Lesson Learned

(Written on August 21)

Today, I woke up an hour before my 7:30 AM class. I woke up but I didn’t get up. Without having second thoughts, I dozed off again, knowingly skipping class. I skipped class for no reason at all. It was neither body soreness, nor sleep deprivation, and definitely not morning sickness. I just felt like sleeping a little longer.

I know karma comes around, but I didn’t know it could come back to me that fast. Just a couple of hours later, I found out that our professor gave a quiz. I didn’t feel too bad about it though. I might get a zero even if I was there. What really shook me was the dream I had when I chose to sleep instead. It was nightmare!

I was eyebrowless because somebody shaved my eyebrows while I was sleeping! That dream stirred me up. I woke up in horror and looked at the mirror near me. It was really funny, but creepy too.

This is how I would look like if I was eyebrowless. Ha! Ha! Ooooooogly!

This should serve me a lesson. Now, I promise to never miss out on class just to sleep. I might lose my two front teeth the next time. Tsk.

Exactly

This is how the entire course of a life can be changed - by doing nothing. On Chesil Beach, he could have called out to FLorence, he could have gone after her. He did not know, or would not have cared to know, that as she ran away from him, certain in distress that she was about to lose him, she had never loved him more, or more hopelessly, and that the sound of his voice would have been a delivernace, and she would have turned back. Instead, he stood in cold and righteous silence in the summer's dusk, watching her hurry along the shore, the sound of her difficult progress lost to the breaking of small waves, until she was a blurred, receding point against the immense straight road of shingle gleaming in the pallid light.

-On Chesil Beach

Ian McEwan says it all.

Book Review: A Thousand Splendid Suns

Just as good (this good) as the Kite Runner. It talks about the cruelties of war to the women of Afghanistan.

Hosseini writes in a way that triggers empathy from the readers. You would not help but feel terror and detestation because of what they do to the Afghan women. He vividly describes how, if you are a woman who lived in Afghanistan, it would be much better to be lifeless than live in a pitiless world.

He reveals the hell that these women had lived in by narrating the two tales of two women, Mariam and Laila, and how their lives intersect. Mariam and Laila are two different women, yet both experienced how the world in war could be so unkind.

This is very carefully-made, I shall say. Unlike the first book, this has no unnecessary coincidences. Just factual and straight.

Read it! Read it!

Lifetime Warrantee

While walking on the way to the dorm with Bene one late afternoon, we harked back to the days, err, nights actually, when saying goodnight was the most dreadful time of the day.

I remember we would see each other after our classes, eat together somewhere I had not tried the food yet, walk around the park, and all these while talking non-stop. We would do these without feeling even a shred of drowsiness and weariness. But of course, we couldn’t sleep in the streets together so we would also need to get home and call it a night.

He would bring me to the dorm, but when we would get close to it, when we could already see the lights, we would slow down, both of us wishing that time would stop. And when we would reach the gates of the dorm, we would bargain and ask for a little longer time together. We would sit alongside the streets, gazing at the moon, and seeing patterns of the stars with our hands clamped and my head on his shoulder. We would stay like this for a couple more minutes before parting ways (for a night) and saying our goodnights. Still, unwillingly.

After two years, the scene isn’t that picture perfect anymore. No more sitting on the streets, no more contemplating on the beauty of the universe. There are still the reluctant goodnights, but nevertheless, we no longer welcome the dawn outside the hushed and silent streets.

The scene may have changed but it doesn’t mean that we’ve gotten ahead of the can’t-get-enough-of-you stage. No, definitely not. It’s just that, we have gained the assurance that every tomorrow-morning, it will still be us. Nothing will change, well, only better. We are guaranteed that we will only love each other more, every waking day.

You see, letting a moon pass isn’t that bad. Because there are still many moons for us to see. Missing on the stars isn’t bad, even. Because for the rest of the nights of our lives, we would be lying under the same stars and seeing the same patterns.

Fieldtrips, Anyone?

Fieldtrips are my happiest memories of gradeschool. I was such a happy grade-schooler whenever there were fieldtrips. I would always have my own countdown before the big day and the very night before it was one sleepless night. I was too excited picturing the places we would see. And I was scared that I wouldn’t wake up and the bus would leave me.

I never skipped one, I remember. And I hated going with chaperons. Good thing, my parents were too busy then to make a living. I would buy a bunch of baon but soon go home with almost half of it untouched. During the first part of my grade school, I wanted to occupy any seat in front. But later on, when I was inseparable with my friends, we would have a sit at the back of the bus. Also, I bought my own camera just so I could use it on a field trip when I was in Grade 5.

My favourite places to see were recreation parks and resorts. We had a trip to Enchanted Kingdom twice, to Splash Island, and to Crystal Spring (which I think is deserted now). I didn’t like watching plays then; it was hard to ponder on them when you see a lot of things you were not used to seeing. And I hated museums. I didn’t like looking at artifacts, and I found it stupid whenever we were supposed to fall in line to see them. Nonetheless, I particularly liked the Wax Museum, which was really cool.

In high school, on the other hand, we didn’t have a lot of them. Fieldtrips were once in a blue moon and they were rather called educational trips. The school didn’t really entertain stuffs that are non-academic. Whatever. But even if our hardly-any trips were foolish and the least amusing, I would kill just to join in.

Now in college, fieldtrips, for me, no longer spell f-u-n. They are such a total waste of time and money. I missed on that Ilocos trip, and I won’t care to join the Banahaw trip, and still, I wouldn’t feel defeated at all. And I wouldn’t envy my classmates even if they would say how fun it was. God, would it be fun to have a long drive without even having someone to talk to? Well, someone you like, for that matter. Would it be fun to stroll around museums alone while keeping all your stupid thoughts all by yourself? And now, it isn’t that easy to find friends in people you see three hours a week, that is, if you always show up in your classes. So I guess, more than time and cash, fieldtrips are all about the company.

Family Man

I should be studying for my unpredictable long exam, but I’m here instead – in front of my shambolic laptop, doing something that could wait. My neurons are probably rejoicing and relishing the long, peaceful hours.

I was trying to concentrate on macroeconomic indicators and budget deficit, really. But I just couldn’t snub my excitement on writing this entry. I keep on thinking about my professor who will be, by the way, giving this unpredictable exam tomorrow. Oh God, exams in economics can be so obscure and complicated. So anyway, yes, I am thinking about him, of course, not in a malicious kind of way. I am thinking about how much I do respect and admire him. Again, not in an indecent kind of way. It’s not even a petty crush, no, not something like that. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just plain admiration.

What I am so proud of in my three long years here in UP is coming across, in one way or another, professors and instructors who, in one way or another, I have admired and respected. Professors who, despite the low-pay, stay in the university for they find reward in sharing a chunk of their knowledge to their students; professors who can unconsciously make their students develop both terror and liking toward them; and professors who can hypnotize the students from the moment they utter their first word up to the last.

However, the reason why I admire this particular professor is different from what I stated above. Not that he isn’t any of those. He has actually achieved a lot, and he is definitely someone to look up to in his field. Even if he does not follow the syllabus, and even if he has countless side comments when we try to discuss, at the end of the day, I learn more than what is written in the book (which he authored, by the way).

But what really sets him apart from others is his stirring love for his family and how he is so up-front about it. In fact, his side comments would always be about his wife whom he met in the university and whose tax only amounts to his salary, his daughter who he doesn’t see everyday anymore because she studies in med school but who constantly calls, and his younger daughter who sobbed to death to him when she learned that she didn’t pass the UPCAT but whom he consoled until she was put in the waitlist and was admitted eventually. He would talk about how he would make ways so his family could tag along when he would attend seminars and conferences in the different places around the country. He would lecture us on how one should only love one person and should stick with him/her even when misfortune crops up. He would talk about how he and his wife agreed then that one of them would teach in the university so their children’s college education would be guaranteed if they would pass. Imagine paying a beer worth of tuition fee every sem!

He’s like that.

He is, in fact, a bragger. He brags about his feats in the field. He brags about being in UP, and LB for that matter. Lastly, he brags about his family, more than anything else. For this, I know he is worthy of my (and anyone else’s) praise.

Book Review: The Kite Runner

‘For you, a thousand times over.’

This is the best book I have read in a long time. I actually feel kind of stupid and silly for joining the Twilight bandwagon. I should be reading books like this. Curling up with this good kind of book makes me less guilty for staying up late and delaying on working for my requirements.

Khlaed Hosseini is an expert in storytelling. He has the gift of mastering its art, and he uses up his gift well.

He is a sculptor of tales.

“The Kite Runner” is written in the first person, in the character of Amir, an Afghan boy who, when war started in Afghanistan, took off to America with his father but had to come back after a couple of decades for some unsolved business.

Several themes are stirred up to make a very compelling and riveting story. Unparalleled friendship, the charge of disloyalty, a son’s desire for his father’s sympathy, a father’s longing for his son, the price of guilt – all these and more make up the spellbinding twists and turns of the novel.

Another thing that makes him a first-rate author is that he is not only a sculptor of tales, but also a weaver of words. He uses all the right words and puts them all in the right places. It is amazing how I can create in mind what he has written on paper. The depiction, the sketches he gives are vivid and crystal-clear.

This leads to his other trick of making his readers develop an out of the ordinary connection to his characters. The first night I read this, I was almost halfway through. I decided to call it a night and doze off because tears were already rolling down my cheeks. It ‘s heartbreaking. I cried twice that night. Twice. It never happened before. It’s that heartbreaking. Heartbreaking but honest and powerful.

Actually, it took me months to turn the first page over even if The Boyfriend kept on telling me how good this book is. I was quite unsure whether a story set in Afghanistan would be the sort I’d like to read. But it tuned out that I would be very much interested on knowing and studying more of the Afghan culture. It changed my perceptions of Afghan people. It was revealed to me that the Afghans are the victims themselves, and they have long been struggling to win over the power and threats of violence.

It definitely is worthy of its bestseller stamp and Hosseini deserves all the credit having written such a moving and touching book. Now I can finally dig out my DVD and watch the movie. Although I am pretty sure that I will not be as happy with the movie as I am with the book. It would not be as great when some parts, no matter how little, were cut out.

Also, I started reading his second book, “A Thousand Splendid Suns”. According to reviews, this is even better than the Kite Runner. I am yet to discover. But now, I am not as hooked as I was with the kite runner. We’ll see:)

Meeting my Dilemma Head-On

The thought of not being able to graduate on time never dawned on me. Until today.

So I was sitting on my DEVC199 class, the class wherein you are supposed to sort of defend your thesis proposal and eventually, your results, analysis, and interpretation. I was envious of my classmates who already had the itch to start gathering data and all. Though more than being envious, it alarmed me. And checking my Starbucks planner a while ago didn’t help either. I felt something solid and huge crashed me in the face. I rapidly weakened. I am just a month away from the deadline of the first draft of the manuscript!

I know there is no way I can be able to do that. There is no short cut to doing this final requirement to be a holder of a BS degree. Putting into consideration the complexity of my study, I know my expertise on cramming will never work for me. No, not this time.

Thinking of the many friends I have here who are a sem or two delayed almost calmed me. Almost. But in the end, panic won over me.

Mom, Dad...

They weren’t able to give me all the subjects I needed. And there were no available slots anymore.

I want to take extra courses. Perhaps, a language course. French? Spanish? Japanese? Or all three of them. It will extend my options. There will be more job opportunities for me.

They requested that I do further research on my study. They said it is a good one and they may be able to use the results.

I already gathered preliminary data from my respondents but when I went back to conduct the interviews, they changed their minds and turned me down. Then I had to start from scratch, make a new proposal.

My adviser flew abroad and won’t be coming back before the sem ends. I have no choice, I will have to wait until next sem.

Oh God, I can never put up with any of these lies. I can never cover up my negligence and irresponsibility. The guilt will be too heavy to endure.

The faults are all on me. I spent most of my time slacking off. I never consulted my adviser. The next thing I knew, I had barely one month to accomplish everything and I hadn’t even polished my proposal yet. I hadn’t replaced my theoretical framework. I hadn’t contacted my possible respondents. Concisely and briefly, I wasn’t really exerting effort at all. Not even an attempt.

No. I am never slipping these words off my mouth. Not in this lifetime, at least. Disappointing them is the last thing that I can stand doing to them. I know it is not as severe as confessing that I am two-months pregnant, but it is still shattering. Never have I felt pressure from them, when it comes to school. I guess, all along, they are confident that I would do great like I always did then. Attacking them with these words will be too difficult for them to absorb.

Extending one’s stay in the university is never a big deal. I have no statistics in hand to prove this. But my confidence level is high when I say that more than one-fourth of the population here does not have the chance to march for the very last time, on his supposedly graduation day, with his supposedly batch mates. This is not a very bad thing. It does not make someone less intelligent and less deserving. It does not make him less of a person.

The same goes with my case. I can accept that. I know it does not mean that I am not clever enough and I am not worthy enough. I know well that my parents will understand. They will be upset for a while, but they will understand. I know that they won’t question me, even. But what I can never live with, is denying them of doing something every parent dreams of – to march with his child, full of pride, on his Graduation Day.(And no, marching on April 2010 is never, ever an option)


So what do you say I should do? Well, yeah. I should pull up my butt now and start working.


Ugh! I know it is way easier said than done.

Enough, just do it, idiot!

Who? Me? Lovely?

One thing I could not ever seem to master is the art of receiving compliments.

When I bump into someone I know and she says that my hair looks nice and my arms shrink (though this doesn’t happen at all), I think of the most appropriate response but end up saying suchlikes. I know there really is no need for deep thinking, and no need to exert one big Herculean effort, for the only two words to say is “thank you”. It’s just that, more often than not, sweet praises and flattering remarks do come in times when I feel so bad about myself; when I feel so beaten and I feel that on the outside, I look like a throwaway.

Today, I woke up with an aching body. My eyes had dark circles under them; my forehead sensed pain because of booming zits; my nose felt like it was twice bigger than it was the night before; my lips were so parched; my hair hurled all over the place; and my belly was bulging as if all the food I had eaten that night didn’t thaw out. I took a bath with the hope of feeling a little much better but it didn’t help. And since it’s Friday, I had run out of nice-looking clothes to wear. It was just one of those days - one of those days when I refuse to look in the mirror; one of those days when I disgust the glow of the morning sun. It was just one of those days when all I want to do is hide from the world, and bury myself under my sheet. But of course, I had to fight the feeling so I still went out. On my way to my first class, someone, who I barely know, made a quick remark and said that I looked ‘lovely’.

Oh God, no. Not this time. I panicked. I don’t know what happened afterwards. Maybe I started saying nonsense, or I stuttered. I have no idea. Thank you. Why is it so difficult to unfetter these two words? You may ask. Because people may not really mean it. Perhaps, it’s a reserve with their good-morning greeting. Oh, no. Not. I should not be suspicious of their sincerity. But, can you blame me? But then again, either way I should be saying these two words.

I misread them. Though I think they misread me too. They probably confuse my inability to accept compliments for my hasty bragging. I never want this to happen again, so I must learn to give these two short words off, in the quickest and the smoothest way possible. I must learn not to discount compliments.

To day, I realized that we, women, should never be too hard on ourselves to accept such a polite and enthusiastically given compliment graciously. Besides, very few things in life right now come in at no cost. Compliments are one of these. And what better way to appreciate but say thank you.

Another Rebisco Story

So I am talking about Rebisco, again. Yes, the strawberry-flavoured, again. But this one makes more sense. Believe me.

Last night, just like each and every night, my roommate and I were talking about how the day went for us. As a rule, our chatting comes with munching basically anything that is, I may say, fit for man’s consumption. I wasn’t able to creep into our kitchen cabinets to get tuna, sardines, cereals, or even 3-in-1 coffee, so I was left with no other choice but that one strawberry-filled Rebisco sandwich.

That biscuit has its own tale that I involuntarily shared to my roommate. I won’t go into the details of the Rebisco story here.

Cutting it short, my heart was consistently pumping for that strawberry-filled biscuit before I went to my class yesterday. Disappointingly, there was none in the nearest store so I just tried to ignore the craving. But, since my attention span on that class is at its shortest, the Rebisco biscuit kept on distracting me. I don’t know what’s in it. It’s not like it’s orgasmic or something. But anyway, when the boyfriend met me after class, he had two of that biscuit on his hand.

When I shared this story, the complete version, to my roommate, she suddenly cried. Well, she was crying and laughing at the same time. When I asked her why she was crying, she just said, “Sana katulad din ni insert boyfriend’s name si Bene.”

Predictably, I thought of how lucky I really am to have him. Not like I never thought about it then. But when people see his worth too makes me think over and over what I did to deserve a man like him. He makes me happy, like that. That thing he did was nothing compared to all the other things he does for me. Seeing my roommate cry made me more grateful. Though I wish she will eventually find a man who will treat her the way she deserves to be treated, too.

My story ends here. But since the title says this is a story about Rebisco, I felt the need to go back to the biscuit thing. So here goes the ending...

Everyday, God gives me every reason to feel that I’m the luckiest girl on earth. The boyfriend’s like the strawberry-filled Rebisco – sweet and comforting. I should not be asking for more.

HAHA:D Now that’s corny.

Messed Up

Hello! I am twenty and ought to graduate by the end of the school year, but, I haven’t the faintest idea of where I will be taking off next.

I know. I know. This isn’t the first entry dedicated to my confused and clueless self. But what the heck! I haven’t gotten ahead of tracing possible career paths and finding my own in of these.

When I was a lot younger, I thought people who are twenty were convinced and sure, by all means, of what they wanted and where they were going. But, now that I, myself, am twenty, I know that it’s nothing but a big, fat lie.