Ye olde

You see pictures from high school and you suddenly feel so old, like you swam through an ocean of time where you can never retrace each stroke. In an ocean there are no landmarks. There are no clues as to where you have been. The passage of day and night is all the same that you will eventually lose the sense of time so precious to our species. When you look back, only the endless water will greet you. When you look forward there is nothing but more warer.

Breakfast of the champions

There’s nothing like a 600-calorie breakfast to make my day.

What wouldn’t I do for that man

My new favorite song is “What Wouldn’t I Do for That Man” by Annette Hanshaw, circa 1929. I love her voice - I can honestly call it angelic. Also, I like the vibe of flapper blues songs.

Here’s me singing it. I missed a lot of notes. I just learned the song yesterday and I’m too lazy to record again.

“What Wouldn’t I Do for That Man”
Jay Gorney & E.Y. Harburg
Sung by Annette Hanshaw
Velvet Tone, 1929

love was blind to me
now its kind to me
love has opened my eyes

since it came to me
life has came to me
with the sweetest surprise

i never knew how good it was to be
a slave to one who means the world to me

i love that man from the start

and way down deep in his heart
i know he loves me
heaven knows why
and when he tells me he cant live without me
what wouldnt i do for that man

hes not an angel or saint
and whats the odds that he aint
with all his faults i know hell get by

ill be so true to him, hell never doubt me
what wouldnt i do for that man

oh when he lets me lean my my weary head on his shoulder
i close my eyes right there and wish id never grow older
ill never leave him alone
ill make his troubles my own
i love that man as nobody can
im just no good when his arms are about me
what wouldnt i do for that man
oh what wouldnt i do for that man

ill never leave him alone
ill make his troubles my own
i love that man better than i do myself
im just no good when his arms are about me
what wouldnt i do for that man
oh theres not a thing i wouldnt do for that man
 

Symbols never die, but just fade unto distant memory

The first essay I ever wrote was in third grade. It was on one of those Grade 4 pads, like intermediate ones you use on high school, only smaller. I used a pink pen because the color was pretty. I wrote about Cory Aquino, the first woman president, and how awesome she is. My mom kept that essay in a drawer for many, many years, and I suspect she still has it.

Everything that needs to be said about Cory Aquino has been said since her death last Saturday.

She will be remembered well.

A Fan in Angst

I’ve read every book in the Harry Potter series since they came out more than a decade ago. These are not the most cerebral books known to man since their scope and prose aren’t even comparable to Tolkien or Lewis’s works, but they are definitely enjoyable. Harry Potter appeals to everyone’s fantasies and emotions, transcending the barriers of gender and age in doing so (like Twilight, lol). I am not a huge fan, but I appreciate Harry Potter for what is: an entertaining brainless read.

With that said, I want to direct your attention to an article that Jessica Zafra wrote two days ago at the Philippine Star called “Technology is Magic“. In it she compares Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy with the Harry Potter series. She says:

With scope comes the stakes. In Rings the whole world is in peril: if Sauron wins, all the races of Middle Earth and particularly men will be enslaved. In Harry Potter if Voldemort wins, there will be a change of management at Hogwart’s school. (At least that is what I have gleaned from the movies, which are said to be inferior to the books.)

It will probably be bad for regular people too, but in the movies a kind of apartheid exists between the wizards and ordinary humans (“muggles”). Occasionally we witness the casual destruction by dark forces of some famous London landmark, but few in the wizard dimension seem too perturbed. Since we are left in the dark about what’s at stake (Do we lose all our noses?) the war between good and evil has all the urgency of a battle for control of the high school drama guild.

Ms. Zafra admits (albeit implicitly) that she hasn’t read Harry Potter, which explains why she sounds quite clueless in the article. This is something that every Harry Potter reader knows: if Voldemort wins, both the supernatural and Muggle worlds—the whole planet— will be enslaved. Voldemort has particular hatred towards Muggle-born wizards and Muggles in general (hi Hitler!). He is not afraid to kill, he is ruthless, he is ambitious, he is evil. He is as much a villain as Sauron is. It’s sad that this wasn’t captured on film, but yeah, if you’ve read the book, you know it. It is a basic fact. It’s not just a change of Management at Hogwarts that’s at stake.

Ms. Zafra ads:

Then it hit me like a troll’s fist: Harry Potter is essentially elitist, while The Lord of the Rings is populist. I know how odd this sounds. Tolkien was a conservative, a member of the privileged class, and a defender of the old order. J.K. Rowling is a billionaire now, but at the time she wrote her novels she was a struggling single mother. But the hero of Tolkien’s epic is not Aragorn the reluctant king, Legolas the brave elf, or Gandalf, it’s little Frodo Baggins.

The smallest, most ordinary, least remarkable creature in the world changes the course of history. Power resides in the community of men, elves, dwarves and hobbits united by valor and sacrifice.

In contrast Rowling’s Harry Potter is a top student at a school so exclusive that ordinary people are unaware of its existence. There he competes with the other gifted kids, and by the sixth movie he is acknowledged as the chosen one who will save the world from the unspeakable evil. Power resides in one.

 

Harry Potter is not a top student. He’s actually pretty mediocre compared to other students at Hogwarts (except in Quidditch, sheesh). He’s just an average boy who just happens to always be at the right place at the right time and know all the right people. He was acknowledged as the chosen one, in a prophecy, but all he actually HAD to do was to literally give himself up to Voldemort and the rest was taken care of by his friends. Hogwarts isn’t an exclusive school, at least in the wizarding world. At a certain age, all wizards in the UK and Ireland are invited to attend. Therefore, it is erroneous to claim that Harry Potter is essentially elitist. It’s just a series about a, um, lucky lucky boy. I don’t quite know what to call it.

Ms. Zafra’s main points were 1.) Harry Potter is nooooo waaaay near the level of Lord of the Rings and 2.) technology is magic. My problem is that the arguments she made to support the former are moot. Why? Because she is comparing books she read to books she didn’t read (I’m not taking the level of comparison to films because she mentioned Tom Bombadil and barrow-wights, which aren’t in them). In doing so, she makes arguments that aren’t valid to support a—and I admit this—valid claim. An article like this from a journalist I respect is quite disillusioning. 

I know, I know, I shouldn’t have nitpicked. All this angst isn’t coming from a Harry Potter fan—I was a Jessica Zafra fan.

My Day’s Not Over

Today, I went to three banks wearing an outfit I really like. The one problem, however, is that the skirt makes me look extra fat. Sooo depressing if you ask me. And yeah I am aware that I sound like a total ditz.

Remember this?

Falcore Autumn - The Legend of Zelda (c64 mix) (Falcore Autumn)

Pet Peeves

1. I hate it when people touch my head. No one is supposed to touch my head, for the love of god.

2. I hate it when people tap their hands or feet. It drives me insane. It’s the most irritating thing in the world.

3. Scratch that. The most irritating thing is the world is when people breathe. I hate it when people breathe and I am made aware of it. Imagine feeling someone’s chest rise up and down, air escaping through his mouth and nose, in a monotonous pattern. The repetitiveness of the whole thing just kills me.

4. Oh, I also dislike heartbeats.

5. I am grossed out when strangers’ hair or skin brushes mine. That is simply the grossest thing in the whole history of the world. Imagine that prickly sensation, ever so softly caressing your skin—from another person’s head! Imagine the sweaty sticky arm of a person making contact with your dry, smooth arm. Yuck.

6. I hate it when people call me Aissa just to piss me off. Grow up people. We’re not in third grade.

7. Wet feet also kills me. This is why I have lots of boots. I would like to avoid muddified booger, saliva, mucus, and dirt giving my feet a beauty bath.

8. Slow lines. Of course.

9. Stupid people. Of course.

10. Sitting down in a bus and everyone else is standing up, restricting access to air and light.

11. Noisy restaurants.

12. Taxi drivers who are mad at passengers because A.) There is a traffic jam in the middle of rush hour B.) No reason, they’re jusr being their usual assholey selves. It’s not like they’re doing me a favor; I’m going to fucking pay their asses when I get off.

13. Trucks that have less than 18 wheels. Why bother being a truck if you only have 12 wheels? Or only 16, for that matter?

Meet me halfway by the bedrock

I honestly don’t understand why some people spend their youth (and often far beyond it) flitting from one relationship to another. Is it the constant drive to discover? Is it the illusion of freedom? Is it the sex? Is it the rush? Is it loneliness? Is it…what? I really don’t know. Sometimes I envy these people because they’re not bound by the invisible chains of being in a long-term relationship. Often I feel sorry for them, because it means that they haven’t found what they believe they’re looking for.

 
I think people go into romantic relationships because there’s a need to share a unique connection that cannot be achieved between parents, siblings, and friends. Part of that is the physical union of two bodies but there’s something more to it than that. I believe that a person needs a lover so that he can share his life with another person in a different context, a context which involves creating their own family and building their lives as one person with similar if not identical goals. Obviously, walking this path is not a short-term thing. It takes years of commitment. Having elaborate two-month stands constantly does not actualize it.

This is why when I decide to be in a romantic relationship I mean to marry the person. I build my whole life around him (and I expect him to do the same thing) because from that point onward I consider him part of my future. The consecutive plans I make will take into account the fact of his existence and desires. Yes, I expect him to do the same thing. If he can’t commit to that, then I won’t pursue a relationship in the first place. I won’t see the point.

The catch here is that I haven’t had enough time in this world to make that mistake. I hope never to, but who knows? 

Lights still lit two years after

I’ve always wanted to live in a large city. You see, in Cavite, there are no more people on the streets when the clock srikes nine. The effect is quite eerie, especially after I’ve just come from Manila. When I left the capital at eight, night—and for a lot of people, day—was just starting. When I cross the boundary to Cavite the streets are dark (in places where corrupt public officials conveniently forgot to put street lights) and everyone has gone to sleep, or is watching the primetime crap on television. I dislike the emptiness and the isolation. Most of all, I hate the absence of civilization.

So, I’ve always wanted to live in a large city. Now, I am.

“Something about city lights attracts me like a moth to a gasoline lamp.” I wrote that here two years ago. I’m glad that I still feel the same because now I live in the center of a city full of lights, lights emebedded in tall buildings and moving cars. I am in what I believe to be my natural habitat and as shallow as it sounds, it makes me happy. Believe me, it doesn’t take a lot.

I’m breathing inside a glass partially filled with water. No, really, I am.

I had one of my weird dreams last night. In my dream, I don’t remember what I did but I got an old man who lived in a hotel angry. I wanted his big fat smelly pig. So, since the the old man and his pig are both quite frightening, I asked Robin Padilla to ask him not to be mad at me. Well, the old man got so mad that he threw the pig at me and Robin Padilla while we were in a river. The pig landed on my side and turned into a bloody mess upon impact, effectively killing Robin Padilla on the way down. I woke up in cold sweat. Scary shit.

—

I have two very exciting things lined up for this week. My main problem is what I’ll be wearing to both of them. As usual though, I won’t blog about them here. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really blog about what I’m up to here. It’s for pretentious mind stuff.

—

I have this amazing superpower. Guess what it’s called! Not Caring. Apathy. With it I maintain my happy little bubble of existence where few things ever go wrong. How? Because I never know when they do!

—

Seriously, shit. My nose hurts. It really hurts. Humidity is too low in this office!

Blandly Afraid

Sometimes, like now, I feel a very strong urge to run away to an exciting foreign country like Paris or China. I would sell all my belongings, take out all my savings and then fly off to a strange part of the world with no place to stay in, no money to spend, and no plans about anything. It would be The Great Adventure Of My Life. I would probably die of cold or starvation but it would all be so fun and so reckless that I bet I wouldn’t even know what hit me.

I wish today was like the past when people travelled in ships without passports. All they would bring are a few belongings like their clothes (no toothbrushes and facial wash of course) and underwear, a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese. They would pay for passage on frail wooden ships that may sink without warning, that will probably not take them to the place they intend to reach. They would smell the salty sea air and retch as the planks rattled and creaked on top of a rolling sea. They would probably die, but they would have lived—they’ve had The Great Adventure Of Their Lives, on board a crickety ship with no toothbrush, no insurance and no SMS.

I wonder how it’s like to live in the past, in a time of high adventure and exploration. Back then, if you wanted to know things, you traveled to experience them. You go to a small country halfway around the world to see how the natives worshipped their crude god. You go to Paris to see art, Amsterdam to smoke pot, Germany to learn philosophy, China to harvest opium, Japan to see the samurai, India to eat chapati, America to stake unclaimed land. You travel on ships, horses, donkeys, oxen, and/or on foot. You worry about pirates on sea, brigands on land, and disease everywhere. Imagine that. Imagine all that.

Now, well, everything is bland and ascetic. Most of the planet has been discovered and explored and the parts that haven’t been under scrutiny yet can be found by anyone with a decent internet connection through Google Earth. If you want to know something, you go online, inside your house. There is no more adventure as the risks have been drastically decreased with the invention of disinfectants, penicillin, and more stringent laws. We live in times that are no less turbulent from the past and yet we are safer and thus, more docile.

The fire has gone out and I’m afraid it might have happened to me.

Convenience as a commodity

The world today is such a busy place. There are still so many things to do, even though we’ve created wonderful concepts and machines to do them for us. No one has time to go out of their way to pick up milk from the supermarket or bread from the bakery anymore. Everybody is rushing, everybody wishes they have more time and more energy for all the important stuff we need to accomplish before we die. Time and energy. These things have become a commodity. Now, however, we don’t only get paid to expend them and pay to consume them—we pay to save them. Hence, convenience as a commodity was born.

I planned to give you a lot of rhetorical crap about this shit but really all I want to say is, I dislike convenience stores. I dislike them with a passion. Why? The stuff they sell are ridiculously overpriced. Say, a block of cheese can be bought for P20 in the supermarket right? They sell the same thing for P40. Milk that costs P63 pesos in the grocery sells for P100 in those shitholes. A packet of sandwich spread costs P30, half the price more than the SRP.

It’s driving me crazy. You would have noticed by now that I’m a very price-conscious person. Well, I am, and it’s not something I’m embarrassed of. I strongly believe in paying for the exact worth of a product, and 50% more than the SRP is just pushing it. Yes, convenience is a commodity, and is bought as such, but 50%? Okay. Look. I understand. Convenience stores like Ministop and 7-11 are usually located in areas with high foot-traffic. Since the rent is also exponentially high, the space they rent is small, and can only store a limited amount of products. The owners also pay for staff, airconditioning, maintenance, and franchise fees. Hence, the prices are jacked up. It’s not like sari-sari store aspirants can put up shop in Strata 100 or RCBC.

So yeah I totally get it. Convenience is a luxury, and luxury items are expensive. We’ve established that. However, as a smart consumer with limited resources, we should explore other ways to consume convenience. Shop at the supermarket, christ. Do it once a week or every two weeks. Clean up after yourself because it only takes a minute of your precious time, instead of hiring a cleaning lady who charges P300 an hour.

I think we’re better off expending time and energy than paying to save it. It costs a lot less.

Batteries feel included.

I noticed the blog because a couple of friends posted a link on how to have sex with a friend who has a boyfriend. It involves an intricate web of lies and trickery, beards and tanning beds, a fake wedding ring on your middle finger, and time travel. I found the article serious and funny at the same time. Hence, I read some older posts and was instantly hooked. This guy is brillant.

I love his deadpan humor—he delivers his punchlines with the gravity of a seven-year old telling you about a fairy castle in the attic. I love how his twisted logic, how he connects any number of concepts together into a coherent funny whole (like, novels, lizards, and Al Pacino). Most of all, I love how he seems to laugh at himself (and at us) whenever he writes something. It’s a quiet, private kind of laugh, and I like laughing with him.

PS - Apparently, the blog is made up of contributions from people around the world. Funny that, because the tone and style of each of them are similar, if not almost identical. 

Here’s the blog.

Is the Filipino worth dying for?

I was walking along the footbridge crossing EDSA from Ortigas when I saw the inscription at EDSA Shrine. “The Filipino is worth dying for” was Ninoy Aquino Jr.’s immortal words. I, like, totally get his point. Filipinos are special. We have a unique history filled with terrible trials and tribulations. We have fought against the three-century rule of the Spaniards and won. We have been bled dry by the Japanese during the war, but survived. We have co-opted with the Americans and are still paying the price with fresh sweat and even fresher blood. We have fought two bloodless wars against tyrants and succeeded. We have done all of these things together and through the centuries of threats, almost-freedoms, love, sacrifice, life, death, we have grown stronger as a people.

Our culture is rich with beautiful songs, complex dances, powerful stories, and lovingly preserved customs and traditions. Filipinos are special in so many ways. Our worth as a people is immense—which is why I believe that the Filipino is worth dying for.

However, there are greater things worth dying for. There are lesser things worth dying for. People die for money, food, water, shelter, envy, misery, insanity, love, hate, among myriad other things. The Filipino is worth dying for but worth, of course, is subjective.

Just right before my life changed

I’m home a lot lately. When I’m not home, I’m off trying to score a job or going to fun stuff. My life is completely different, yet exactly the same. I love it. 

The Things I Need To Get By

You know what I really need right now? I need a good, hardbound notebook. It shouldn’t be too big, it should fit in most of my hand and shoulder bags. I also need a black sign pen that has a light so I can see what I’m writing in the dark. I forgot to tell you though—why do I need a notebook and a pen?

I’ve long given up on being a fancy writer. These days, I mainly write about makeup and other useless drivel online. I never did manage to write a story and I’ve even stopped writing essays which at least tackles important issues like, I don’t know, politics and life and death. Therefore, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve stopped writing. Therefore, I need to start writing again.

I wrote because I wanted the world to know what I thought about certain things which I deemed important. I don’t find a lot of things important lately. A lot of things today as so trite and so shallow. If I do find things that are important, I’m busy chasing or ignoring them and I don’t have enough time to sit down and think about what they really mean. When I do find that time to think, I’m already long gone dealing with other newer important things—hence no time to write. Gosh, I need a flow chart for this, don’t I?

Anyway, between then and my laptop, I need a way to write down random things, random thoughts which mean a lot to me. I need something I can whip out whenever something occurs to me, be it day or night. I need something to keep track of myself. Blogging is no longer a good option because, come on, you can’t expect me to tell you everything about my life. First of all, you don’t care enough about me to know everything about it. Second, I don’t care enough about you to tell you everything about it. A notebook presents no such limitation. I can tell it everything I want and its only reader, namely myself, would like to know everything about what I just said.

After everything is said and done, I think I just miss writing words by hand. It’s such a charming little act, no?

Soft and Warm

It was a Wednesday. I usually like Wednesdays because it signals the middle of the week, and that’s when things start to really happen before the end, the dreadfully boring Sunday. I have an affinity with Wednesdays—but I didn’t like this one. It was rainy and dreary and I was wearing an outfit that made me look fat. 

I was on my way to Ortigas for a job interview. I left early for the 3 PM appointment but I somehow managed to get stuck in Cavite for one and a half hours and then in EDSA for almost two hours. The bus was crawling at a snail’s pace. The rain was falling harder. Everyone was getting bleaker. It was a bad Wednesday to be out of the house, to be anywhere outside your comfort zone.

When I got down at Megamall, all the cabs that passed me by were taken. I was terribly late for my interview so I decided to walk to the building. It was a long, fifteen-minute walk. My Vans were getting soggier with every step I take and I felt my legs numbing down, for which my severe lack of physical activity can be blamed. I was hurrying to meet someone before the interview and he is a rather impatient and busy man.

I was near. I saw him behind the glass walls of the tea shop. As I sat down beside him, I felt soft relief and warm happiness course through me. This is where it all began.

Stariray

do you want to sound like a star
that twinkles soundlessly while everyone is asleep?

The future is born

I was so pissed off yesterday. I don’t like to attend ceremonies in general since I find them too rigid and too impersonal to be worth my time. I don’t want to go to anywhere that involves a lot of speeches and a lot of marching, scratchy gowns and barongs, melting makeup. I just wanted to stay at home and be handed my diploma. This is why I was snapping at my mom like a brat who was denied her cheesecake, refusing to take pictures that should have been with me for the rest of my life, and generally being nasty to everyone. I am such a terrible graduate.

And so, what I felt yesterday was…mostly nothing. Well, okay, I teared up a little but not in the usual parts. It was when the professors  of our college started to march down the aisle. They looked so happy and proud of us, us who are the fruit of four years of their severely underpaid labor. These are the people who contributed heavily to who I am now—and I won’t see them again. Maybe I will, but all I would probably do then is nod. 

Congratulations to the professors who have just given birth to the future. I bet all of you have terribly unflattering figurative stretch marks by now.

Toopy and the Dead Bird

This is the second part of a series of videos involving one of my dogs, Toopy. I like taking videos of my dogs whenever they do something interesting, like catching popcorn in midair—which, by the way, is coming soon. I also have a video of Toopy eating with her paws used like hands (minus the opposable thumbs). 

Anyway, the first part is called Toopy and the Attack of the Giant Tree Branch. It’s on Vimeo so I can’t embed it here, si just click the link to see it.