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