime I read it. I told Ms. Leigh how much of an inspiration this poem was to me, and how glad I was to have gone to a party I wasn't invited to. :-P She raised a lot of points for me to think about if ever I wanted to pursue writing. I just hope my tender brain wasn't too addled by the amount of beer and lechon I consumed that night.

Sir McVie, on the other hand, is someone I have just recently begun reading. Before this year, I have only been exclusively following the blogs of people I know. Besides, there weren't a lot of gay bloggers then, or at least, I didn't bother to look. But as the force and reach of online journals evolved, the voices of gay Filipino bloggers began to solidify across cyberspace. Sir McVie's blog has been a booming voice in the chorus everyone heard -- gay or straight. He had wise eyes and a firm handshake, and he had the voice and demeanor of a stern but kind mentor. I was deeply honored meeting him last Friday.

Barny and I stayed until about 1:00am. There were still a lot of people, and I would have gladly stayed if only to get more alcohol and cholesterol in my system, but Barny had another party to go to and I promised my mother I'd eat dinner at home. Our hearts were full of nothing but happy however, and we still had something to look forward to for --


Saturday

-- because it was Pride Weekend! This time, I was with Elmer and Barny. Saturday evening found the three of us at Robinson's Place in Manila at around dinnertime where we bumped into Sir McVie once again, who was doing his Christmas shopping while waiting for the after-march party to begin. After killing time at Powerbooks, we decided to roll out and check how far the festivities have gone at Orosa. A few minutes and we came upon the stage where the beauty pageant was being held. All the contestants were absolutely stunning, but unfortunately, that was where our interest ended.

Barny suggested we go to a videoke joint that was nearby and Elmer and I were only glad to agree. The place was very cheap but really cozy and clean, and the selection of songs was very much updated. For the next four hours, we were singing an eclectic playlist of rock tunes and pop songs, from B*Witched (!!!) to Boyzone to Third Eye Blind. Of course Madonna and Kylie were ever-present, with Barny doing incredible renditions of both icons' dance moves.

At around 2:00am, we decided we've had enough wailing and thought it might be time to check out the crowd. Nothing of note held our attention for more than a few minutes, except maybe seeing the occasional acquaintance or someone we knew from our specific individual circles who might or might not have been out. We were almost about to call it a night, but I received a text message from another friend, Mikey, asking us where we were and what our plans for the rest of the evening would be. I told him we were getting bored of Malate and we'd rather pick him up at Makati instead. Half an hour later, the four of us were together having a mid-evening meal at Wendy's along Makati Avenue. Mikey and I haven't seen each other for quite a while so that gave us a chance to catch up.

After everyone was full and recharged, we thought it would be a good idea to hang out a bit more for coffee after, but we all changed our minds at the last minute and trudged on back to Malate to spend the last few hours of the night at Bed. We were there for only about 30 minutes, but it felt like it was the proper way to end the party. Elmer and I got back home 6:00am. We were both trying to stave off sleep because I was supposed to meet a friend, Ly, at 11:00am --


Sunday

I set my alarm to wake me up every hour so I can check if Ly's sent a message, letting me know what time he'll be dropping by. I finally received one by 12:00nn, saying he'd be here at around 2:00pm. That gave me and Elmer enough time to get some more sleep.

Whenver Ly visits, I always make sure to show him new videos I have acquired through the slumming I do online. This time, most of the treasures I had were gay-themed stand-up comedy videos. While walking him through some of my favorites, we were all sharing a cocktail mix of gin and orange juice, which got both Ly and I in a moderately pleasant buzz-state by early evening.

It was already 8:00pm when we all decided to leave -- way past the time I was supposed to meet up with another group of friends. Ly rode with me and Elmer to Metrowalk where he got a cab home. After we saw him off, we got together Momi Dea, Marie, Pong, Kat, and Lester -- friends from the company I used to work with. We got right down to business and ordered a bucket of beer to kick off our group's beta-reunion. Pao, another friend from the same company, joined us at about 1:00am just before we transferred to Jay-J's along Julia Vargas. the festivities ended at about 4:00am with promises of a trip to Baguio, a Christmas Party, and more crazy office stories from the ones left working.

Elmer dropped me off at my place before he headed home to Parañaque. Surprisingly, I wasn't at all exhausted, so I brought a mug of coffee to my room while catching up with what's been happening online. I barely noticed the morning sun tracing lines of yellow light through the cracks of my room's wooden walls -- the cool December air still clinging like a blanket in the atmosphere. I dragged open my window, set my mug down on its ledge, gathered my pillows as I was lying down, and closed my eyes to the first rays of --


Monday

Where I slept the whooooooooooole day. :-)

Dance With The Devil

I finished watching Maou about fifteen minutes ago. I should be sleeping now, but really, how can one sleep after having been made to -- as Kaelyn the Dove from Neverwinter Nights puts it -- wear someone else's skin, calluses and all? Because that is exactly what Maou makes you feel.

A little background on what I'm talking about. Maou, or Devil, is a Japanese drama series based on the original Korean drama, The Devil. It is about Ryou Naruse -- a lawyer whose younger brother was killed eleven years prior to when the series started. He grows up to be a very successful lawyer, and is referred to as the "Angelic Lawyer" by the media. Unknown to the public, however, Ryou has an alter ego -- Makoto Amano -- who, using his brilliant mind, draws out revenge on each person who was involved in his brother's death. Moving against Amano is Naoto Serizawa, a detective with a dark past who believes that a hand shrouded in layers and layers of mystery is controlling the series of deaths happening around him. Shiori Sakita, a woman with the the ability of psychometry, aids him in uncovering the shadows cast among these deaths.

Saying that this is a very painful series to watch is definitely an understatement. While Death Note treats death as a necessary tool -- a cold, unerring knife which a self-proclaimed God has power over, Maou pries it open with fruit-breaking, juices flowing, blood-warmed human hands. Ryou makes sure the terrible amount of pain he has shouldered for eleven years is felt in equal measure by the people who deserve it. And Naoto, bearing the burden of his past, suffers through these deaths as well. Throughout the series, the audience is compelled to empathize for either Ryou or Naoto, but any distinction is eventually blurred as both characters come to realize the human truth about the pain they were both carrying.


Truth by Arashi, Maou Opening Theme
There is one question Maou leaves the audience with at the end of the series though: What did Shiori see?

This Might Have Been Fiction

I was supposed to go out tonight. I wanted to finally get the two books I've been meaning to buy for quite some time now -- especially since I've recently been able to drop by the office again the other day to collect the check for my final pay. Originally I was planning on using that money on a date I was supposed to ask you out for, but after our talk last night over the phone -- you were pissed drunk from partying with your friends and words were marching out from you like some colorful parade -- I figured my heart needed some spoiling, so books it shall be.

I just about finished bathing and I was drying my hair with my towel when your message window winked at the forefront display of my laptop screen. "Are you there?" it said.

It took a while before I thought to respond. I eyed the system tray clock -- 5:44pm. Too early for dinner. We'd spoken earlier this afternoon over the phone; I'd just woken up after only four hours of sleep and I wanted to check up on you, sure as day you'd be nursing a massive hangover. As soon as I said "Hello," you cut me off, saying you were on your way to the gym and then a haircut after that, so you thought you might be home some time after dinner. We hung up after you made me promise to tell you everything you'd said last night before you passed out. I agreed, because there really wasn't much else to say. And now, as a curve ball from the Universe no doubt, you're here and you're online.

"Yes," I typed back. "I just finished taking a bath. You're home earlier than expected. What's up?"

"My hangover won't leave me alone," you said almost immediately. "Plus, I got hungry."

I didn't bother typing up a response anymore and called you up on the phone right away. "Hey."

"Hey."

"I was actually supposed to go out, pass the time until you get back, but now you're here so..." and then I chuckled like a 14-year old idiot. 'You weren't supposed to say that to him!' I scolded myself, biting my lip hard. 'You have officially made yourself sound like a codependent hatchling.'

"... yeah, I'm here. So... what despicable things did I say to you last night?" Your voice sounded childish -- almost apologetic -- like it was coming from a very cramped space.

"A lot of things," I said, absent-mindedly switching the phone receiver from my right ear to my left. I'd thought about this last night, what I would tell you. And what I would tell you was this: "You said a lot of things, all of them I believed to be true. And while I can't repeat every word that you said -- not because I don't remember them, but because they're too scalding and too true for me to say out loud -- I can, however, say that at this point, I think it's enough that you know how I feel for you. And whether you think and feel that all I am is worth making time for, that decision is yours to make. Until then, I can wait, like I have always done."

But the Universe will not permit me to be as articulate and as cautious with my words. The truth is way too complicated and unsatisfying and hard to believe. And it is in this vein where the words I was about to say would be flowing from. "A lot of things," I began, surprised at the distinct strength of each word. I could feel the initial clarity in my mind gradually losing to a thick mist. I started laughing, which I think was a terrible symptom to what I was experiencing -- you must be thinking I was going insane. And when all there was left was swirling, sloshing grey smoke, I grabbed on to the first idea I could like a drowning man on driftwood and trusted whatever it was I was going to say will save my life.

Everything you'd said last night started to flow out from me like a stray mountain river. You said you were introduced to this guy, a law student from the same university where you're teaching. You were attracted to him, and you're considering seeing him again soon. You also said talking with me has been becoming more of a pressure to you than anything else. "You are ever-present," you managed let out in between gasps of breath and drunken giggles.

I told you I could hear you were hitting and hitting your mobile phone against a hard surface, and you said you were trying to get it to work again since you dropped it earlier in the evening. Tak tak tak, it went, on and on in the background as you were talking, like a ritual drum. I must have told you to stop a lot of times, but clearly, the alcohol was jamming your comprehension.

Regardless, you continued. "You always have something new for me, I feel like I always have to keep up but I can't," you said. "Even if you keep saying 'It's fine, it's fine, you don't have to,' it isn't fine for me. If anything, it was making me feel guilty." There was a long pause, and I almost thought the Universe opened a pocket of lucidity in your senses. "You're too, too, too nice." Tak tak tak tak.


"I'm sorry," I heard you saying suddenly. I didn't notice I'd gone quiet. Your voice, piercing like a searchlight in a dark, gloomy, old Spanish house, pushed me back to the waking world.

"No, it's true!" I said quickly, all too defensively. "I guess I was being too imposing even without meaning to." And, thick with words unsaid, the silence stretched on from seconds to minutes. I felt drained. Lifeless. Only dry earth was left, parched and cracked and dying.

After a while however, I felt something primal stir from inside me, something longing for survival. I started digging. "You shouldn't have kissed me," came a sharp whisper from my throat, more to the air between my mouth and the receiver than to you. That night, two weeks ago, in the middle of an empty field, under the Sunday evening stars, you shouldn't have kissed me. There should have been a moment, a nanosecond, a rational heartbeat among hundreds of irrational heartbeats. You shouldn't have looked at me the way you did, leaned your head close, and touched your lips with mine.

"I'm sorry," you said again. I shut my eyes tight and punched a pillow in frustration. Crumpled. Crushed. Somewhere in between those words, I felt my heart resonating. I wanted to put the phone down. It seems you can't say anything else. And I can sense it, the familiar feeling of something draining, seeping out from you. The effects of that night were leaving you, evaporating from your every pore. Colors were simply refusing to vibrate within your periphery.

You mentioned you were feeling guilty. I understand that, more than you know. Guilty, because no matter how much you look into yourself, you can't find a well from where you can draw the same intensity of feeling I have for you. Guilty, because all you have for me is the empty space and the phantom pull of a soul-hurt. Guilty, because you're not brave enough to say anything else than "I'm sorry." I wanted to put the phone down before this guilt consumes you, before the boy who kissed me was completely gone, before this understanding solidifies itself into words, and an ice-blue cold corpse. I wanted to put the phone down, thinking that by cutting the line, I could postpone what was going to happen -- what always happens.

But... it does. And by the time we both put the phone down, we were both gone.

And Then There Was Hope

Last week, my sister shared an unexpected bit of news. It was not as solid as I preferred it to have been, so I decided to wait until something official was produced. This morning, a small beacon of something like hope caught my radar a bit far off in the distance. It was faint, but definitely, undeniably there. And, like a lost sailor unable to find words powerful enough to express the miracle of being found, I shall let this image do the mirthful shouting for me:


Six weeks, and it already has a heartbeat. What made me even happier was, according to my sister, her doctor said she's due on the 29th of June -- my birthday! Of course it's only an estimate, give or take a couple of weeks, but still! By my 27th birthday, I will be an uncle. :-)

The Haunting Hour

"This is the haunting period." A couple more hours and I will have been awake for two days. Much as I am unwilling, it is only at this time when I can admit it -- I am standing on a familiar precipice. The stage is set, the characters are all in place, the curtains are ready to part. It is only a matter of time before the inevitable fall, the catastrophic hurt. I can feel the wind on my face, and the empty, hollow, yawning space before me.

All it takes is a single step. Consider this a warning.

Behind Frozen Minutes

If I were to sort my life out in freeze frames, there would be an awful lot of silence and minutes stretching out into one static scene. Me, staring into a blank computer screen, watching the tireless cursor of a word processor winking in and out of existence. Me, waking up, blinking once, twice, dragging the heavy wooden window by my bed open to the grey wall of the next house. Me, sitting down on a park bench in a Monday afternoon, reading a book and not getting past a particular sentence for nearly ten minutes because an errant thought suddenly jammed the necessary pathways of comprehension in my mind.

After we had been in this gentle embrace for a while, Naoko touched her lips to my forehead and slipped out of bed. I could see her pale blue gown flash in the darkness like a fish. ... like a fish. ... like a fish. ... like a fish. And so forth.

It's worse when I have people with me. It feels like thinking through syrup, or talking through a mist-filled room. "Yes," "no," "maybe," I would always say. I would sound like I mean it, and you would feel so lucky to have a friend like me, so easy to talk to, so sincere, so agreeable. The irony would be lost on you, you with the neon smiles, the electric blue future. No one will hear the music fading into white noise behind vacant eyes. No one will see the camera zooming out, helplessly, hopelessly freezing that single moment. No one will hear the telltale cracks of something breaking.

A few good things about being with a man who is waiting to die are the random bursts of sharp turns he is wont to make. The cool and crisp brush-on-the-skin wind at four in the morning seems colder; the laughter of children playing under the afternoon sun brings more music to his heart than the tiny muscle can possibly contain; kisses taste sweeter than souls leaving, then returning. A man waiting to die sees the world in super-saturated colors, and loves like trainwrecks, like forest fires (which is the only proper way to love, really). One would be lucky to fall in love with a man just waiting to die.

Shoot to Move the Nation

Helping out a friend promote a photography contest. Shout out to my very talented and artistic friends; this might be something of interest.


Spread the love! Clicking on the pikachure will take you to the official website with contest details, mechanics, and application form. :-)

Worthy of Pursuit

"I just don't understand what you see in her," Sim said carefully. "I know she's charming. Fascinating and all of that. But she seems rather," he hesitated, "cruel."

I nodded, "She is."

Simmon watched me expectantly, finally said, "What? No defense for her?"

"No. Cruel is a good word for her. But I think you are saying cruel and thinking something else. Denna is not wicked, or mean, or spiteful. She is cruel."

Sim was quiet for a long while before responding. "I think she might be some of those other things, and cruel as well."

Good, honest, gentle Sim. He could never bring himself to say bad things about another person, just imply them. Even that was hard for him.

He looked up at me. "I talked with Sovoy. He's still not over her. He really loved her, you know. Treated her like a princess. He would have dome anything for her. But she left him anyway, no explanation."

"Denna is a wild thing," I explained. "Like a hind or a summer storm. If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don't say the storm was mean. It was cruel. It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt. The same is true of Denna."


(Excerpt from The Name of the Wind, Patrick Rothfuss)

Beach Trip Weekend, In Bullet Form

Let it be known by all that sun, surf, good food, great friends, a nice, thick fantasy book, and endless rivers of booze all a fantastic weekend make. And so, in bullet form and pictures, the Batangas weekend beach trip:

• Headcount, less is definitely more (Pii, Momi, Kat, Dianne, Aine, Boss Lyza, Kuya Joey -- the Magic 7!)


• When the engine of your ride dies in the middle of a long highway because of overheating, waving empty bottles of mineral water at passing motorists, hoping for help, will make them think you are thirsty


• Shopping for booze, always get at least 30% more of what you think is the right amount -- this will come in handy for when emotional floodgates open later in the evening


• It is NOT a good idea to open a jar of salsa when you're lying down


• You can get away with anything when no one is looking (i.e. jumping into the pool to wash off little bits of salsa on your clothes)


• Swimming in front of someone you like, thereby splashing water onto his pretty face does not count as flirting... for humans


• When the boozefest starts, pick one person to put in the hot seat -- it should be enough for at least three hours of entertainment


• Those long lounge beach benches? Yeah, they function like normal ones. When two people are seated end-to-end and one stands up, the one left will fall flat on her ass


• You will be laughed at, and, despite the amount of alcohol in everyone's system, it will not be forgotten


• Artificial waterfalls are not nature's answers to back massages -- when you wake up in the morning, you will hate yourself


• Do not scoff at your room's air-conditioning and say you'd rather sleep without a blanket -- you will wake up earlier than everyone else, shivering like an idiot


• 9 km is not 9 km when the road getting there is a series of sharp curves and steep inclines


• Holding your breath during a drive up a mountain will not make the road less steep


• The old and the rich can be very contemptuous in a very subtle manner, and while it could be very satisfying to scratch at their faces and explode in a fury of curse words in the sweet, sweet vernacular, the art will undoubtedly be lost on their world-weary and discriminating countenance


• Lite Cubes = Win

( Full photo parade under the link! )


Bleary-eyed me and Momi with Isaac, taking time off from his busy schedule to see us off.



Diane, Boss Lyza, Kat, Aine, Momi Dea, me, and Kuya Joey (taking the photo), making a quick washroom stop at Shell SLEx.



At Star Tollway, Aine and Diane, waving empty bottles of mineral water to motorists for help. Despite the situation, we were all very calm about it and I think the experience added more to our enjoyment rather than dampen it.



This was taken around 2:30pm in our rooms, when we touched down at Blue Coral in Batangas.



Class picture at the beachfront!



The girls, staring in awe at the beach. Boss Lyza was the first to run into the welcoming arms of the warm sea.



Diane, Aine, and Kat, looking pensive. Not really, actually, we were all exhausted from the long drive, and we were wondering if we should rest first or hit the beach straight off. Happy problem to be in, I say.



Diane, Aine, and me, lounging by the beach. Boss Lyza and Kat finally decided they wanted to swim right away. I, on the other hand, got my book, dug myself a cozy spot on the sand to lie down on, and read.



Boss Lyza, Aine, Diane, and Kat, sampling the kiddie pool.



"Never lose your childlike wonder," says the crazy lady from Under the Tuscan Sun.



I'm not exactly sure how Kat managed to slip herself into this, but it must have taken a great deal of... well... bending and acrobatics. She must have a really happy boyfriend. Hahaha!



Evening, after dinner, we jump right on the drinking session! Here's Aine, mixing our poison of choice -- two parts dalandan soda, one part lime, everything else, gin!



We have contained magic in a plastic cup!



Kat and yours truly, sipping starlight and dreamers' songs.



Momi Dea, thinking happy thoughts, swirling in fairy dust.



KAMPAIIIII!



Waking up, our heads humming with hangover, the morning sun and the salt sea wind are just what the doctor ordered.



The treehouse by the pool, saying farewell to the beach.



Mango pose. FIERCE!



After spending the good part of an hour breaking in cold sweat while driving up a steep mountainside road, we finally get a nice view of Taal.



Stopping at Bag of Beans for coffee and merienda.



The confrontation scene at Sonya's Garden: Aine as the miserable waif; Kat, Diane, Momi, and Boss Lyza as the cruel stepsisters.

Shredded

I miss my officemates, really, especially my boss, Ms. Grace. She'd always come up with nasty one-liners appropriate to the situation. Like this one scenario, for instance:

There were technically only four of us in the HR Department. Five, if one counts the nurse, but she's always quiet, and she's not as evil as us, so she doesn't cackle at misfortune the way we witches do. Anyway, so there were four of us, and we were laughing quite loudly at something someone or the other said, when one of the Australian clients stepped in. She asked Ms. Grace, "How come when I see you guys, you're always laughing?" And Ms. Grace said, in between tears, "Because if we don't laugh, we will cry!" And then we laughed some more.

And it was very true, what she said, and very Filipino. I don't think any of us would have survived if we never laughed every so often.

Of course, I'm not with them anymore, but that's beside the point. :-P

A Promise To Be Better

I'm feeling better now. At the very least, I can stand up and walk around without suffering through a herd of elephants stampeding on my head. But when I was reading through my dailies online and I came across what I wrote last night, I thought I was going to be sick again. God, I didn't know I had so much crap simmering in my brain. Maybe it was the delirium brought about by the drugs, who knows?

I have always had the affirmation that my online journal is intended to be read by no one else but me, and that I will write about things which I myself would want to read. So I will be stuffing last night's post into my "Do Not Want" box, and I will leave it up just to remind myself how horrible my writing can get.

So get rid of the pretense, the drama, and the metaphor rape, Pii. You know you can do better.

Weakened

Saturday afternoon, amongst the gilded and the glittering of Rockwell, I was trying with great effort to conceal an insufferable shivering. I hated that it crept up on me slowly, like long, lazy shadows. I was feeling fine when I was walking around Fully Booked; I was even in high spirits when I met up with my book-hunting companion for the afternoon. As the minutes crawled on however, I started feeling strangely cold. Ice was forming in the marrows of my bones and it... frustrated me to no end. While I do acknowledge my being physically weak, it becomes a tad difficult to deal with when it exhibits itself in such inconvenience. So I relented, and instead of following through with any of my other plans for the afternoon (and crumple to the ground), I decided to go home.

The shivering only got worse when I was already lying down. I was covered in my thickest of blankets, my every limb was in between armies of pillows, and I was wearing my warmest clothes but still I was a block of ice. On top of that, my vision started swimming, and my head was slamming onto what could only be beams of coldest, hardest steel. I was awake the whole time my senses were being assailed, but it was impossible to tell if it only took several minutes or if a few hours had already gone past when, one by one, every cell in my body started to catch fire. I think it was at this point when I let myself slip into the shallow, dark pockets of unconsciousness.

Waking up, I could only be all too grateful for the soup my mother made for me. The burning sensation was starting to dissipate, and I could more or less move again. I polished off two bowlfuls and already I could sense trickles of energy returning. I was still feeling a bit upset over the fact that I had to cancel some of my plans, but I guess I should be glad I was able to buy three new books -- Margaret Atwood's Bodily Harm and Life Before Man, and George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones -- which was the main goal for the day anyway.

Enough of this shit. I GAG at the pretense of my words. I WAS SICK BUT I WAS HAPPY BECAUSE I GOT MYSELF THREE NEW BOOKS. That's basically it. Hehehehe.

And Then There Were Four

I was hoping to catch the last two or three screenings at the Spanish Film Festival yesterday, but, like many unfortunate, naive, and silly, silly souls who were at the ticket booths two hours early, all screenings up until the very last one were sold out. As is my habit whenever I am awash with defeat and dejection, I turn to bargain bookstores for healing and solace, trusting the Universe to be so kind as to nudge a good book or two within my periphery.

I was not disappointed. Within an hour of spelunking through Buy The Book in Walter Mart Pasong Tamo, I found three books which I think I might enjoy spending quiet weekday afternoons with.

The first two are by Alan Gibbons, Rise of the Blood Moon and Setting of a Cruel Sun, together called The Lost Souls Stories. I started reading the first book today, and I was immediately -- and quite harshly -- pulled into the dark fantasy world painted by the author. It doesn't often happen -- even in books that I come to like -- and when it does, my only fear is that I will soon have to come back to the waking world.

The third one is Ian MacLeod's The House of Storms. I have to admit, I was initially taken in by the title and the cover, but browsing through some pages, it felt like walking through an atmosphere thick with magic -- something I am always willing to be a victim of.

And that was it. For the day at least. Today, I went to Eastwood to process my clearance from the company I just left. It went faster and more efficient than I expected, so I was left with hours of idle time before I had to meet a friend for a scheduled dinner. My brain switched gears to autopilot, and I navigated towards the nearest bookstore in the vicinity -- National Bookstore in Cybermall. And behind that black and white annoyance, that jagged mountain of books that is the Twilight Series, I found it. The Fourth. Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind. This was the description at the back of the book that got me hooked:

I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Treborn. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during the day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep.

My name is Kvothe. You may have heard of me.

I myself have never heard of Kvothe, but I fell in love with him right then and there. And so it was three the minute before; the minute passed, and then there were four.

The Zen Of A Single Step

It has ever been a habit of mine to spark an idea aflame, and then blow it out halfway without bothering to finish it anymore. Tonight, on the long walk home, I felt a faint flicker struggling to remain alight in the middle of the sloshing, liquid exhaustion in my mind. It is my intention to tend to the embers as patiently and as tenderly as a mother would the dreams of her children, and never think of the blaze until it actually sears through my skin.

I will not be rushed, nor will I take an unsure step. The Universe has given me another crossroad, and I chose my path with absolute certainty, accepting the uncertain. All it takes is one small step each time I am sure I can take another, and nothing else. Just one small step.

Just Because You Feel Good

I have been listening to Skin's two albums nonstop since someone mentioned Skunk Anansie over at Twitter. Skin's voice has always been a source of awe, stretching -- God -- close to about ten years ago when I first heard Hedonism, and then with Secretly from when Cruel Intentions came out. But, as deeply impressed as I was with Skin's voice, I never really became a Skunk Anansie fan. I thought their brand of music was a tad bit hardcore for me. That was why I was a little hesitant to start listening to Skin's solo albums.

A couple of weeks ago tho, after a Twitter post rekindled my interest in Skunk Anansie, I dipped my toe into the water, and scanned YouTube for some of Skin's singles. That was when I first came upon Purple, a track from Fake Chemical State, her second album. Classic, is all I can say.


And then I found Lost (I know :-P), a song from her first album, Fleshwounds. The video was as simple as any other, but interspersed with the words and Skin's exceptional voice, everything fit together in one string of emotion stretched taut and tense.


I couldn't stop after that. And I couldn't listen to one album without listening to the other as well. Other tracks which stood out from the first album were Faithfulness, Don't Let Me Down, The Trouble With Me, and As Long As That's True; from the second album, I like Just Let The Sun, Nothing But, and Falling For You.

Although I enjoy listening to the songs of most of the artists I choose to listen to, there are very few whom I can admit having a deep and profound love for. Skin is now part of that list.

Crossroads & Sliding Doors

A couple of weeks back, you had to spend the night over at the apartment because of the terrible, terrible weather; it would be best, you decided, to just go with me to the MRT station the following morning when I would be on my way to work. You were planning on heading over to Ayala anyway to get some things for school, and I, on the other hand, will be going to Cubao, work-bound. Now, the Boni MRT station is different from the other stations as both the northbound and southbound platforms are shared, so the sunny, electric blue-skied Monday morning found us sitting on the same bench, talking about nothing in particular while waiting for our respective trains.

As what is expected of any self-respecting slacker, I was tossing around the idea of going with you to Ayala in my head instead of reporting for work that day. It was all very simple, really. Call in sick, and I’d have the whole day to myself. I was due for another sick day anyway. I was feeling like a high school student. I told you about it, and, as what is expected of any self-respecting kunsintidor, you said quite casually, “Why not?”

Why not, indeed? Why pass up the chance to be with you a few hours longer, and not have to think about work for the rest of the day?

A rumbling sound and a draft of wind heralded the arrival of your train. We both stood up and walked to a yellow arrow on the floor. “Sige na,” you said with a smirk. I smiled back, bit my lip, but said nothing. The train halted, and the sliding doors opened. You stepped in, looked back at me, and pointed to a space beside you. Two seconds, and I took one step back. I felt a shuddering in my soul, not unlike the feeling when someone walks over your grave. Three seconds, and there was a long beep. The doors closed, and the train jolted back to life again. Behind the transparent glass, you looked like a vagabond memory, recently escaped from my fantasies. You smiled, and waved. I barely noticed my train arriving behind me, wrenching me away from my reverie and sucking me back to where I was -- facing a worn-out yet vaguely familiar path, like a child waking up from a dream.

I felt it, when my life split in two paths. The one where I jumped into the train with you, and the one where I didn't -- the one that actually transpired. Of course I could not help but think of what could have happened, had I gone with you that day. No, not what could have happened immediately after (because I know I would have had a blast), but its long-term consequences. The Butterfly Effect. Would it have been a right -- rather, better -- decision?

A few nights ago we had a conversation online. It was a rather relatively ordinary conversation, really. School, work, nothing too heavy... that is, until about towards the end. You said something about meeting up soon, and proceeded on to list your schedule for the following days. I responded simply by saying I can free up any schedule for you. That must have opened the floodgates though, because all of a sudden, everything was laid out in the open -- everything, namely, my feelings for you, and how you feel about them. As your words started scrolling up line by leadened line, I was feeling... fascinated. Like a psychiatrist who's been told a particularly interesting detail. Although I knew that you knew how I feel for you, I never really thought you would acknowledge it. Eventually you would, of course, but at this stage in our friendship, I didn't think it would be brought up. So I sat there in frozen fascination, reading all you had to say about me and how I feel about you.

You said it made you feel awkward whenever I do sweet things for you -- like surprising you with a copy of Jose Garcia Villa's Collected Poems when we were at the Book Fair for instance, or saying little things, like, "I can free up my schedule for you." You said you were trying to shake it off, that feeling of being awkward, because you wouldn't want to feel weird whenever we're together. You said that sometimes, you wanted to be sweet to me, too, like how you are with your other friends, but you're afraid I might misinterpret your gestures -- which you would not want to happen because (and this you insisted on strongly) you value our friendship a lot. I was taking everything in, in rapt attention.

Margaret Atwood was saying the truth. "If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next -- if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions -- you'd be doomed. You'd be as ruined as God. You'd be a stone. You'd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You'd never love anyone, ever again. You'd never dare to." Because although you caught me off-guard, I knew -- I understood everything already. Most people would claim it as arrogance, but I can say it with nary a shred of pretension or assumption. I understand how you feel. I lived with it, slept with it, woke up with it, had dinner with it, walked unfamiliar streets with it, watched fireworks with it, laughed and cried and got mad with it... everything. Completely. I felt such familiarity with it, it became ME.

I understand that even if my life split in different paths, even if the Universe were to lay down all the crossroads and sliding doors it can offer, I can never be with you, R. And no decision, no choice I make from here on out can be better than the other. And that is my truth; and that is my ruin.

Twice

In the past one year and seven months that I've stayed with this company, I have almost been reduced to tears twice.


The first time was about seven months ago when I was still doing bits of work in operations. It was the evening when I passed my resignation letter to my Supervisor. Our team was going to be dissolved within a week, and rather than being transferred to another team, I decided it would be best to just leave. I was telling myself that the past year with my team has been amazing, that it was too good to be true, and I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't have lasted anyway. That this is how things usually go in this industry -- that careers are, at best, a temporal thing. I told myself then (convinced, really) that it must be time once again to rethink of the path that I should be taking, and finally figure out if I would really like to do art for good.

The team was already having its usual pre-shift briefing when I arrived. I stayed silent from the minute I sat myself down by my workstation, until the briefing was over. I honestly couldn't register what was being said, as how things usually are when one is wracked by other, more powerful distractions in the mind. I did hear it, however, when my Supervisor called my attention and asked what I thought of what she said. Nobody noticed my shaking form underneath my thick sweater when I stood up and handed over my letter. I wanted to say something, but a burning, boiling sensation steamed up all the words forming in my throat.

Obviously, the path I thought of taking from that evening onwards was redirected since I'm still here in the same company. She told me of an opening in the HR Department and suggested that I try applying for it. She believed in me and, bless her wise and kind soul, supported me all the way. Work with HR has been nothing but difficult, and sometimes I even think it might have been better if I did leave that night seven months ago, but I'm still grateful for the nudge she gave me and the faith she placed on me, that it's been one of my main sources of strength to push harder on. And that was the first time I almost cried because of work.


The second time was Friday night, during the meeting with the Program Manager for our online English teaching account. I planned to keep silent, let my boss do the talking, and just speak when spoken to. And I was spoken to. My boss asked me about the applicants whom the manager tagged as "buffers," and I relayed the status of each. The manager was nodding, until she heard the name of one candidate. "Who is he? I don't remember speaking with him," she said.

"He's the gay guy," I said in a monotone. "You decided not to speak with him anymore," I looked at her straight in the eye, and I couldn't help a crack in my voice, "when you found out he was gay. You never even gave him a chance."

I'm sure the others in the meeting noticed it. It took a lot to keep myself in control. I whispered a quiet apology to my boss, and I let them continue with the discussion. I was profoundly hurt, even when I thought I wouldn't be. I wasn't angry, to my surprise. But I did feel a wrenching in my chest. Pity, I suppose. I pitied her, for being the way she was, for the way she looked at the world. But she's young though, and she has yet to learn a lot. I learned a lot, dealing with her, but it's something I never want to go through again. And that was the second time I almost cried because of work.

Dooced, If You Want Me To Be

Our company has online English learning as one of its accounts. It's a program where Chinese and Koreans are taught how to speak English over the phone. Basically, the "teachers" have about 10- to 15-minute conversations with each student, coaching them on their grammar and pronunciation. Nothing too heavy. Their students already know how to speak English; they just need a bit more polishing. It really shouldn't be a problem doing recruitment for this team, right?

WRONG. And if cyberspace will allow it, I would like to exorcise this demon by writing something that might increase my chances of getting fired. It is my hope to be forgiven, writing down this long-drawn curse, if not actually and entirely understood.


While it's true that every manager has the right to pick the people who will be working under him/her, it becomes an entirely different matter when various factors are considered.

For starters, how much are you paying the people you'll be hiring? Be honest, because it's not a lot, relative to your competitors. The HR Manager from a year ago said such wise words: "Throw peanuts, and you get monkeys." Besides, what will your people be doing anyway? It's not like they will be engineering a sophisticated module of English-learning innovations for foreigners, to be recognized internationally by every prestigious educational organization. Not really. They will be having conversations like, "So how was tennis today?" or "Doesn't that dog smell awful?" or "My finger is up my nose while I'm dancing the hokey pokey. Can you repeat that?" You want people who graduated from Ateneo or La Salle to do this? One can dream, of course, and sometimes, dreams do come true, but face it, the people who do decide to board your ship of wack are either bored and are just waiting for something better to come their way and then eventually bail out, OR they're just as drugged out as you -- and then eventually bail out.

It is such a mystery why you cannot trust the Recruitment Department to give you people who are good enough to do the things you want done -- and who will agree to the salary you will be giving them. You dismiss them for the simplest of things, too. She didn't pronounce this particular word the right way (then tell her to pronounce it the right way -- it's just one word after all, and something she won't be using that often), he didn't display enough "passion for teaching" (you mean he's not as doped up as you?), she isn't cult material enough... Reasons so inane, so childish, so immature, and so impractical for someone who runs a program, it's a wonder why you're still where you are. OK, it's not really strange. You have money, you come from a well-known family, and you use connections to make yourself stick like a barnacle to a sinking ship, while everyone else suffers. And if you tell me one has no right to be judged by someone else, I will tell you to look around you -- REALLY look around you -- and you try judging yourself.

I cannot forget the one evil thing I had to go through because of you. One applicant -- very promising in terms of skill -- who passed two interviews already, and whom you agreed to schedule for a final interview, I had to tell him to go home because suddenly, SUDDENLY, after making him come back for three consecutive days, you don't want to talk to him anymore. That was very unprofessional, unethical, impolite, and downright mean of you. And who had to take the fall for it? Who had to face the applicant and apologize for your meanness? Of course it had to be someone else. Do I make you guess who drew the booby prize?

I got over it eventually, although it left a mighty fine scar in my heart. I told myself I will go through every crap this company throws my way for one year, and then I'd leave. But the shit finally hit the fan the other day. I once again endorsed someone who would do really well in your program. Again, just like most others, he passed the interview with Recruitment, and he passed the interview with your Supervisor. But when your turn came, your Supervisor told me you'd rather not take him BECAUSE HE'S GAY. She told me that you said Koreans get confused and it affects their learning.

I think several threads in my brain snapped. THAT'S IT. I have never experienced outright homophobia before, and I never thought it would be this... hurtful. You are one evil person, and even if you do not realize it, you do not deserve to be accorded any respect from anyone.

In the words of the Great Sorceress, Svetlana Nazarova, "May no one ever love you."






____________________
dooce: getting fired for something you've written on your website

An Anti-Affirmation

Hey,

I'm sure you know, but I'm not quite sure if you understand. Since I met you two and a half years ago, I have loved no one else. And there may have been a point when I was willing to pick myself up from the insane drudgery I have gotten myself into, but ever since you made it clear that there will be nothing else between us except friendship, all color from this sick, twisted world has drained away and I was left with nothing but a mechanical, metallic aftertaste of what the rest of my life would be.

I suppose I should be grateful for this chance I have been accorded; at least somehow you're still part of my life. I am grateful that you would want to be friends with me. Why should anyone ever refuse an offer of friendship? Of course, it's the selfsame thing that's been rotting away at my insides, but still. In principle, it shouldn't be refused. In the same vein, however, my friends are telling me how selfish you revealed yourself to be, knowing how I feel for you, yet still allowing yourself to draw strength from me even if the only thing I can draw from you is the cold, stale air of a dead-end relationship. And this is where the barbed stem of irony kicks in -- I give whatever it is you need, without expecting anything in return, because it is you who need it. Hilarious.

Another thing. I know that you mean well, pushing me to go back to school to pursue art once again, but what I can't tell you is that I've gone past all of that. Apart from not knowing what it is I really want to do, I have no desire to even find out anymore. Everything I do, I do just to pass the time. I'm not sure if you can understand how lonely that is.

I made a decision two years ago, and it is something I hold on to until now:

A Decision One Makes
Friday, October 6, 2006

All week, I've been thinking if love is a decision one makes, or if one finds oneself in it without knowing? Is there a moment when one stops and breathes, "I am in love?" Or is one already in love, and simply decides whether to continue swimming in that pool of emotion or walk away? Because a week ago I made a decision, and it felt like a seal on me, a firebrand. And on my tongue I could have sworn it tasted a little like dying, when "your life flashes before your eyes." Which it did, my life. Or what's left of it, I suppose.

Margaret Atwood was right. If we knew in advance the consequences of our decisions, we would be doomed and ruined. The irony is that there is triumph in ignorance, and there is tragedy in wisdom. And that tragedy, that hopelessness is maybe what gave me the courage, the stupidity to admit such a truth to myself. I figured I didn't have enough of a life left to lose, so I threw all caution to the wind and gave in. After all, I have always said that I prefer a love like forest fires, like runaway trains. Let me tell you, it doesn't get any more devastating than this. "The more tragic, the better," the song says. Well I'm raising my red flag, and zeroing in for the kill.

This is my decision and my word, whether you accept it or not, whether it sustains me or kills me. You are loved -- by me, by my entire being, and by a force within me so great and terrible I can't even name it. You will never be alone, and you don't ever need to be afraid. I will protect you. And my name, and the rest of my stupid, sad, sorry little life I give you, for all it's worth.

I ask nothing in return. Not your love, for it is yours to give to whomever you choose. Not understanding, when nobody else would -- or rather, is able to. Just maybe... an acceptance. An acknowledgment. A thank you, or a nod my way. Letting me know that you see me, and that you are glad to be living your life happily. If I believe in nothing else, then please let me believe in that.

Overheard at the HR Office

Here's the scenario. Two women in the office whom I look up to -- Ms. G and Ms. M -- were having a conversation. They were talking about a candidate whom Ms. G just finished giving a Job Offer to, and the candidate's sister. The candidate was informed during her initial interview several days ago that we were interested in hiring her sister as well, and it would be great if she can tell her about our company and the openings that we have. She was kind enough to do so, and there was a point during the Job Offer where the conversation went along that vein. When the Offer was done and the candidate left, this is how the conversation between the two women went:

Ms. G: So apparently, Candidate's sister used to work in some company, the same place where that guy we hired last week used to work in as well. Candidate told her sister this, and the sister says, "We have a very small team. What's the name of the guy? Because if that's the guy I know, then I'm not working there. That guy's an idiot."

Ms. M: *blink blink* ... But all women think all men are idiots.

Amen, girlfriend.

The Past Few Weeks

Life had become pretty simple and straightforward the past few weeks. Work during weekdays, then recharge at the Makati house during weekends. I have become very grateful to the little moments of insanity which accentuate some of my days, enough to keep my nerves keen and sharp, reminding me not to get too dull-witted and absent-minded -- things that I am teetering on the edge to be. Despite that, however, at least three times a week I've been tempted to just up and leave -- leave the evil conspiracies familiar to corporations behind, leave the backstabbing and the cruel and the clueless and incompetent, leave everything I have always believed to be corrupted and free of morals -- and finally, finally rein in my errant dreams again and LIVE. But then I am reminded that things aren't that simple, and that I can't afford to stray from this precarious, ribbon-thin path I have recently begun to walk, not until I am sure of my footing, and my future more or less acquires some tangibility I can trust.

I have also learned to become grateful for the moments of lull in between -- moments which I greedily hoard because it is only during such times when I am able to tune out and read again. Such little moments I have found whenever I commute to and from work. Jeepney rides, bus rides, and train rides have become activities which I look forward to doing each day. Being in the middle of a crowd of commuters is, in its own way, more calming and peaceful than any air-conditioned office cubicle. As a matter of fact, the month past has given me enough time to finish three books which I am glad to have purchased -- specifically, the Old Kingdom Trilogy by Garth Nix.


Tomorrow, I start on a new series, The Watch Tetralogy by Sergei Lukyanenko. I am quite sure I will enjoy reading the books, and I can't wait until it introduces a new playground for my imagination to get lost in, much like how the Old Kingdom did when I was reading about it. If it does, and if its pull is strong enough (which I'm sure it is), I'll be sure to write down all about it.

Beautiful Music

Gacked this from steady_lang. One of the more interesting memes around. I'm tagging anyone and everyone who reads this!

1. Go here. The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.


2. Go here. The last four words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.
   
   If you want to do this again, you'll hit refresh to generate new quotes, because clicking the quotes link again will just give you the same quotes over and over again.


3. Go here. Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.


4. Go here. The first ten links you end up in (minus the .coms) are your 10 song titles.

"When You Love Them," by Asturian Language

Our track list:

1. Reach the Sky


2. Offensief


3. Dave Swim


4. HSE Info


5. Union of Concerned Scientists


6. Fair Economy


7. Tao


8. Cherry Harbor


9. Voided Warranty


10. Healthy Skepticism

Progressive Weirdness

This week's theme seems to be "Things Getting Progressively Weirder." Both Hono'o-chan and my boss, Ms. Grace, noticed it. The week kicked off in a relatively normal fashion last Monday. Ms. Grace and I attended this Recruitment event thing at Shangri-La Makati in the afternoon, which was more of an excuse to leave the office early.

Tuesday and maybe three-quarters of Wednesday happened to pass by smoothly, but come Thursday morning, Ms. Grace told us that someone tried to break into their home in Cubao in the middle of the night. They heard a crash and dogs barking, and fortunately, somebody got up in time so no one was hurt. They didn't see who the culprit was, however, so they weren't able to do much.

Clearly I was mistaken, thinking that was the end of that. Friday early morning, around 4:00am at the Boni house, Hono'o-chan woke me up in a panic. Someone threw a rock into their room, shattering the glass windows. Good thing Hono'o-chan was napping downstairs when it happened. It could have been done for whatever reason -- I couldn't care less, to be honest -- but it was just plain moronic. Considering the kind of people residing behind the compound, how can anyone be surprised, really? You know... the kind of neighborhood where people are almost always drunk (or at least, people who sound like they are), where jologs hip-hop music is constantly blaring from speakers at most hours of the day -- and most hours of the night -- people who your mother make you stay away from.

Honestly, there are a lot of things I want to say, but I'm afraid I might sound more judgmental than I already am, and towards people whom I don't really know. Pero pucha naman kasi. Ibang level na 'to eh. Kung sabihin kong mag-isip naman sana sila, I hope no one takes it against me.

Sigh, anyway, about the only thing we can do that morning was take pictures, so take pictures we did:


The view of the room. That's the rock at the foot of the bed, the glass shard, and bits of glasses on the floor.


One evil-looking shard of glass.


A disturbing image. That's the side where Hono'o-chan usually sleeps! Also, what if it were a child!


The nasty-looking rock.

Birthday Eve

Let's let the photos do the talking this time.


At Tokyo Tokyo in Shangri-La. That's Ron in the background.



Hono'o-chan, making kitchen magic.



Vegetables and roast chicken, recipe adapted from the Barefoot Contessa.



Close up shot of the veggies, with olive oil and herbs.



Chicken! Three words: nom nom nom.

I've Sunk To A New Low

If you see a tall, jumpy guy in Greenhills at about, say, 3pm or 4pm tomorrow, handing out flyers and talking to Muslim store-owners if they can speak Arabic and if they would like to pursue an exciting career in the call center industry, it's probably either me or my officemate, J.

Feel free to say hi or offer a hug, and maybe an assurance that there is a bright future ahead of me. I won't believe you, but a friendly face and a warm hug will always make me feel better. Throw in a donut if you're feeling especially sympathetic.

You Don't Bring Me Anything But Down

And because things have been moving towards another transition, with changes in our daily routine occurring irregularly, I ended up having lunch with you. Normally it would have been fine. I would not have minded. I would not even have thought of it at all. Today, however, was different.

You were talking as you'd always done, and I was listening, although I hadn't noticed this time I was doing so more intently than I should have. I suppose you can say it was the first time I'd ever heard you actually speak. How lonely you sounded beneath the hollow shell of fantasies you'd built around your soft core. What's even sadder, was that I think you couldn't even hear your inner self talking anymore. I was looking at you, words floating out from your mouth and evaporating into the atmosphere mere centimeters from your skin. Everything -- every lie -- was thin and shapeless and empty.

On one hand I wanted to shout at you, try to break through that phantasm blanketing your person. I wanted to claw at you right then and there, hurt you, stab you with the fork in my left hand. "Can you hear yourself talking?!" But I think even if I shouted at the top of my lungs, you wouldn't -- couldn't -- hear me anyway. The walls you'd built were too thick; your life, too numbingly pristine. I stabbed at the lone slice of pork on my plate instead.

On the other hand, I thought of trying a different approach. I would look at you straight in the eye, and tell you in a voice not unlike the low rustle of trees at midnight how, the contrast apparent from your secure and sheltered lifestyle, I live everyday in constant fear of losing my job. How each minute, I force-feed into my mind the thought that I have to, have to, have to survive without having to rely on anyone for anything. How terribly unjust and uncompromising circumstances can be at the most inconvenient of times, and how I only put up with it just because. I wanted you to hear me, hoping it would be a catalyst for your long-overdue introspection.

I did neither. Instead, I let out a long, heavy exhale. I pushed my plate aside, nodded at some long-drawn opinion you had about something or other, bit my lip, and swallowed hard. I felt a solid, metallic clunk at the pit of my stomach. I'm not having lunch here tomorrow.

The Day The World Made Sense

Despite the fact that I had to wake up at 6 in the morning to get to the office early to pick up the check for my cash loan, the day turned out pretty well. Thank the gods for Vacation Leaves. It's a good thing I expected the worst regarding renewing my NBI Clearance. There was a long queue when I got to Park Square Makati at around 11, but it wasn't so bad. Gave me time to finish reading a couple of stories from Haruki Murakami's Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman -- a book that's taken longer than usual for me to finish reading. After the people over at the renewal booth confirmed my squeaky clean record once again, I sauntered over to the bank where I was supposed to have my check encashed -- a couple of blocks from Greenbelt -- and waited about 40 minutes (or another Blind Willow story) to get everything done.

By 1, I was practically free. I was thinking whether I should still report for work, even if it would only count as half a day, or if I should go to the Makati house for a visit instead. I walked around the park along Gamboa, and maybe it was the way the afternoon sun streamed through the trees and the nostalgia it washed me with, but it didn't take long for me to make a decision. I called up my boss and asked her if I could take the rest of the day off.

I stayed at the Makati house for the rest of the afternoon, helping Josh with his homework and teaching him how to write his g's and e's properly. Napped for about an hour until 5, which was when my mother got home. We talked for a bit, then had an early dinner. Left at around 6 with promises of going back on Saturday, then decided to walk around Greenbelt again and browse around Powerbooks first before heading to the Boni house.

Right now I'm resting and doing my dailies online. I have never felt this good in such a long time. I hope the Universe realizes I'm not asking for much. Just more days like this, please, and I will be very grateful.

Long, Slow Slide

Outside your window the circus crackles
and lurches with rings of smoke.
You laugh halfheartedly at the punchline
not realizing they've made you the joke.
Inside my heart a war is raging
in regions still untamed.
The worst fear I can imagine
is for the mystery to be named.

A Long Slow Slide, Jewel

Sunday afternoon, cats are all sleeping, and the Bunniez are out. I'm in the middle of a long weekend, and no plans have been shaping up as of yet. First two weeks of semi-independence have taken off smoothly, work still keeps people viciously high-strung, but the routinary activity can be somewhat comforting.

In a couple of weeks, I will be in my early late twenties. Probably the most useful philosophy I have learned thus far is to just let everything slide into place, and not resist so much. I think I have said "that's fine with me" often enough these past few years that where I am now has become a sum of benign apathy and pacifism.

I am not particularly sad, nor am I happy; I've found that both emotions have become quite tedious -- sometimes even terribly cumbersome -- that it's better just to settle for a snug, quiet place in the emotional middle.

Anyway, I might be sleeping in a bit. Maybe finish this book I've been reading for a couple of weeks now. Tonight, I might go out for dinner. It's a long, slow slide down, but that's fine with me.

Nesting

So it's my 3rd night with the Bunniez, and, except for the occasional cat hair on my dark-coloured clothes, things have been going really well. My books remain unpacked, as I still do not know where to store them. I'm still sleeping on a small mat and I only have one small pillow, but I've been waking up feeling well-rested, so I don't really mind the minimalist set-up. This weekend, I plan on getting a nice, wide bed, a couple more pillows, a blankie, and a shelf for my books. Hopefully, the room will have a semblance of personality by Sunday.

Also, I might be bringing my computer with me. I originally planned on leaving it at the Makati house since my brother might need it for his thesis this semester, but after five days of being apart, I couldn't bear not having it with me. To be honest, I feel more grounded when I know my computer is nearby.

Right now I'm just posting a quick update while I'm waiting for the kittens to leave my room. They're adorable, and I can't help gushing when I see them -- Smarmy most of all -- but not when they're laying claim on my mat, and at a time when I'm really, really sleepy. I'm trying one tactic now. Leave Kittens Alone. Looks like it's working since I don't hear them in my room anymore. Go me!

In other news, I was in Baguio again last weekend! I have pikachures to narrate the whole misadventure, but I'll reserve that when me and my PC are reunited.

In the meantime, I sleep. :-)

Gossip Girl Wisdom

"If I've learned anything in life, it is that sometimes things get in your path, and you have a choice: you can either smash right into them; or you can adjust, and move around -- but you have to do one or the other in order to move forward." (Lily van der Woodsen)

While I would like to think that I've done nothing but adjust and move around the labyrinthian events my life has gotten itself mercilessly molded into, I fear I have done more wall-smashing than I am comfortable to admit. To be honest, after the first few times, one finds it surprisingly easier and easier to do. Of course, it does leave a trail of bloody carnage along the way, but there are times we are blinded -- through no fault of our own, some of them -- and we forget, and there is nothing else but the thought of the end justifying every means possible to get out and escape, leading to more guilt and more anger than we started with much further after.

I'm crossing my fingers the Universe lends me enough strength, and end the cycle of smashing here.

Power Play

My boss was smiling ear to ear as he approached my workstation. It was unsettling the way it made his usually stern and serious face into something... else.

Two weeks ago, I was talking with a newly-hired person about his pre-employment requirements when my boss opened the door to the meeting room and, with a voice both clear and imposing, he said, "We're getting [Distance Learning applicant whom Program Manager rejected]."

I was stunned. "But [Manager] rejected --"

"We're overriding that decision," and then he shut the door.

Wow, I mouthed. Such power. Such... reiatsu. It made the hair at the back of my neck stand and prickle. I think the new-hire spent a whole minute trying to call me back to the waking world.

So, knowing how much power the person standing on the other side of the cubicle wall has, one has to wonder what could lie behind that person's eerie smile. My mind raced. Because of my stellar performance and working above and beyond the call of duty, I will be given a well-deserved 6-digit raise? Instead of having just weekends off, I can report to work anytime I like?

"Pii... ?"

They suddenly realized I live in Makati and they're giving me a car, AND they're throwing in a cute driver to motivate me to go to work everyday?

"... can you..."

They have seen the light, accepting the error in their ways, and they are scrapping the recruitment effort for Distance Learning? I shifted in my seat uncomfortably and bit my lip to suppress an impending chuckle.

"... report for work tomorrow?"

The chuckle stopped halfway up my throat. "Wh -- cough -- at?" And then, "I mean, what, sir? I mean, sure, OK, sir."

"We need HR coverage during holidays. You know how it is." There's that smile again. Nevermore will I be deceived. "Thanks, Pii."

And so it was, I shall be laboring on Labor Day.

Movie Quote Meme

Nursing a headache exploding in megatons pretty much incapacitated me last weekend. Except for a Sunday dinner date with a friend at TriNoma and an after-dinner shag with a stranger, I was just stuck here in my room, marathoning Pushing Daisies and gorging on lacatan.

Nothing else of note has happened with my life the past few weeks anyway, so I really didn't mind staying in. Work-related drama doesn't count, unfortunately. Besides, I whine about it enough during the ten-odd hours I spend in the office, I'd really rather not bring the colorful cast of characters of my work-life at home. No, not even the deceitful and artificial countenance of the High Priestess, nor the annoyingly large girth of Shrek could be worth ruminating on the moment I step out of our building. I don't think even the tragicomic exploits of the Metrosexual contain enough material for entertainment value anymore.

That is why I'm glad I stumbled on this interesting Movie Quote Meme from a blog I've recently started stalking. (Segué kung segué. Hehehehe.)

• Pick 15 of your favorite movies.
  
• Go to IMDb and find a quote for each movie.
  
• Post them here for everyone to guess.
  
• Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it FIRST and the movie.
  
• No Googling/using IMDb search functions.

1. It's a lie. It's a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully, and all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it's beautiful 'cause that's what they wanna see. But the people in the photos are sad, and alone. But the pictures make the world seem beautiful, so the exhibition is reassuring which makes it a lie, and everyone loves a big fat lie.
   
   
2. Come at me. Every inch of me will resist you.
   
   
3. I think my biggest problem is being young and beautiful. It's my biggest problem because I've never been young and beautiful. Oh, I've been beautiful, and God knows I've been young, but never the twain have met.
   
   
4. I live in torture, thinking of these moments. With every look he gives you, I get sicker and sicker. There is a burning in me, I feel on fire, and there's guilt I can't comidify. Does it make you happy to know that?
   
   
5. You are so far behind, you think you're first.
   
   
6. I hang on because I love you, and I wait patiently for you to calm down and wake up and realize that you love me too. You hang on because it's easy.
   
   
7. I read once about a woman whose secret fantasy was to have an affair with an artist. She thought he would really see her. He would see every curve, every line, every indentation and love them because they were part of the beauty that made her unique.
   
   
8. You'll figure that out. The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.
   
   
9. That you can lose yourself. Everything. All boundaries. All time. That two bodies can become so mixed up, that you don't know who's who or what's what. And just when the sweet confusion is so intense you think you're gonna die... you kind of do. Leaving you alone in your separate body, but the one you love is still there. That's a miracle. You can go to heaven and come back alive. You can go back anytime you want with the one you love.
   
   
10. It's okay for guys like you and Court to fuck everyone. But when I do it, I get dumped for innocent little twits like Cecile. God forbid, I exude confidence and enjoy sex. Do you think I relish the fact that I have to act like Mary Sunshine 24/7 so I can be considered a lady? I'm the Marcia fucking Brady of the Upper East Side, and sometimes I want to kill myself. So there's your psychoanalysis, Dr. Freud.
    
    
11. It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.
    
    
12. Our apartment was so small, that mother made me play in the oven. Late at night I would listen to the voices of the American masters: Tony Tennille, Debby Boone, Anne Murray -- who was actually a Canadian working in the American idiom. And then there were the crypto-homo rockers: Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, David Bowie -- who was actually an idiom working in America and Canada. These artists, they left as deep an impression on me as that oven rack did on my face.
    
    
13. And in that moment, the dwelling place of eternity, hearts, and souls became clear to me. It was as if I understood everything that had happened in my life these past thirteen years, and the time which was to come. I became unbearably... sad. Akari's warmth, her spirit -- how should I treat them, where can I bring them? That was something I didn't know. That we would not be together forever after this was a fact I clearly grasped. The vast lives we had ahead of us, the boundless amount of time which laid unavoidably stretched out in front of us... But... the anxieties which I had caught sight of soon melted away. And after that, only Akari's tender lips remained.
    
    
14. Dear Leonard. To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away. Leonard, always the years between us, always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.
    
    
15. Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true.

Live A Little

I refuse to panic. It's too early for anything dramatic. Besides, I don't think I have the energy for it. Angry, yes, maybe; frustrated, yes, a lot; but that's how I've always been anyway, so I'm treading on familiar ground. And right now, panicking is a little off-character for me.


In other news, I might be moving in with the Bunniez in a month or so. I do realize there are going to be a lot of major changes -- giving up my Internet, for instance -- but I am positive that the things I'd have to trade for even a slice of independence are of little value compared to what I will gain. Besides, at 25, I think it's about time I dig my fingers at it.

I told my mother about the idea a week ago. With her usual world-weary look, she said, "Anak, mahirap yan." The most neutral response would have been, "Yes, I know," but in my mind, what I heard her say was, "You can't do it." I felt the simmering of anger in my stomach, but knowing my mother, I think she was more scared than I was.

And yes, truth be told, I am scared, and there are going to be rough patches I'd have to try ironing out as I muddle through, but hey -- it's about damned time for me to live a little.

Thirty, Flirty, and Thriving

Held hostage in a dream. Happy 30th (yesterday, actually), Hono'o-chan!
May the rest of your life be how you dream it to be! I love you!