Facades

I always make sure I walk with my head bumped up, and with my straight back. I always make sure my dress is neat and presentable, with all the colors blending well, and with my shoes matching my bag or accessories. I smile at everyone I know. I wave and say “hi”. I walk, I dress, I smile, I talk – smartly; and everyone assumes that I am equipped with all the confidence in the world. Well, guess what, you are absolutely wrong.

I studied in a private elementary school. There were not so many classmates. The people I was seeing in first grade were more or less the same people I graduated with. We were only 50, approximately. And so, transferring to a bigger high school with bigger populace wasn’t that easy. I entered high school with nine other sections in the batch, and graduated with only seven left, still, we were many.

In elementary, I was a consistent honor student. I was only competing with another student, who I say was the smarter one, and although, at the end, the more deserving dug it up. In high school, among the couple of hundreds of students, I got in the star section. Then, I knew I was smart.

In elementary, I was the EIC of the Marians’ Voice, the school paper. However, I didn’t know I could write because I was just appointed. In high school, I tried to be in the school paper, the Forum, though I wasn’t expecting of course. I thought I screwed up in the exam but when the announcement was made, there were only four freshmen who made it, four out of like, 50; and I was one of them. Then, I knew I could write.

In elementary, I would be forced by my teachers to join oration and declamation contests. I won all those times I participated in. Sometimes, I would be a second placer, and then one time, when we had to deliver our own speeches entitled My Family, My Home, I totally forgot my lines. Surprisingly, for the first time, I bagged the first place. In high school, we had this culminating activity for my Elective. We had to deliver an impromptu speech and my other classmates picked a topic on graduation, high school memories, and stuffs alike, and weirdly, mine was all about sex education. Surprisingly again, I came as the first placer. Then, I knew I could speak in public.

In elementary, I would not sit in the corner during PE classes. I was a ball player and I had my team won during the intramurals. In high school, I tried playing ball again. It was my lucky year, and I was the Rookie of the batch. Then, I knew I could play ball.

In elementary, my nun teachers would always appoint me as the leader in dance presentations. So during programs, mom didn’t have a hard time looking for her daughter and take a shot of her doing her moves because she was just there, in front, all the time. In high school, we had dancing as our PE, and that was when I was approached to join the squad. Then, I knew I could dance.

In elementary, I would see schoolmates outside the school, in church for example, and they would call me “Ate Pinky”. In high school, I ran for a position in the Student Body Organization. I was a junior then, my rival was a senior; but I won. Then, I knew I was popular.

I started in a small quarter and I outshined. From there, I shifted into a lot bigger one, and I still managed to outshine. You would think, armed with all these, I should have had all the confidence; but, when I entered college, I felt so small, again.

During all those years, in elementary and in high school, I was identified without even having to exert effort. I didn’t have to stand up for myself to let people know that I got, what I could do. I just let them notice it. Today’s a whole lot different thing. I have to stand up to be identified, which I just couldn’t do at all.

I knew I was smart; I knew I could write; I knew I could be a public speaker; I knew I could play ball; I knew could dance; I knew I was popular; but presently, what I don’t know is, if I am still all of those. I am afraid to even find out, because I might discover all the other ways around. If it happens, I just know that it’s too late to start again.

So, the stance and the posture, the moves, the attire you see – they are all facades. The real me is hiding, lacking all the self-esteem, yet, putting all the act together, faking them, just to get a day goes by. In reality, I feel so little, and I feel the world eating me up. I'm afraid. I'm afraid to start from the bottom of the barrel again.

Woot! Woot!

Just because everyone's posting it, and well, just because I'm a UP student.

(I'm in a hurry and this is all I could write.)

Basta, it's hot. Haha=D

POP! Goes My Heart

Oh, I hear Hugh Grant singing at the back of my head and that kind of makes it more difficult to write something about a complex being.

Today, I dedicate an entire blog entry to the man who has the biggest chunk of my heart – my DAD. As early as now, I am betting this entry would lack coherence and order. It’s not easy to single out the best words to describe and express appreciation for the best man.

So, where do I start? See, I got wedged already. Perhaps it’s best to put it this way.

Yes, I look a lot like my dad.

My dad is well-respected not only in his abode but in all places he goes. He has an innate elegance and grace.

He is intelligent and gifted. He knows almost everything there is to know about the country, about the world. I miss setting my insomniac brain to rest with a discussion with him about airplanes to political system. He has an excellent managerial skill, because he sees everything in its every angle. He sketches first, and sketches more, until he feels that it would have a booming end. He provokes people to keep working. He makes them listen and tag on what he says. He wants it flawless, and people make it flawless, because he says so. In short, my dad has a hypnotic effect on people.

My dad has a good taste in almost everything. Believe it or not, he didn’t need someone to rally around to build and rebuild our home over and over. Well, of course he didn’t get to do the hammering and the digging and the drilling and all, but the concept is all his. He knows exactly what he wants, and what he wants always results to good, beautiful things, like where I live. When it comes to clothing, my dad is trendy, for his age at least. He is a clean-looking, good-smelling and well-groomed man. He enjoys some good music too. I’m lucky when he’s in the mood for a Norah Jones or The Corrs beat during a long ride.

My dad has been the best, and will always be the best. He drives me to places all the time. So when he’s not driving me, then it’s a hint that I’m having my own schema. Oooh, the guilt launches again. He is willing to fetch me on a Friday and bring me back to elbi the next day. Whenever I go home on weekends, I always hit upon my favorite biscocho he buys, just for me. He is also the best shopping partner. Sometimes, when I have rambled in every store in the mall and haven’t found anything yet, he would hand me something he got beneath a pile of marked down wardrobe, and the next thing I know, it fits perfectly to me.

Being away from him makes me realize every now and then how much he loves me, how much he loves us. The thought of him sending me a text message with a call card pin number, with a love tatay in the closing, lets me loose a few cackles and melts my heart at the same time.

My dad really is irreplaceable. He has funny and irritating habits that I have come to love. These are big and little things that make him so different from others, different yet so lovable.

During my elementary and high school years, I would always come in late in activities, Holy Mass, and all kinds of programs there were. I was almost late during my elementary graduation. A couple of hours is sometimes insufficient for him to get ready. He spends the first thirty minutes of every day plucking those tiny hairs under his chin.

My dad, because of clearing out his ears with cotton buds every single day, have become a little deaf. He yells to everyone when he thought he is just normally talking. At night, I can hear the slamming, crashing, pounding, battering, and slamming in the movie he watches to think that their room is pretty far from mine.

He also likes to ask me to hand him something that lies just beside him, considering that I’m like, a meter away (for the sake of expression, I’m not really good with measurements).

When we go malling, he always does brisk walking. In just seconds, I and my mom can get lost.

He has some pronunciation defect. Haha! One time, we were eating at Jollibee and he ordered himself a garden salad. He complained to the waiter because he said there are no chicken stripes on it. Haha.

In the face of my dad’s peculiarities, he makes the best father there could be in the whole world.

He may be annoying when through his gawks, it’s as if he estimates my body weight index while I’m halfway through a slice of chocolate cake. He may be getting on my nerves whenever he jokes that there are already numbers stamped in my fingers when he hears me pressing my keypads non-stop. Even so, it feels so pleasing to hear him brag about me. More than that, it feels so wonderful to be never too old to be cuddled by him.

My dad taught me a bunch of things to know about practically, life. He taught me how to be giving, to be respectful, to be honest, to be loyal, to think critically. He is a good example of an open mind and a huge heart.

His love insinuates itself right into my heart.

And today, on his special day, I want to tell him that I do love him and I’ll make him the proudest dad.

Happy Birthday Tatay. I love you!

And I am certain, everybody else does.

A Little Catch-up with Current Issues + a Little Opinion

Finally, after six long years, Erap was found guilty of plunder (but acquitted of perjury).

Honestly, unlike all the others, I didn’t loathe Erap to a great extent. Maybe I was one of those people who were easily dangled with charisma. Nevertheless, I am pleased with him being sentenced of reclusion perpetua.

Does this just support that the justice system in the country, despite being slow, is credible?

No, I still don’t think so.

How about the others? After Erap, who’s next? Or will there ever be a next?

This chapter may be now closed. It doesn’t mean they should put an end to it. I guess they should be starting a new chapter. How about all the other names that came out?

I commiserate with Erap. I still believe that there are more corrupt leaders out there. It just happened that they are more on the ball than Erap.

Systemone Protest

I’m still smoldering with anger right now. I check my systemone account every now and then, and all I could see is the long list of sections I waitlisted to. Originally, they gave me three subjects only. Now, I have four. Should I be delighted? Because two of those four subjects are red marked, meaning, those get a probability to be dissolved.

No. I shouldn’t rejoice. I thought I’d graduate in UPLB without having a problem in getting subjects and all. Sorry, first time ko kase. Haha. For five semesters, I didn’t have any difficulty with this matter. So next semester, I would finally experience hopping to classrooms after classrooms, and line up with the other unfortunates, and look pitiful to be accepted in.

I wanted to blame it on the Stat1 I took in advance. Because of that, my plan of study wasn’t followed but then, it’s stupid. I sailed through it smoothly, so this as compensation is not so bad after all.

Still, I think systemone is a big failure.

I know my reaction’s too late. When everyone was enraged about it last semester and during the summer, today’s just my chance to react, violently.

Of Happiness and Nothing More

One of the most effective means to ward off homesickness is being in places where you feel just so right.

Here in LB, I have a favorite. There’s this place where the smell of coffee is so compelling and its cup so lip smacking; where yellow lights and cozy interiors blend favorably; where I meet clever and amusing professors and other interesting people; where fond memories, intimate talks, and even worthless arguments with him take place; and also

…where I am able to ponder about life issues, usually, through people.

Just the other night, I was wondering why she, who makes everyone’s cup of coffee taste like no other (maybe because it’s served with TLC,hehe), is there in the first place. I’ve known long before that she had finished a degree in UP. Meaning, she could have been somewhere else, but she spends her every night there, mixing coffee and cream, making burgers and pastas – just like what we do in Burger Island, ha!ha! Anyone, even without a university diploma can do that, right?

I am chewing over this thing up till now. Is it by choice or is it because she has no choice at all?

If it’s the latter, my assumptions would be: first, it’s her family’s business and they think that it’d better if she’d be the one to take charge of it; two, she’s the slothful kind (just like me) who just wants to spend her days as a fetus in bed and for the sake of not being called unemployed, she would stir coffee in the evenings; three, well, I can’t think of anything else other than that.

If, on the other hand, it’s the other way around, then I should be inspired.

From this day on, I promise myself to only do things that will make me happy.

I will not mind if it’s way beyond what I know or what I can do. I will not mind even if initially, I lack the skills and knowledge. I will still do it.

Or

I will not mind even if that work will underrate my capabilities and brainpower. I will not mind if at any rate, my training in college will be frittered away. I will still do it.

Life is short (what a line, but who cares, it’s a fact). In the end, what you have got or what you have achieved won’t matter. Being happy is all that will count.

So whatever it takes, or whatever it doesn’t take, I’m permitting myself to be HAPPY=)

And I give the floor to Paulo Coelho

This is one reflection you can read in his new book, Like the Flowing River. More than a teaser for you to buy the book, it just tells so much. It would make you sad for a moment, but would leave you hope the next. And yes, Coelho always makes us rethink about our lives, and what we do with it.

I was just planning to take salient points, but as usual, he makes sense of everything. It turned out that every single word he said is striking.

Reflection on 11 September 2001

Only now, a few years on, can I write about these events. I avoided writing about it at the time, to allow everyone to think about the consequences of the attacks in their own way.

It is always very hard to accept that a tragedy can, in some way, have positive results. As we gazed in horror at what looked more like a scene from a science fiction movie – the two towers crumbling and carrying thousands of people with them as they fell – we had two immediate responses: first, a sense of impotence and terror in the face of what was happening; second, a sense that the world would never be the same again.

The world will never be the same, it’s true; but, after this long period of reflection on what happened, is there still a sense that all those people died in vain? Or can something other than death, dust, and twisted steel be found beneath the rubble of the World Trade Center?

I believe that the life of every human being is, at some point, touched by tragedy. It could be destruction of a city, the death of a child, a baseless accusation, an illness that appears without warning and brings with it permanent disability. Life is a constant risk, and anyone who forgets this will be unprepared for the challenges that fate may have in store. Whenever we come face to face with that inevitable suffering, we are forced to try and make some sense of what is happening, to overcome our fear, and set about the process of rebuilding.

The first thing we must do when confronted by suffering and insecurity is to accept them for what they are. We cannot treat these feelings as if they had nothing to do with us, or transform them into a punishment that satisfies our eternal sense of guilt. In the rubble of the World Trade Center there were people like us, who felt secure or unhappy, fulfilled or still struggling to grow, with a family waiting for them at home, or driven to despair by the loneliness of the big city. They were American, English, German, Brazilian, Japanese; people from all corners of the globe, united by the common – and mysterious – fate of finding themselves, at around nine o’clock in the morning, in the same place, a place which for some, was pleasant and, for others, oppressive. When the two towers collapsed, not only those people died: we all died a little, and the whole world grew smaller.

When faced by a great loss, be it material, spiritual,, or psychological, we need to remember the great lessons taught to us by the wise: patience, and the certainty that everything in this life is temporary. From that point of view, let us take a new look at our values. If the world is not going to be a safe place again, at least not for many years, then why not take advantage of that sudden change, and spend our days doing the things we have always wanted to do, but for which we always lacked the courage? On the morning of 11 September 2001, how many people were in the World Trade Center against their will, following a career that didn’t really suit them, doing work they didn’t like, simply because it was a safe job and would guarantee them enough money for a pension in their old age?

That was the great change in the world, and those who were buried beneath the rubble of the two towers are now making us rethink our own lives and values. When the towers collapsed, they dragged down with them dreams and hopes; but they also opened up our own horizons, and allowed each of us to reflect upon the meaning of our lives.

According to a story told about events immediately after the bombing of Dresden, a man was walking past a plot of land covered in rubble when he saw three workmen.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

The first workman turned around and said: ‘Can’t you see? I’m shifting these stones!’

‘Can’t you see? I’m earning a wage!’ said the second workman.

‘Can’t you see? Said the third workman. ‘I’m rebuilding the cathedral!’

Although those three workmen were all engaged on the same task, only one had a sense of the real meaning of his life and his work. Let us hope that in the world that exists after 11 September 2001, each of us will prove able to lift ourselves out from beneath our own emotional rubble and rebuild the cathedral we always dreamed of, but never dared to create.

-Paulo Coelho

Like the Flowing River

What Type are You?

Based on my too much people-watching, I came up with a conclusion that there are four types of people.

One: people you would like the very first time you see them, and still like them the next, and like them more when you get close to them.

Two: people you would hate during that first meeting of the eyes, but you would hope they would falsify that first impressions last, but guess what, they wouldn’t, so you would hate them bigtime.

Three: people you would like to befriend that very first time they flash their big smiles, but who you would loathe once you become friends, then regret having even to think they were nice.

Four: people you would hate the first for some unknown or known but petty reasons, but love the next, and as much as you would want to hate them all over, they were just so lovable to be disgusted.


Through my weighing up, I say that the least lucky of all are those that fit in the fourth category. For few people take the risk to catch a sight of what’s inside.

Out of Order

The rants and raves that used to be occasional have become frequent.

I’m going nuts and it’s unhealthy. I’m mad and it’s scary. I’m afraid that I wake up one day feeling too much madness within me. Madness that must rupture or else I might end up committing suicide.

I’m bushed with all the pile of works coming in. I’m malfunctioning with all the unfinished works in front of my face, and all the others pending in. I couldn’t start a thing, consuming most of the time left deciding what should go first. I hate how they draw closer all at once.

I hate these loads of work I should be doing, the professors, the deadlines, the plays I never really intend to watch. I hate them.

But I hate myself more. I hate how negligent I’m becoming.

Cramming is something I’ve been doing since then but not being able to beat the deadlines is another thing. I always, always make sure I pass all requirements asked of me in due time. Despite all the time I was procrastinating, I thrived.

But this sem, I turned out to be so delinquent. I don’t even try sometimes. I always think of how one thing seems so difficult then, I get weak and fail to do it at the right time.

I hate that I’m starting to mislay that slight sanity I have.

I’m missing my goals. I’m missing my target.

What I need in my hands is that self-control. I need to hold it and maneuver it towards the aim.

Kapow!

Sitting by the car window the other night, I had a lightbulb moment, again.

A freelance writer. That’s what I want to be. I want to be a freelance writer.

I don’t care if it sounds too amateurish or unprofessional but that is what I want to do when daylight opens my eyes in a place I don’t know anymore but pretty sure not my comfort zone.

I always want to write. I’m talking about my dismal dream again so please bear with me. And even if I know that it’s rather not grammatically nice and correct to start a sentence with a conjunction yet I always do, I still want to write. Such a loser.

However…

I don’t want to be pulled out from my bed early in the morning to bathe in cold water, so cold that my body freezes up. And after, be forced to eat even if my taste buds aren’t conditioned yet.

I don’t want to take the same route, ride the same bus, and see the same traffic lights day by day.

I don’t want strict deadlines that pressure me and make me buy all those anti-aging creams.

I don’t want to sit in front of the desktop eight hours or more a day, walked out when my shift ends with curved back due to soreness of the ass.

I don’t want a fiendish boss who calls as I take the way to my vacation to the countryside asking me to report to him right away.

I don’t want to sleep with ease every night since I don’t have to think what can possibly happen the next day. Because basically, every day is just like all the other days. Everything becomes a routine and there are no more bolts from the blue awaiting me.


And so…

Freelancing is what I will do.

That way, I can go to places, eat foods I haven’t tasted, and not sleep in my bed every time the night falls. I can meet different bosses and can actually quit if I feel like quitting. I can meet crowds from pole to pole. I have options – lots of them. And everything in fact is under my control. I can not work when I am too sluggish and when I am so ugly to go out and see the world/and for the world to see me. I can still do the things that I love apart from writing.

So I grow – not only as a trying hard writer, but as a person. And I will have much, much, more to write about.