so you say you're tired of being elitist?

If you're really someone who cares about what other people read but you're not in a position to teach literature because you didn't graduate from an EngLit course or anything remotely connected to Lit; if you're someone who gets affected when people disregard the importance of literary canon; if you simply consider yourself a writer or a reader, then by the name of the Lord H Christ, you've got to do something about it. Let's just stop all these discussions for a while and think about what can possibly be done to improve the situation we are all in. Think!

I have a plan but it's not a remarkable one. It's something that starts small and I'm sure that it's not anything that's new. If some people can get wind of it and do it, they are bound to get results.

I was actually inspired by my supervisor, who was never a reader. But when I shared my insights about certain books with her then eventually lent her some books, she became interested in them. Now she picks out books all on her own. She's now trying out Alcott and Bronte, I think. And these are authors who I started out with when I first got hooked with anything lit.

So my Anything Lit Project is for people who're tired of talking and want, instead, to act on the things they say. I repeat, this is nothing grandiose. I'm sorry, but I can't wait for someone to start something grandiose.

So here are the steps for my Anything Lit Project:

1. Think of someone who isn't a reader. This person can be someone you work with or someone whom you know. But, this should be a person whom you have established a relationship with so that you know that that person already trusts you about certain important things.

2. Share stories about concepts you've read that s/he may be able to relate to. You have to be subtle and you have to muster a lot of enthusiasm about what you're trying to relay to him/her. Try not to sound like a dork or an Avon lady. Maintaining someone's interest is very tricky so don't scare the person off.

3. When you see that s/he is interested enough, you can volunteer to lend the person a book. Don't push it if the person feels that s/he doesn't have the time or is not ready yet. The last thing that you want to do is drive the non-reader away.

4. Scrutinize the books that you have in your collection. Try to make an objective analysis of each. Think of what type of book that person will appreciate reading based on the things you've talked about. Bring it along with you during times when you know you'll see the person. Then if the person asks about it, lend it to him or her.

5. If the person has shown appreciation for the book (s/he should if you've made the correct book choice), encourage him/ her to read another. Pick books that s/he might be interested in but increase the difficulty level for comprehension and, well, aesthetic qualities.

This works, trust me. It's exactly what my mother did with me and what I've tried to do with my friends. Most of my friends have read books that I've been reading. The downside of this though is, of course, if they show you the door at the onset or after the first book has been lent. Or, s/he could stop reading once you stop seeing each other. But at least you've tried. Devising ways to help others overcome ignorance is always better than trying to contest it.

Go easy on me. I'm still learning (ever so slowly) not to be scared.

Over lunch, M and I talked about the woman whom I interviewed. I told M about the bruises I saw on the woman's arms and the matter-of-fact way she showed them to me during the interview. The woman said that her husband, who came home drunk last night, hit her. She was applying for the job because she felt that this was a way for him to see that she was useful, too. I just couldn't understand it. Why are some women such a glutton for punishment? And in this day and age when every possible liberty has been afforded us. Why do they let men do this? Is love the only thing we can blame or is it something else; something more legit and comprehensible to the average human being?

M gets remarkably trite when she's eating. She tells me that no one wants to get hurt, that no one's actually asking for it. I tell her that I know that. Then M continues with her spiel on how abuse takes different forms, reminding me of one instance that I would have gladly forgotten. M is particularly adept at illustrating befuddling situations; her trick is to find something about that experience that you can relate to in another, but not so different, level so that you can understand it from where you're coming from.

"Or we can think of it this way, " she says, " that women do all these remarkably insipid things because they want to cope with the life they've chosen. They want to say, Hey, world, I'm okay. The superhumanwoman complex."

"Nah."

"Alright. You might be thinking about the "motherly instinct" phenomenon which I used to buy but I don't anymore because so many people are using it as a sorry excuse. It has become redundant. Anyway, has it ever occured to anyone that women put up with bad men -- not because they think by doing this, they'll be loved more or that eventually she'll be able to turn him into someone decent --but women do it because they're trying their hardest to find out why they still love the person after everything that went on? It's more of nostalgia than love, really. Same goes for people who cheat on their significant others, for people who run after the same person for years. They want to put a finger on the reasons why they still love her or him, why they can't find it in themselves to leave. They think, maybe tomorrow is the day that he will wake up from whatever it is that's ailing him and he'll remember me. You see, they can't miss a single second of the nightmare they're living in. That's because they might regret turning their backs on the person on that very day when everything turns back to normal again. All that we as bystanders can do is sit still and hope that they would realize how tired they've gotten of chasing the ghost of the person who they fell in love with. Because some people don't get it. Some people don't get that people change."

And after this long tirade, she resumes eating her lunch. Today, it's Cesar Salad from Wendy's and a cheese sandwich. I sit beside her and stare at nothing.

A person who dresses well always catches my attention. When I say well, I could mean a variety of things. I could mean that the person knows how to dress appropriately for most occasions; or that a person has a good idea of what styles work for him/her and are fashionable at the same time; or I could mean that a person dresses neatly, donning shirts or skirts that almost never have any creases on them. Or I can mean all of these at the same time.

I have gone through innumerable days when I absolutely knew that what I was wearing wasn't smart enough, probably was even not color-coordinated or even worse, the less endearing have-seen-better-days style. What I find shameful is the fact that I knew I wasn't going to get any brownie points for being stylish and I didn't do anything about it. Instead, I strolled down the street, wearing my devil-may-care, i'm-not-dictated-by-fashion sneer and that was the only thing I had to show for.

People who are too focused on the way they dress to the point of stupidity and impracticality disgust me. But I don't like not caring, either. Truth of the matter is, we live in a superficial world filled with people who may judge you for how you project yourself to the world. I hate to sound like a total cheesecake but if people see that you don't care about yourself, chances are, they'd pass you by faster than you can say Armani.

The place I work in and the actual nature of the job is a classic example. We are the first people whom applicants see. When we set a foot out that door doth which separates the employed from the job-seekers, the people who see us tend to make these following calculations:

a) how we look compared to the other recruiters from the other companies they've applied at

b) how much our annual salaries are

c) where we shop, or more importantly, where we can afford to shop in

d) will they look like us X years from now

See, it's not just us who's making the judgment call. They are also capable of arriving at their own set of conclusions. Sure, you come off as someone who's very smart. People know that your stats are off the roof. However, if you look like someone's dowdy aunt from god-knows-where, people may start questioning your company's financial capabilities. Will this company pay me as stingily as it seems to be paying her? Naku, wag na lang.

I'm not saying that they'll respect you less. It's just that the package adds to the value. It's good that you give others the benefit of the doubt and think that almost everyone would have the understanding and the intelligence to let you off the fashionable hook that easily. But come on. Stop watching that stupid Tyra Banks show. Looks matter. Looks are important. They aren't everything, that's right. You don't need a college degree to know that. But looks count, in more ways than you can probably ever imagine.

That's why I like checking this site out. It gives me hope for the world.

The Poems I Have Not Written

I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.

And if you stacked them up,
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel, saying nothing

and everything in a thousand
different tongues. So moving, so
filled with and emptied of suffering,
so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth,
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who’s ever left me,

make them eye their husbands
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.

The poems I have not written
would compel all other poets
to ask of God: "Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.

please strike me dead at once,
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections." Trees would

bow their heads before the poems
I have not written. "Take me,"
they would say, "and turn me
into your pages so that I

might live forever as the ground
from which your words arise."
The wind itself, about which
I might have written so eloquently,
praising its slick and intersecting

rivers of air, its stately calms
and furious interrogations,
its flutelike lingerings and passionate
reproofs, would divert its course

to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written,
and the life I have not lived, the life

I’ve failed even to imagine,
which they so perfectly describe.

excerpt

There remained with her, as she had told him, the uplifting memory of his faith in her; but she had not reached the age when a woman can live on her memories. -- The House of Mirth, Edith Wharton

what's your first chapter like?

My first memory of all time was when they took Anthony, my brother, home. I guess I was around four years old then, all curious eyes and chocolate-tipped hands. I remember that I was standing near the stairway and I saw my thin mother cradling a bundle of something in her hands.

Here's a secret, which is really not a secret because I've already told my brother about it: I don't remember Mommy ever getting pregnant. I mean, I don't remember seeing her walking around the house with a big tummy. But then again, I don't really remember anything that happened before the day they came home with Anthony so my un-memory can't really hold that much weight, right? It's strange, though, how I know that I haven't seen her pregnant. That's why since that year and until I was probably 8 years old, I walked the earth with the assumption that all babies could be purchased in a place which was mysteriously given a very itch-inducing name: Makati.

I repeat, there's nothing that I remember before this incident and all my other memories took place after it. I consider that day my first real day as a human being. That's why my brother has a special significance in my life and I know that I can never completely let him go.

If my life were a book, it would've started there. How about you, where would your book start?

hodgepodge for a hedgehog

Haven't you heard the news? I'm trying to qualify for a world-wide contest for Bloggers. It's called the Post-Silly-Stuff-In-7-Minute-Intervals-Even-If-You-Say-You-Feel-Like-Shit contest. What, you haven't heard of it? I hear it's very rewarding. The person who contacted me (aka Mr Jesus) said that if you win, you'll be able to get a lifetime supply of tissue and a date with destiny. Well I've always wanted to meet destiny. Don't you? Haven't you a curious bone in your body, son? What are you, a hermit? A Jack O Lantern? A Blogger who wants to escape the drudgeries of life, who has realized all the atrocities that all this transcience has in store for hapless human beings everywhere, therefore, doesn't want to have anything to do with it and turns to posting silly observations online which no one else will even bother reading? If you are any of the above, you have to come out of your shell and venture further into the world of Debauchery and Utter Nonsense!

Let's join the stupid contest, already! Who knows, you might win. If you do, tell me if destiny's a complete knock out or what, hmkay? But I don't think you would. Win, I mean. As you can see, I'm a couple minutes ahead of you and I don't see myself stopping. I'll only stop until someone thinks up a cure for the common cold! So someone needs to think things through really fast or else I'll have the blog world filled with so much shit, all of you won't be able to see straight.

******

Newsflash: I like being long-winded. I don't see anything wrong with it. So what if I repeated the statement that I've repeated that you know I'll keep on repeating 'til the day of holy judgment? So what if I tell you, in excruciating detail, about my dog's week-long activities? There are things that have to be there, that just have to be said, and more importantly, that I want to be said. If you were paying me to write about myself, then definitely you'd have a say in how you want things to go. But you aren't shelling out anything to read this piece of blogheaven, right? Maybe you just happened to check this blog out and thought it high time that someone did a bit of criticizing 'round these parts. Have I got news for you: I don't need you to pull any stops. I don't want you here.

******

I was reading my former blog and I've realized how so many things have changed. Nowadays, I take less control of what I write about. I think I've entered a phase that is pushing me to talk only about things that are real to me. This is cleansing season, a time for shedding old clothes. I hope these new ones would fit just as well.

There are days when I get bored with this "embracing reality" project. Sometimes, I feel sorely tempted to go back to my unseeing poems, my faulty definitions of love. During those days, I remind myself that I am not any less if I talk about things that truly concern me. I am not any less if I fling myself out in the open, arms outstretched to a world that can care less about my life. I am not any less if I say this is what I want and this is what I'll do. I am not any less but am not anything that's more, that's larger, either. I have to learn to be okay with that.

In moments when my ego rears its ugly head, I tell myself about what I've recently discovered: that what sustains me is my knowledge of who I am, which is composed of all my personal thoughts and feelings, my interaction with people who matter/ don't matter to me and my going through actual circumstances that belong to my life, not anyone else's. What I'm doing is learning how to be happy and content about that fact. Until I get re-acquainted with who I started out to be as a writer, I won't be able to push through with what I originally set out to do.

I got lost in the rain. I've heard that it happens, sometimes. Someone once told me that it's okay if it does. I used to doubt what he said but I believe him now.

don't talk, just sniff

Don't give me no shit because;

I've been tired (6x)

-- Pixies

My cold is a whore. My cold is a whore that never lets up. My cold is a whore that has attached itself to my system and refuses to let go. I want to get rid of it but here's the thing: I... don't...know... how. And no one else knows, either. It doesn't want money nor fame nor any brilliant diatribes. It just wants to fuck my nose silly 'til the cows come home. Hang it all.

I have been sniffling and blowing my nose for almost three hours straight. I feel really terrible but didn't feel this way earlier on in the day. I just came back from our two-day HR outing and boy oh boy it was a vaca that we all deserved. The place that we went to in Rizal was really great and had such a quiet, restive atmosphere. We were fed three times a day (with merienda, besides) and I felt like I've absolutely recharged myself by just lazing around and checking my Facebook updates and here comes this dreadful cold and I feel awful all over again.

Since I was a kid, I've always had colds. I'm not exaggerating. I don't remember a time in my life when I was sniffle-free. When I get even the slightest whiff of dust particles, my system goes all manic on me then gives up. During these days, I can't avoid hating myself and I throw in God and my parents in the activity, at times. Why me? Other people seem pretty normal and healthy but I have this doody weakness. Jesus.

It's either dust or exposure to cold weather or changes in weather. Drat, I feel so tired. And to think that the week hasn't even started for me yet. Darn, crap, shishcobob.

I think the only people who deserve to have colds are:

... the ones who are so rich, they can afford not to work for the rest of their lives. They can wipe their noses off dollars, for all I care. Just let them have the friggin' ailment.

... the people who are chronic liars. Every time they think up some lie, an attack occurs, which renders them speechless for 10 days.

... mothers who don't take care of their kids and go out playing mahjong or social climbing with friends.

... models. i can't really think of anything substantial to back that one up.

... stupid people. because they're stupid, silly.

....cheating husbands and boyfriends.

Gad. Since I'm feeling so gadawful, I'd like it if you'd tell me that your life isn't so swell as well. If that's the case, contact me. Let's go out, drink lots and lots of beer 'til we pass out. Then and only then will we be able to attain salvation. Amen.

i can play your instrument

Oohlala! It's the International Hug A Musician Day tomorrow! Groupies and wanna-be groupies all over the world are so going to love this.

I was looking at some comments that people made on the event's Facebook profile page and this made me laugh for a full 8 seconds:

hug a musician...no way!

I did that...now I have 4 kids...

Here's the list I made of musicians I'd love to hug or have hugged:

1. Morrissey (49 but still rockin')
2. Billy Joel
3. Black Francis
4. Jim Morrison
5. Billie Holiday
6. Jon Bon Jovi
7. Justin Timberlake
8. The singers of the group All-4-One
9. Chris Robinson
10. Bob Dylan
11. Mick Jagger
12. Keith Richards
13. Bon Scott
14. Joe Satriani
15. Joe Strummer
16. Dee Dee Ramone
17. Frank Sinatra
18. Suzanne Vega
19. Mozart
20. Jeff Buckley


I'd hug my musician but he's in Isabela. I already miss him silly. :(

What I don't get

is how much people champion duplicity. Some people seem to think that it's so cool hiding what they really think or feel about others. I think that's really disgusting and so 6th-grade. There are days when I'm convinced that I'm merely whiling my time on the film set of Cruel Intentions.

Honestly, I also indulge in the occasional malicious chitchat. This is something that is unavoidable, that I believe that even the best of people may have, at some point, engaged in. What's ridiculous is that some people don't know that they do it. We talk about how we don't like this or that person blah blah blah when what we're doing also speaks of poor character and judgment. At least, I can admit to doing it and be honest with myself. I know that merely acknowledging how wrong these activities are are not enough. I'd have to do something about it.

But I digress. As I was saying, I hate duplicity. I don't understand how a person can take pride in lying to people then telling others about it. How you can expect to gain another person's trust after opening up that you're not totally keeping it real with everyone else baffles me completely. And to think that people tolerate those kinds of actions and how I myself have acceded to it once before makes me cringe.

I'm not the poster girl for manners. But I know myself and I am aware of how I should conduct myself in the world I'm operating in. If I'm angry, I say so. If I hate you, it will show. I find that I have a certain difficulty deceiving myself.

death 101

it struck me as funny the other day how no one in this country explains death. no one i know, that is. when i was 5, i lost my dog to it -- death, the culprit, always sneaky and unannounced. no one cared to explain the intricacies of how it happened and why. death takes things from us, this is the fact of life, my mother once said. that was all the education i had about the matter. but once when i was 10 years old, i watched a movie where the American parent sat next to the American child and patiently explained where the child's dog has gone, but not necessarily why. because death is an inevitable part of our lives, i propose to have an introductory course that would discuss it. why not? there's a course about sex, a course about botany; almost all the courses taught here are affirmations that life does exist and continues to exist. i want a semester that could teach me what to do if one of my aunts, in the middle of a party, mistakenly chokes on an artichoke and keels over on the spot. i want a full three months worth of discussions about sudden-deaths, mid-deaths, temporary flights. it would be good to have someone sit 256 students down and explain to all of us why some things need to be lost forever, if it's true that nothing here would continue to go on indefinitely. if by chance no one is capable enough to teach us about it, then i'll settle for someone who'd be able to announce it before it waltzes in, the way maids inform their employers about guests in victorian novels. the maid hands you a card and says, "madame, death is here and he's calling for you, this time." okay, so it doesn't really matter who does what, i was just thinking that it might be good for us if there's someone who'd be able to explain death at length for us to be able to appreciate what we have. so many people are throwing precious minutes away, stuck in jobs they don't want to be in, stuck in a marriage that's empty, stuck in a world they're not doing anything for. don't you see, there should be someone who would be able to give us back those lost minutes we drowned in as children, seeing death for the first time. a favorite saying: time heals all wounds. it does but it never leaves out the questions or picks up pieces of your wondering then hands them back to you and says, here you go. i'll help you get it all back in no time at all. i wish we had a compass all pointing us home but wishes are unreliable, like bubbles that can't stop forming then bursting into this air. so i guess i have to make do with you. travel with me. tell me what it's like for you, what you also need to know.

on reading

I belong to a family of readers.

My father was a remarkable reader; he was the kind of person who, after X years later, still remembered all the names of the characters from the books he read and he would be able to rival anyone else's knowledge of these books' plots. My mother's interest in reading was never blatantly evident when I was growing up. I took her reading activities for granted; she was an educator after all, so I translated it to more of a need than something she actually enjoyed doing. It was my aunt who enlightened me about this after my mother died. She said that when my mother was a teenager, she read everything in sight. She even told me about the time when my Lola spanked her for forgetting to change her napkin because she was reading a book so intently. Her bedsheets became soaked with blood and they marvelled at how she wasn't able to notice it.

My mother taught me how to read. At the age of three, I was able to read those hard-bound Bible Stories that almost everyone I know has copies of. She was a very patient teacher during the times when she wanted to be. She ordered books accompanied by instructional tapes; she taped educational posters on my bedroom walls (A is for Apple; B was always for Bandana and never Banana, for some reason). We pored over books for two hours everyday and she'd make me go through some exercises that she devised. This is how I learned to read. I imagine that it must've been a difficult feat but my mother soldiered on, as all mothers must when they want their children to learn about something important.

But when I got older, it was my father whom I turned to for advice regarding reading material. He was always so vocal about classic literature and how rewarding it is to be able to read books penned by the greats. Of course, I had to try them out. He told me how lucky we were here in the Philippines to be able to access these significant works because in some countries, they were forbidden, especially to women. I didn't believe him at first; I thought it was something he just told me to help me appreciate Dickens and Alcott, the first two classic lit authors whose works I've had the pleasure of reading. Eventually, I learned that this was true. Last year, I read the book Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi. I cried a lot and remembered my father and was once again thankful for the privileges that are given to us here.

Of course, I also went through the necessary phase of reading more popular books like the Sweet Valley High series and books by Daniel Steel and more books that were written by anonymous authors that cannot be necessarily categorized as smut but are things that I may never read again, not because I'm an elitist. I've never belonged to a "literary circle" and I've never published anything that may be considered note-worthy. But as most of us know, when you go through the natural process of growing up, you have to decide on what kind of knowledge you'd want to take with you and what you want to let go of.

One of the bloggers included in my Reader list posted this in his blog. The issue caught my attention because his sentiments regarding the reading of classic literature mirrored my thoughts perfectly. This battle of wits all started with the blog entry that someone posted and it did cause some furor, I think, in the lit circles and has even started a rereading of Amado Hernandez's Mga Ibong Mandaragit. I've tried to weigh the two sides and have read the other posts related to the issue. I believe that Connie Veneracion has made some valid points as well but I would have to agree with the people who felt offended by what she posted.

A year ago, I've chanced upon someone's entry mistakenly linking reading preferences and orginality. Aside from the fact that I think everything that person spews out is total BS, I think that one has nothing to do with the other. Good reads are truly not limited to time-tested literature, but this is not a reason to write them off as books that only nerds or people in certain circles can enjoy.

You'd think that lawyers would be capable of posing better arguments than these.

I have no problem with how "eclectic" other people's tastes are. What I do care about is the way of thinking that people go for nowadays. They say it's the modern brand of cool. Let's be mediocre and unobtrusive because that's sooo cool! Let's be content with what we know and just read about stuff that we already have learned about a trillion times because that is sooo cool. Let's not succumb to standards that other people set just because they think they know about these things! Let's read anything that may or may not contribute to intellectual growth! Who cares? I don't.

I think that Ichi Batacan's statement takes the cake: "[There is] so much fear of 'elitism' in this country, when there should be a far, far greater fear of backwardness and parochialism and mediocrity. So much in our national life and culture encourages us, forces us, calls on us to settle for so much less than the best in ourselves, to aim for not even the barest minimum in our aspirations. It makes me ferociously angry too."

Connie Veneracion's and that other girl's statements are indications of some people's attitudes toward learning and discovery. When has this all started? When has it been considered bad or undesirable to read books that would enlighten you, that would make you grow as a person, that would enable you to think more critically?

I am the product of two readers and I think this is the one thing in the world that I am most thankful for and am insanely proud of. If my parents were lax and let me learn how to read at my own pace, if they were the sort of parents who never pushed me to understand the things that I do not, then I seriously don't know if I could've gotten a good job or if I would even be posting stuff in this blog now. Because of my parents, I was able to grasp the reality that life isn't something that you go through by making small, easy steps. The lessons you learn and the experiences you encounter should be able to push you to be someone better, someone who embraces what it can offer.

If you don't have the time to read Tolstoy, then say so. Don't make disinterest an excuse because it just makes you seem stupid. Reading classic literature is no walk in the park. It has to be done with a certain grace and persistence. These works have been published for us to learn important lessons from them and they have been crafted, yes, to be taught by capable people.

Of course you'd ask, who's left to teach us now that the educational system is shot, now that there are more and more people who can't construct a simple sentence, yet they pass the LET exam? Everyday, I get to interview English teachers who mix up past and present tenses and my heart sinks. This is a serious glitch that we really have to look into and yes, it will take a lot of time and an enormous collective effort for us to be able to develop competent teachers. But the seemingly educated people perplex and disappoint me more -- people who have finished "important" degrees but have the audacity to disregard the absolute necessity of thinking out of the boxes they have comfortably settled into.

I'll be closing with an excerpt from Ian Casocot's entry that says it all: The art of appreciation is ultimately colored by where you come from, so don't judge anything -- books, paintings, music -- as being flawed, especially if you're the one who lack the tools to understand the nuances of the text at hand. Your ignorance and your personal incompetencies should not be the standard by which something should be judged with.

XOXOXO

"He's really doing it. He's stripping," J whispered. Her voice was slightly quavering, as if she's been turned to a mass of nerves ready to spill out all over the floor. It's really tough to be able to hear someone whispering in a room full of squealing women but I heard it, probably because the words mirrored my thoughts to the T at that moment. It's either that or I've suddenly developed auditory superpowers.

Before we move on to the actual scenario itself, I'd like to tell you about the things that have transpired earlier that day, which has led J and I into that particularly uncomfortable moment.

J and I met at Festival in Alabang at around 10:20. M was late, as usual, because she had to take her mother to the parlor. She arrived at the opportune time when J and I were already discussing whether or not we should add another bottle of wine to the five bottles nestled quietly in our yellow shopping cart. We included other necessities and vetoed the additonal wine bottle and deposited everything in the car.

We had a quick lunch at Old Spaghetti House then we went on our way to pick up the cake and the Maki that J prepared for the night's event.

Doesn't the Maki look delicious? We chatted with J for a while. She couldn't tag along because she had to undergo dental surgery the next day. After some time, we took off and headed to Astoria Plaza in Ortigas.

We were so proud of ourselves, and of M, especially, because she was the designated driver that day and we didn't get lost.

Here's B (Bridezilla) on the rampage who, minutes ago, was beside herself with rage because she just found out that the rooms we were going to stay in were not the ones she reserved.

So instead of leaving the hotel, we just decided to make do with the room given to us, which was not bad, really. It had two separate rooms, a small common room, a dining area and kitchen. And all this, we had for the low low price of P7,000!

We settled in and got things ready and fixed ourselves up as well.

The theme was supposed to be all Gossip Girl-y and that was a shame because I didn't know anything about that show because I've never thought of watching it. Thank God the other girls were too broke to shop for outfits or else I would've looked like a set PR.

At around 8pm, our first guest came in, a college friend of B's.

By 815, we were getting worried that no one else would come. It wasn't raining or anything but since most of the guests would be travelling from Laguna, we were wondering if we'd be doomed to entertain just one guest.

Then at around 847, the others came.

On our way to Astoria, I thought up some questions for the test that we asked B to take. I asked S, her betrothed (hahaha that sounded soooo pompous! eyelavit!), to answer them first then we'd just check if B's answers were correct. And she got 8 right out of 13 questions! It was a hoot!:D

It has been said that no bridal shower that's held in the 21st century would be complete without inviting a stipper over. We didn't want to come off as total squares, so we invited one. Actually, I sort of suspected that this sorry party was just an excuse for us to actually see a stripper because we were all raised to be good, polite women, ever-conscientious of her place in society and dammit, we deserved to at least see one grind and gyrate to bad music.

I really expected it to be like, a totally interesting experience but it was just downright funny, and humiliating, and, at times, boring. But the man was gentlemanly enough to apologize to each of us afterwards. No, I will not post the "juicy" details in this page because we did vow that what happened in Astoria would stay in Astoria.

I was so distracted by my dismay that I forgot to take pictures of him. I wonder now if that's even allowed.

But laughing about it afterwards and sharing our different, erm, experiences was worth the ghastly-ness of it.

To B, because your life will never be the same again. The road you will be travelling will not be an easy one and there are times when you will want to rethink things. Remember what I always tell you -- trust yourself.

I hope you and S have a blast. Here's to life; here's to optimism!;D

i am ingrate, yes i am

After the Isabela-Pagudpud-Vigan trip, I just couldn't muster enough energy nor interest to go online and post a detailed story about the trip. But I will tell you all about it soon. Just let me enjoy this short, self-pronounced sabbatical from writing that I'm now taking.

Of course, this doody little entry doesn't count. This is just me thinking aloud. I'm not even telling you about anything important. I'm just going on and on about all the nonsensical stuff that I bother myself with during times when IT forgets to block the blogsites I frequent.

I guess I've forgotten how peaceful it feels to just sit and think about things. After three days of not watching television and not having internet access, I think I sorta caught up with myself. I don't feel compelled to write about my feelings regarding the things that are happening in my life. I don't even feel giddy and excited just thinking about the possible topics I could rant about.

Sometimes, it's good to wait and to let things settle then disappear when the day ends. Not everyday is a day for remembering, anyway. This is something that I'm still learning about.

Hahaha I suddenly remembered that this post was supposed to have a purpose! Here it is: I'd like to thank all the lovely people who greeted me on my birthday. And yes, it was more than I hoped for. Thanks everyone, from the bottomest of my bottom. Bow.

sounds familiar, yes?

Read a truly hilarious story in the Read or Die blog. It's about this sad, sick man who kept texting the Read or Die moderator and I particularly liked these lines:

He does seem intent to carve out some sort of half-crazed, half-fantastic,
overall debased Beat-Marxist fairytale where rich girl dwelling in ivory tower
breathing in the rarefied air of dead books and dead knowledge meets poor boy,
the genius poet with a violent and melancholic past. And together they fight
illiteracy and capitalistic exploitation.

Maybe I wouldn't...

Question, where's the audio option for Blogger? Does this mean that I can't post songs here?

Hmmm...

In the meantime, take a gander at what this song's title is. This is one of my favorite Beth Orton songs.

Blankety blankety blank
Beth Orton

Baby do you know what you did today
Baby do you know what you took away
You took the blue out of the sky
My whole life changed when you said goodbye
An' I keep crying, crying.

I wish I never saw the sunshine
I wish I never saw the sunshine
An' if I never saw the sunshine
Then maybe I wouldn't mind the rain.

Every day is just like the day before
All alone a million miles from shore
All of my dreams I dreamed with you
Now they will die and never come true
An' I keep crying, crying.

I wish I never saw the sunshine
I wish I never saw the sunshine
An' if I never saw the sunshine
Then maybe I wouldn't mind the rain.

And I know there would not be
This cloud that's over me
Everywhere I go.

huwat?

this is a test. i just want to know if they haven't blocked this site today.

the more you ignore me, the more that platypus will grow on your head

Hay naku. So much for Morrissey and this wasted day and all the things I wanted to do but didn't get to do because I prioritized posting stuff in a site that no one seems to bother with. It was cold in Vox but it's friggin' winter here. So what do you do in subzero weather? Post some more worthless stuff because no one's catching on yet.

My birthday is nigh. Only a few more dates and I'm off the youth category. Twenty-six is not a bad age, I guess. It just would take some time to get used to.

Strangely, I don't feel that I would be that old in a coup'a. I feel like I've been stuck in reverse and yes, I rarely act my age. But no one's nineteen forever and something's gotta give along the way.

But for the meantime, because I'm bored and not intelligent enough to think of another way to ease my feelings of anxiety, I'm going to bother you with facts about myself that you'd probably have no use for in the impending doom that we commonly call The Future:

1. My friends don't know I blog about them. Chances are, I've blogged about you, too, but I've carefully disguised my descriptions with metaphors and exaggerated sentiments so that you would not know that it was you I was talking about all along.

2. I'm most fickle about the music I listen to. I never liked Pop but I try to know a little bit about the other genres, just to keep things interesting.

3. I used to like reading Classic Lit but I'm catching up on more contemporary works.

4. I'm a great fan of Billy Collins and Stephen Dunn.

5. I never was good at confrontations. I make very inappropriate gestures when someone wants to have it all out, like drink lots of water before I explain myself or laugh.

6. When I was a kid, I believed that my real father was Charles Dickens.

7. I used to like my body. Used to.

8. There is a reason why I don't like talking about or thinking about politics.

9. There are days when I believe in Aliens.

10. There are days when I believe in God.

11. When my parents were alive, I liked summers best.

12. I've always wanted to experience kissing someone in the rain. Oh wait, but it should be exactly the way Ethan Hawke and Gwyneth Paltrow did it in Great Expectations. I've always had fantasies about someone charging in and dragging me outside and no one else is outside because it's raining and he kisses me senseless and it's wonderful and it's romantic and it's funny because I'm almost never romantic. Almost never.

13. I get frightened when I am asked to talk or sing onstage. Which is really weird because I've done more than my fair share of hosting and singing when I was very young.

14. I want to own all the books in the world.

15. My dream job is the job that Jessica Zafra has.

16. There are days when I can't wait to go to work so I could anticipate coming home.

17. I love you. Sometimes, it feels like it's been forever.

18. My dream birthday celebration is an all-expense paid trip to Europe.

19. I'm one of the most selfish people I know.

20. I think behind most people's actions is the desire to be recognized for those actions.

21. No one is entirely selfless. That's why I don't buy the idea of saints.

22. I used to always wear dresses as a kid. When I was 14 or 15, I had my mother's dresses altered so that they could fit me. (I hate looking young.)

23. Some people say I look young for a thirty year old.

24. The thing I hate the most is when people call me "Misis"

25. I am in love with Audrey Hepburn.

26. My favorite breakfast meal is blueberry pancakes or cornflakes with lots of milk and strawberries.

27. I believe I'll die of diabetes or cancer.

28. I see myself in Anna Karenina's hopefulness, in Holly Golightly's ability to deceive herself and others around her, in Lolita's confusion about who she ought to be, in Elinor Dashwood's propensity to choose sense over sensibility, in Ellen Olenska's confidence, and in Jo March's quil.

29. I'm always anxious days before my birthday. I have to fix my attention on something 'til I get exhausted then when my birthday comes, I rest.

30. There really is such a thing as an elephant bird. See for yourself.

it's a druken punch-up at a wedding

My officemate-turned-friend is getting married pretty soon. She's nothing less than a June bride, of course. Thing is, my friend is ready to throw the whole thing overboard. Her problems started when her groom-to-be's family offered to foot the bill for everything, with the exception of her wedding dress. And because 'tis so, she cannot tell them which photographer she wants to go with, what church, which print house to go to for invites, which flowershop and all those other bothersome details that brides should busy themselves with. The boy's aunts are supposedly "taking care of everything."

To put it politely, she's a nervous wreck. On top of everything, she has been quarrelling with her boyfriend lately about money. Or his lack of it, more specifically. The guy works in a bank and earns around P 7,000 a month and we all know that that won't be enough if you're planning on starting a family. He is insisting that they put their resources together (read: their respective salaries) and try to save up. He tells my girl that the right thing to do is that she put all of hers in, a sum which is definitely higher than what he's earning. She doesn't think it's fair and rightly so.

My take on the matter of money or shared expenses is this: it's okay to pool in resources as long as the amount put in by each party is equal; no one puts in a cent more than what the other has given. These days, women need to fend for themselves financially. Saving up a little something for yourself is not an indication that you are unsure about your man's ability to commit. It's just that these things happen and if he loves you, he would also want that you be independent financially.

Anyway, as I was saying, I don't know why people bother with big marriage ceremonies anymore. I don't get what all this hooplah is for. I've written something about this in my previous blog. I've attended a total of 8 marriage ceremonies, all of which were uninventive and frightfully blase. Except probably for Manang's, but, well, she's always the exception.

Back to my friend. She's having second thoughts about this guy and I think that's scary shit if someone even entertains a slight glimmer of doubt at this point. I'm trying to make her hang in there; I've given half of the payment for my blasted gown already.

She has also entrusted me with making the playlist for this event. Here are the songs that I've picked so far:

Stuck In a Moment -- U2

Hard to Handle -- Black Crowes

What the World Needs Now is Love -- Burt Bacharach

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow -- Carole King

True Colors -- Cyndi Lauper

We've Got to Get Out of This Place -- The Animals

These Boots Are Made for Walking -- Nancy Sinatra

Nowhere To Run -- Martha Reeves

Danger Heartbreak Dead Ahead -- The Marvelettes

Under Pressure -- Queen

Tell me what you think about them.

on that lighter notes

1. This is the first time in two weeks that I'll be using my super cool original MP3 player again. You might be wondering why it's an activity that's worth mentioning online. You see, I'm one of those kooks who can't function without listening to music. Can-not function. Seriously.

I started the habit when my boy's parents gave me my first MP3 player. At first, I used it only when I was in a car and took it off when I got to my stop. I did this because I believed that I was a good, conscientious citizen and this simple act of sacrifice would minimize the possibility of accidents occuring. Then I decided to be reckless (reckless! jebesus) and tried using it 'til I reached my stop, then all the way to the signpost. Then I wore it all the way to the office. I do walk a considerable distance every morning so I get to listen to almost all the songs in my player.

Every morning on my way to work, I fantasize that the whole world is forced to listen to songs I choose; that I control what the rest of the populace can listen to. Strangely, this soothes me.

2. Last week, I interviewed a girl whose nickname is Nimrud. Really. N-I-M-R-U-D. I asked her if she knew who she was named after. As expected, she said no, she didn't.

Also last week, and I believe it was on a Tuesday, I experienced the utter pleasure of interviewing some girl named Menace. The day after, a girl named Gaylord. Her nickname, of course, is Gay.

3. My plans for my birthday have changed. My boy and I were supposed to go to Vigan for three days but because a friend of his mother's invited us to an all-expense paid, three-day trip to Pagudpud, Isabela, and Vigan, we decided that it would be better deal.

Now I didn't know anything about Isabella and I wanted to find out more about it. So we went online last night and looked it up. We managed to click on this splendiferous site: Go On And Click Me, Dammit.

It caught me at "want my little car to pull you."

blame canada and other original sentiments

Loser that I am, the first thing that I chose to do on the last holiday of the summer was to surf the net. When you're addicted to staying online for X number of times a day, you'd have to pretty much justify a) why you're in front of the PC b) why you're not elsewhere infinitely more conducive to learning c) why you can't think of anything better to do. Sometimes, I feel that I spend more time online than at work, really.

Wait, that's not exactly true. As of last week, I've been extending hours at the office because of the projects I have to accomplish. I've never felt so tired and stressed as I have these past weeks. I'm not going to say that I like doing it. Guess everyone has to learn at some point that some things just have to be done and that's that.

*****

The Greenest Story of All Time

Before we move on to other great tidbits about my lonesome, let me tell you about Canada. Not just anything about Canada, mind you, but a very interesting story which involves a Canadian Obgyn and a certain friend of mine who is pregnant.

One day, a certain friend of mine found out that she was pregnant. So she went to a girl's clinic in Canada and had it checked. At first, it was okay; the baby's existence was confirmed and she excitedly told all her friends in the Philippines that she was with child. Her friends in the Philippines were beside themselves with joy. When they heard the news, members of her family jumped up and down 100 times, which caused a crack in the earth and Miss Janina San Miguel, brainless at that time, fell into that crack and emerged victorious over the sheep and Britney Spears, who happened to be resting down under at that time.

On to my wonderful story. On her 5th or 4th month, this certain friend of mine (we may call her CFM from here on end because her alias is pretty lengthy and I'm running out of time and typing her alias as CFM instead can save me 1.4 seconds which I spend typing her alias in full. time is gold.) had a check-up in a clinic in Canada. The narrator is not sure, though, whether it was the same clinic that she went to before but that's not really the point. The point is that when she went to that clinic on her 4th or 5th month, CFM was told that her baby's left hand cannot be seen. So CFM, of course, was a little disturbed by this news. No one likes hearing vague results, after all. So CFM went to her next scheduled check-up and the doctor, absolute wuss that s/he was, said that the baby had abnormalities. So CFM asked him (or her) what those abnormalities were. Our good doctor said that the baby's left hand was there but did not have any fingers.

Of course, CFM felt shocked and sad. She thought about the activities she indulged in during the past months. She, like any livid, disbelieving mother would, constructed a checklist in her mind. She did not drink, do drugs, or smoke. She believed that she did not do anything that would damage her child's health; in fact, she took extra care to prevent anything like this from happening. The stupendously intelligent, caring doctor suggested that it might've been radiation that did it. Radiation?! CFM exclaimed. I use the microwave but that's it. Then the illustrious doctor gave a little knowing smile and said ever so snidely Microwaves are verrrryyy dangerous, you know. With an ill heart, CFM went home to her husband and told him the news. She told her family about it, too, and they felt down and out and wondered if it was true.

Then CFM and her husband decided that she should go to the Philippines to get a second opinion. Unlike the scripwriters of Deperate Housewives, they believe that the doctors at home are competent and kind. At the same time, CFM thought, she'd be surrounded by people who love her and would stand by her no matter what. So she made some plans with a sister and her mother and off she flew.

Yesterday, CFM met up and surprised her family members and felt very happy. But there was still this niggling feeling inside her on her way to the hospital. When she got there, she was accomodated by a doctor who specialized in abnormalities. The doctor was very unlike the Canadian doctor. The doctor and her assistants turned CFM over and to the side to see that left hand. Turns out, the baby was normal and her left hand was really just hidden from view. CFM, btw, is on her 6th month. Her eyes sparkle when she talks about how her baby kicks and how loud the heartbeat is.

Imagine the relief that CFM felt afterwards. And how awful she would've felt if she stayed in Canada and just accepted the fact that her child could not move her left hand properly. How useless that anxiety would've been.

*****

In a day, there are approximately 35 nursing students who come in and apply for a job at our office. I always ask them why they are there, why they're not practicing their chosen field. They give me uber-lame reasons and the most common one is that their parents forced them to take a Nursing course. I don't believe them most of the time but sometimes, I wonder if it is true. That would be awful -- all those parents unknowingly sending them off to a dead end.

The reality that so many people want to leave and pimp themselves elsewhere is terrible. Staying in the medical industry here is even more so, especially if you're a fresh grad and have to start out. I hear the wages offered for nurses in hospitals are very low. So instead, they go abroad for better opportunities but the thing is, they'd be exposed to people like our friendly Canadian Obgyn. What if they adapt those kinds of practices, that way of giving service? I remember CFM said that she told the doctor to not leave the country because we need them more here. But not all of them will or can stay and they can't be blamed.

*****

I am reminded of a game I once played with my mother during our occasional dull afternoons. It's the Whoddunit game. Let's play it here. It's fun and exciting. All you have to do is say the best answer you can think of to the question aloud.

So who can we blame for all these nurses, doctors, teachers, engineers, HRM practitioners who can't find suitable jobs here?

the usual suspect (a.k.a the president)

Fat cronies

the kids' parents

the "system"

the education system

lost opportunites

Greed

Lust

Lito Camu

the Hilton sisters

the World

St. Patrick

the whole disgustingly vast universe

alien life forms

the black hole

Judas

Mars

the facts

the trends

people who lie

people who are too honest

the inconsistencies

these predictable hungers

So who is it then? Whoddunit? The person who can make an educated guess gets an invitation from me. One on one tayo. Bring your own beer, please.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,over the prairies
and the deep trees,the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese,
harsh and exciting --over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.