Der Schattenparker

Ich bin Schattenparker.

Dieser Satz fiel mir ein, als ich letzten Samstag in Berlin gegangen bin. Nö. Es hat eigentlich nichts zu tun mit dem Ort (ich war zu dieser Zeit im Kreuzberg). In Wirklichkeit fand ich Berlin total ausgezeichnet --- eine besondere Mischung von kulturellem Ausdruck, Kunst, Freiheit und einer Art Kameradschaft. Egal wer du bist, wie du aussiehst, wirst du in Berlin akzeptiert.

Dieser Satz fiel mir ein, als ich über manche Details, die ich am diesen Tag von jemandem hörte, nachdachte. Leute sehen nicht alles. Laut Spruch, Leute sehen nur was sie sehen wollen. Er st wahrscheinlich wahr aber vielleicht ist es auch wegen der begrenzten Vorstellungskraft des Menschen. Und ich war zwar so und hatte ein Bild vom aktuellen Ereignis im Kopf. Dieses Bild zeigt wie ich etwas sah und verstand. Mir war dieses Bild echt wunderschön.

Allerdings hat mir jemand mehr über das aktuelle Ereignis erzählt. Laut ihrer Erzählung war dieses Ereignis tatsächlich bunter und verrückter aber auch abenteuerreicher als mein Bild davon. Als ich zuhörte, sah ich, dass mein Bild langsam in Fetzen zerfiel. Ich hatte nichts von diesen Farben und dem Abenteuer gewusst. Ich habe sogar nichts davon gesehen. Vielleicht war das wegen meiner begrenzten Vorstellungskraft oder einfach weil ich ein blinder Idiot bin. Aber die Wahrheit --- diese bunte Farbe, die mein gerissenes Bild einfüllte --- erschreckt mich. 

Die Welt ist etwas anderes, als mein Bild davon und ich brauche noch was Zeit, um mehr zu verstehen. Wahrscheinlich am besten im Schatten. 

Get that blueberry muffin

It's a game of sorts: fluffy pieces of baked goodness which only costs 1.50€ per piece but in your head, a handful of reasons, excuses, and arguments race one after the other, pro and contra, trying to make sense of the seeming trivial situation.

What?!? That would've only cost 25pesos where I come from!
Oh but 1.50€ is so cheap! It would've cost 2.25€ at the bakery a block away!
That'd put all the handwork --- not eating rice nor potatoes at lunch while ravishing that half-chicken -- to futility. 
I'm not fat, at least not that fat yet, so one muffin won't work.
It's a cheat. Better to make your own muffin. Not only would it be cheaper, it would be healthier.
I have an entire afternoon of work ahead. Do I really want to have coffee with nothing on the side for 4 hours more?
I want you. 

When confronted with choices and opportunities, most often than not we argue with ourselves so as to see which side bears more logic and thus more likely to bring us benefits. No, I'm not just talking about blueberry muffins here but also about career opportunities, travels, investment houses, insurance packages, and, yes, which restaurant to go to for dinner. It's the rational thing to do, weighing all advantages and disadvantages. We use our heads, not our guts, unless there's no basis or data available for our heads to process.

But it takes time and, more often than not, going with our instinct and raw preferences is the simplest way. Do we really have to justify everything we do or choose? Do we even have to choose which activity needs justification and which can just be relegated to the gut?

Is doing what you want just for the sake of wanting to, if I may refer to previous words used in reference therefor, in fact juvenile, irresponsible, selfishly hedonistic, or barbaric?

I cried.
But why?
Because I felt like crying. 
No, really. What happened?

I'm moving to South Africa.
Why?
I just want to.
But why South Africa? What about your job here? Your family? Have you thought about this?

I signed up for capoeira lessons. I'll be starting on Monday.
Why capoeira? Have you done that before? Are you interested in fighting?
No. I have the time. That's it.

Yeah, yeah. I know. When people ask, they're interested and curious (and curiosity is always good for personal and cognitive development) and you don't even have to answer if you don't want to. But sometimes, it's your own self who asks the questions and presents the pro-/contra- arguments. Have you ever stopped and asked yourself why do so (except of course for those morally questionable or illegal choices, which of course entails you to stop and shake some sense to yourself)?

We're wasting time trying to stir sense into everything. Why not have more whimsy?

Oh, and yes, I got my muffin.

The time I hit a brick wall... and continued banging my head against it

G****ng giatay.

Hitting the wall

"I was on my bike, waiting to cross an intersection, worrying about things, and doubting myself. Then a random girl turned to where I was at and smiled. On her shirt were the words: "Things will turn out fine." - myself, on 21 April 2012

As I read it again today, one word popped into my head: "Really?" 

It comes appropriately, I would say, as I am due to graduate tomorrow morning from my Master of Laws (LLM) program. And I do not know exactly where that would take me, if it'd take me anywhere at all. 

Next month, in October, I might possibly finish another graduate program, which I had taken up simultaneously with my (LLM), given that no problems would go with my research on the European Union. And then, what?

Perhaps, like what most people had been telling me as I was worrying about my LLM thesis, I worry too much and needlessly. I was a shoo-in for graduation, they had said. I might even deliver one of the best theses and defense. I didn't have that much faith in my abilities, though. I always thought my work was insignificant and substandard. Even while on my 18-day long vacation, which has left me broke and broken, I constantly worried and nitpicked on every single error I could remember - glue stains, grammatical lapses, stylistic issues, and the likes. D-day came and I was the last to present. After hearing panelists throw insults and harsh criticisms over footnotes, stylistics, content, skewed arguments at my colleagues all day, I walked up the podium with dread all over my system. But as I took each step, bits and pieces of hesitation and fear fell away. When I began my presentation, I felt nothing. I thought of nothing. Everything became mechanical. I was an unthinking, unfeeling robot, programmed to deliver and finish the presentation I had prepared just the day before. 

They asked me legal, absurd, hypothetical, and practical questions. Still numb, I answered without thinking too much. I was spared of the bloodbath. Like all my friends and "supporters" had told me before, I did fine and quite well, if I can say so myself. 'See,' they said, 'we told you there was nothing to worry about.' I merely nodded because there was nothing more I could say.

Hours later, I found other things to worry about - a much larger thing, actually: the future. I voiced these worries out. I got the same response, which echoes the girl's shirt back in April: Everything will turn out fine. And other assurances that go along those lines. 

As these friends' and supporters' assurances and words had always turned out to be right, it would make a lot of sense for me to finally believe them now. However, the fear of hoping comes back. I am afraid to hope. I am afraid to be positive as the fall might break me into pieces. I am afraid to think that yes, everything will surely turn out fine, as I feel that I would be deluding myself all too much. And then later on, what then?  

Don't get me wrong. I do want everything to turn out fine. But I also do not want to feel the sting, at the very least, of disappointment. Once I do fail and fall, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to hope anymore. 

Speak to me, world. でも、。。。

くだらないことをいわないで.

Birthday message to self

One week in advance.




“I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind.” 
― Neil Gaiman

Why?

Let me sound so naive and idealistic here, but why does pain have to happen? Is it necessary for you to learn things? Why can't the world, or the person, just give you a dossier of information with the following items:

Scope, limitations, and period of interaction
Things you are recommended to do
Things I might possibly do
Things which would happen if you go beyond the given scope and limitations
Things you are not allowed to do; Ramifications of
Things you ought to learn from the interaction
Things you may learn if you violate the scope and limitations and perform the prohibited acts


That way, you can just read and be informed about it. Better yet, it scares you enough to not even go through any interaction at all.

Cowardly, yes. But when you wake up in the morning with heartache and a wounded pride tugging at every crook of your body, you would wish you had gotten your copy of the dossier too.

Up yours.

A: I apologize for the cold behavior.

B: Thank you. But "I apologize for being an arse/prick" would have been better.

Impasse

Locked.

In the moment between past and future - not present, but beyond it. Or even over it. But not anywhere else, either.

Bound.

By limitations. Of time. And circumstance. (And everything seems familiar again.) Ask not. Want not. Just stay.

Tired.

And unmoving. There are choices, yes, but nowhere to go. But this. This.

Stuck.

As life happened. Happens. Stuck. With a hot-wired brain working on overtime.

Wanting.

To deal. To crave but give in. To be silent and pray. To listen. To remain.

Confused.

But will remain. The same.

Kumamoto and Aso-san: coming together

Back in June, while I was trying to plan my life, I got the wonderful idea to climb Mt. Aso. Also known as Aso-san to the Japanese people, it is the largest volcano in Japan and is one of the biggest calderas (of about 120km in circumference) in the whole world. Like most of my plans, though, I didn't really expect it to come to fruition, due to one (almost always lame) reason or another.

The book I never even opened (nor had to open)

And then I came to Japan.

My first month in Japan was spent trying to settle in, figuring out how to juggle my studies and social life, and eating at wonderful places around town. Aso-san, as the destination of choice, was replaced by Dazaifu, which was a much closer and cheaper alternative. And Dazaifu, in turn, was shelved due to one lame reason after another.

On the early evening of 12 November 2011, however, I got a harebrained idea of going to Kumamoto, a city in Kumamoto prefecture in Kyushu Island, about 2 hours away by bus from Fukuoka. I told a handful of new friends about it, but I only got two "possible" companions. One was not sure and she'd have to get back to me on it and the other one actually thought it was a good idea. This friend, Ryan (not his real name), informed me at 7pm that his friend, Marshall (also not his real name) has also been wanting to go to Kumamoto AND THEN climb Mt. Aso. At first I was hesitant to go. Kumamoto is a "safe" plan since I can just visit temples, gardens, and museums. But Mt. Aso -- yes, my "June plan" -- teased the chicken in me since I haven't actually done hardcore climbing before (climbing a hill in Can-ayan, Bukidnon did not count since its difficulty level was like 0.5 in a scale of 1-10, 10 being the most difficult) and I did not know what to expect. 

When I pressed him for details on Marshall's plans, however, Ryan could not give me anything since he was already on his way out to go to a bar with a bunch of our other classmates. He just informed me that Marshall wanted to meet at the city proper (yeah, my place is kinda in the other side of the river) at 9am the next day. Bozo. So I was left to ponder on the Kumamoto-Aso plans alone. 

It was at around 10pm that I decided to go with Marshall's plans and extend my trip to Aso-san. But, I couldn't very well Marshall about it 'cause I didn't have his contact details. Smart. So I partially packed my bag - "partially", since I did not want to fully disappoint myself in case I chicken out the next day or fail to wake up or Marshall leaves without me and I'd be so confused that I'd end up in another city or wherever. Just for the heck of it, I messaged Ryan about my plan to join Marshall so he can relay the information accordingly.

No answer.

Small steps, big dreams

I woke up at 7:30 and dressed up in the laziest fashion ever. Then I checked my messages. No answer from Ryan. Ooh boy. So he was not able to relay my message to Marshall then. I had to look up the directions to Kumamoto online via the link another friend sent me before. At least not all would be lost, I thought to myself. I can just walk around Kumamoto. 

I rushed down at 8am to catch the bus to Tenjin, praying all the while that I'd bump into Marshall somewhere there. When I got to the bus stop however, Ryan was there - decked in pink, as usual - looking very sick and ... drunk? Apparently he got back home 2 hours (or less) before, from a night of partying, slept (crashed was more like it), woke up at 7:50, and decided to follow Marshall and me around. This was getting more hilarous than I had expected it to be. So, hating to prick his giddy-drunk bubble, I let him yak on and on in the bus about how marvelous life is and how exciting the trip is gonna be since the three of us have not known each other for long and we don't know each other's travel behavior. 

I was mighty relieved, nonetheless, that someone was actually coming along with me. Even if we don't end up seeing Marshall (Ryan ALSO did not have his contact details. Pretty smart, eh?), at least there'd be two of us looking like idiots lost in a prefecture we've never been in before.

We grabbed a quick breakfast in Tenjin, with Ryan still quite the happy drunk, and went to the post office where buses come and go and ... ta-da! Marshall was there, reading, and obviously waiting for us to pop out of thin air. And so... the adventure (mad dashes, and all) begun. 

Strange band, but a band nonetheless

*To be continued*

Attack

Strings. White. Definiteness. Life.

Autumn. Trees. Leaves. Falling slowly. Reddish-brown against the pavement.

Changes. Clouds. Cold. Night. Solitude. Raindrops. Silence. Deafening silence. Lights. Darkness. Lights. Blindness. Ignorance. Uncertainty. Irrelevance. Timelessness. Truth.

Indefiniteness. Impermanence. Sunsets. Seasons. Snowflakes. Frost and mistletoes. Wistfulness. Could've-beens. Should've beens. Words unsaid. Pills untaken. Quick hello's. Quicker goodbyes. A single tear. One last hurt.

A white flag. An easy surrender.

A broken thread.

On the Sticks - 2

You can make things simpler. You just got to move.

It's one of those days when your stomach feels queasy but you haven't actually eaten something funny. Everything around you seems in place and fuss-free: the weather is nice - neither too hot nor too cold; there are no crowds to squeeze through nor escape from; and there are no apparent points which compell you to act in a prescribed manner.

But, somehow, you are not comforted. Something is amiss, though you cannot categorically identify it. It may be on the tip of your tongue, but you can't seem to spit it out.

Maybe it's the obsessive-compulsive need to make things perfect according to your unrealistic standards. Maybe it's due to the fact that living alone is an altogether new territory and you are between two roads at present: one which delights in the idea of being free from anyone and everyone who has ever known you, and the other which is still quite dazed by how apparently alone you are.

Maybe it's just a flu virus waiting to happen.

Or just stay still. Most amazing results are arrived at by inaction.

It's confusing, though you can't really figure out what it is you are confused about. But then again, maybe "confused" is not the proper term and "overwhelmed" is.

So you sit a little corner - not really apart from the world that surrounds you, but not entirely within easy reach either - and just let yourself be overcome by anything and everything: stress, weariness, momentary detachment

Deadlines and academic load, expectations, personal standards, chores which you have never been expected to do in your entire life

The need to get out and get lost, the need to just sit in the middle of the pavement and be in everybody else's path

Lust, "love" (in an ironic sense)

everything and maybe anything at all.

Saturdate

Today, my dad and I went on a date. He wanted to watch movies - note the plural form- and I wanted to eat. So to the mall we went.

Surveying the movies being shown, we trimmed our list to the following: Crazy Stupid Love (with Steve Carell), Conan The Barbarian, Cowboys vs. Aliens, and The Rise of the Planet of the Apes. It was a no-brainer: of course we chose Cowboys vs. Aliens since it had the "biggest" stars (my dad's basis for choosing).

My dad is a lover of Hollywood superstars and upon finding out that this movie, which reeked of sci-fi tales, had Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig in it, he chucked his anti-sci-fi principles out the window and lobbied for Cowboy vs. Aliens. I was more than happy to oblige, as I had just decided then that it was the only movie in the list we COULD watch together without me flinching at any given time.

You see, I WANTED to watch Crazy Stupid Love as I think Steve Carell is just hilarious but the movie poster showed a pair of nice legs spread apart in front of the movir's main man. From the poster alone, I could foresee scenes with nudity, although I was pretty sure those scenes would have a punchline somewhere. There would be scantily clad women. There'd be a lot of kissing. And I'd be squirming in my seat with my dad tsk-tsking away beside me.

I remember the time I watched "Shakespeare in Love" with my dad anad my late uncle. They were trying to cover my eyes when Gwyneth Paltrow and Ralph Feinnes were getting it on while exchanging literary quotes. After that first rather intimate scene, they'd tell me to cover my eyes whenever the two actors would do. So much as look at each other. Needless to say, we did not get to finish the entire movie. Yeah. We walked out on Gwyneth. 

Then we watched Brokeback Mountain. that was fairly recent - heck, I was already in my twenties then. My uncle, God bless his soul, was already amongst the angels then. So, my dad and I watched with my nephew, who's about 7 years or so older than me. When Anne Hathaway's boobs came dangling before Jake Gylenhall's adorable face, my dad bolted out of his seat and declared the movie to be ugly and downright improper. Again, we walked out. This time, it was while Anne was busy riding Jake - not the horse, but Jake.

That was why I didn't fight for Crazy Stupid Love. As for Conan the Barbarian, well, we know Conan. But the the actor playing Conan and the actress playing his love interest (there's bound to be a love interest) were not on my dad's list of watchable actors. In fact, he has never heard of them. With that, we flushed Conan's movie down the loo.

The second Apes movie got included in the short list just because it was the only other 'safe' movie to watch. Also, it had James Franco and my dad liked him in Spiderman. But it was a movie about apes and we really didn't want to watch that.

So, Cowboys vs. Aliens it was. And, although it was a wee bit disgruntling to reconcile two 'worlds' - the Old West and the technologically advanced Aliens - I found the movie highly entertaining. (This is a mighty significant compliment coming from a woman who has always despised sci-fi films and who has never really liked Daniel Craig.)

I went inside the movie house without any expectations: hey, I was only obliging my dad. But throughout the movie, I was snickering at the sheer idiocy of the spoiled Percy and racking my brains for what could possibly be the next scene. Nevermind the loose ends.

 Daniel Craig was such a badass in the movie - well, save for his moments of weakness towards all things female and beautiful (sheesh) that I'm now on the brink of considering a change of heart.  He was believable as a memory-impaired cowboy with an  oddly modern bracelet on his arm. 

As for that weird bracelet, how come other aliens did not have that? Was that only reserved for the Dr. Frankenstein-alien? Also, how come Olivia Wilde (man, she was scorching) knew how to figure it out, so much that she even got to turn it to a bomb of sorts? She was from another planet (or something) and either she was very intelligent or that alien bracelet thing was standard issue in all worlds but the Old West's Earth.

How did she manage to resurrect from dead? Jeez, the movie expected viewers to just accept all happenings without raising ny eyebrows, as if we all knew the reasons behind every mystical or weird thing. This was its major flaw, in my opinion. They could have had Oilvia Wilde's character explain herself and her origins more - what her powers, if any, were, how she knew Daniel's character was THE cowboy at first glance, where she got the human body to hide her true form with, blah blah blah - but of course, the bonfire chatter was kept to the minimum. 

Amid all these questions and curiosities, still,  the movie did not fail to entertain. My dad, who would normally punctuate every other scene with questions on why a scene happened, or why the actor was shitting in his pants,so to speak, was silent all through out, save for some guffaws at specific scenes. He also did not ask his usual clarificatory questions after the movie (or maybe that was because he was rushing to get his ticket to Crazy Stupid Love - which he was watching by himself right after Cowboys vs. Aliens - and the movie was beginning 10 minutes after Cowboys ended).

Oh, and my dad hated Crazy Stupid Love. He said he should have watched Conan the Barbarian instead.

On the Sticks - 1

And so it is, just like you said it would be, life goes easy on me.
Most of the time.

The silence is deafening. Never you mind the pitter-patter of the rain on the sill and against the closed windows. Never you mind the voices, beats, and crackling sounds continuously being emitted by the decade-old speaker I've inherited from this apartment's former tenants: the silence overpowers us all.

One stick. Two sticks. Three. One pack almost gone, but I can still taste cinnamon on my tongue. A faint vanilla scent is still on my skin, on my hands, on my shirt. You and your vanilla scent. The pillows, I bet they still smell of you.

And so it is, the shorter story;
No love, no glory; no hero in her sky.

They're all that's left. You took away all there is to take. Except for these cigarettes. Except for the sheets you hated so much because they make you scratch your skin all night and you wake up with red, red arms. And thighs.

You picked them, you know. I had chosen the plain blue, green, and white plaid. You found them to be boring so you got those swirly violet and grey - no indigo and ash, you had called them, as if there could be some marked difference between those colors - sheets instead. It's your fault you spent most nights scratching and most mornings complaining. It's your fault.

How dare you leave these sheets behind.

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

Four sticks. Four cigarette butts on the desk. You even took my ashtray with you. I loved that ashtray. I had gotten that at a second hand store in Peru two years ago - that morning when I found myself so disoriented that I could not find my way back to the motel and instead I ended up at that alley. You had rescued me. You had found me as if I had a homing device around my ankle. You had seen me looking at that ashtray while you asked me what I was doing out of bed at 9:30 AM and how long I was out.  So you bought that ashtray for me when I could not say a word. That ashtray, with your money.

Even so, that ashtray was supposed to be mine.

And so it is, just like you said it should be: we'll both forget the breeze.
Most of the time.

Whoever put that idea in your head must be shot. In the head. Through the heart. And through both soles of the feet.


Aren't you already living your life? If not, then what have you been doing all along? Whose life did you steal? Whose body is that? What have you been doing all this time -- sleepwalking?

And so it is: the colder water,
the blower's daughter, the pupil in denial.

The London sky is as bleak as usual. Nothing ever changes in this side of the world. Well, they do: from one shade of grey to another. From the lightest smoke to a cloudy black. And on those nights that the stars actually appeared, you would point out the constellations and I would listen, not really making out the shapes, not really caring if what you say were actually true. You talked a lot; you filled the silence. You were my laughter.

That ashtray should have stayed mine. These sheets should have been wrapped around your legs now. Those things should have stayed together.

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

I can't take my mind...

My mind...my mind...

Off you.

'Til I find somebody new.

Of homecomings. And then some.

The day's over. The sun is out and has been since oh, more than 3 hours ago. It's getting closer and closer to midnight but I'm still stuck halfway to my destination, halfway out of my yesterday.

That's my current pseudo-profound, if not "trying-hard" state, attempting to make 'stuck-at-the-airport' sound as poetic as it possibly could. (Which is to say, not at all. Not tonight. Not ever.)

Airports are sui generis, though at present I'm not completely sure if I'm doing the words justice. (Heck, the words just sound right that's why I used them as such.) Yes, airports are public places. Yes, they conform to the usual foundations required of buildings. Yes, they accommodate heavy foot traffic. 

But, though they belong to a particular territorial jurisdiction, they seem not to be part of that geological area at all. They're the launching pads of heartaches. They're gigantic keys to the future. They're temporary shelters to the wandering few, and a given inevitablity for the pro's. They're there. And then they're not. You appreciate their architecture. And then you forget all about them once you leave the tarmac. Or at least up until your return, but by then, you'd most likely be feeling the rush of homecoming that airports and their magnificent or appaling facilities would just be a fly on the ends of your hair.

You may be there, but you're just passing through. Much like everyone else.

Much like everyone else, I'm in my own little bubble. I'm here, typing away on my iPad, trying to seem as if 'passing through airport' is just second nature. I am trying to look like those frequent flyers, minus the beige trenchcoats, the briefcase, and the Financial Times tucked under their armpits. I try to look busy and unaffected by the numerous strangers sharing the humongous boarding area with me. I try to look unconcerned as the person beside me talks on and on to (probably) his girlfriend over the phone. (Geez, they've been on the phone for so long now. Seems that they don't run out of conversational topics. Good for them. Hell. Good for them.)

So, back at the airport and I'm zoning in at the fact that I'm here and I'm thinking too much, rationalizing things too much. Those are my tendencies - and what dangerous tendencies they are. 

2 hours of sleep last night and almost a whole day spent shuffling around, talking to people, and thinking (out loud and otherwise). That's after a delayed early morning flight. And now, I'm here. I'm stuck at the airport cause my flight is delayed.

I wonder what others are thinking about as they pass through this airport with me.

I wonder if they have blogs to go home to whenever the world forces them to pause for a while and just... sit still and give in to their demonic tendencies. 

Or maybe it's just me, since I do not have a warm body to talk to. 

In any case, I'm going home. No, wait. I am home. I'm back. I'm blogging.

Vengeful thoughts

Oooh. I can't wait for that day when you will finally shut up and watch in utter horror as the whole world mock you. They will finally expose you for the fraud and airhead that you are, AND not be preempted by politeness and social grace to keep that to themselves. Banners will be hung on terraces, bridges, and tall buildings announcing your countless acts of sheer stupidity and thoughtless gall. Your family can do nothing but bow their heads in shame for your existence.

Oooh. Just you wait. That will come. And I will be in one of the balconies, looking down at you, clapping my hands together in a bored but mocking salute to your worth as a live creature of the Earth. And in 3 minutes, I'll retire to my suite and bask in the glory that will never be yours.

Oooh. Exciting.

I ran. I wheezed. And I finished!

Bounce back, Japan!

You are known for your resilience.
You have survived the A-bombs, hundreds, if not thousands of earthquakes, economic upheavals.

Now it's time to rebuild.
And I believe you, of all nations, can do it.

Thank You

Last week, I received one of the best news in my life: a provisional acceptance letter from Kyushu University in Japan. I was bursting out of my seams! Term starts in October, the Faculty Director said. They would need my answer within the month plus an obligatory interview with the Japanese Government. It was crazy!

I dragged my dad, who was here in the Metro for a visit, to my room, made him sat down on my ergonomic chair, told him to breathe in, and out - just breathe in and out. It was only when my dad got pretty impatient that I directed his attention to the provisional letter of acceptance from the Graduate School of Law's Faculty Director.

1 minute. 2 minutes. (Hey, pops! React already!) 3 minutes. (The letter IS NOT that long!) 4...

And finally, my dad laughed and shook his head. I asked him if he's so proud of me that he can't talk but he laughed at me some more.

We had late-night dessert and he tried to keep me from jumping up and down. This was after I've properly announced the news to the Boy, Nicona (who was with Jenesaisquois - whattahorriblylongandcomplicated name -  at that time), 10, Soldier, and GS. (I was pretty pissed since all but the Boy sounded deflated when I told them that no, I wasn't gonna be tying the knot (or rope?) anytime soon but will be pursuing further studies abroad.)

Next morning, pops woke me up at 10 am (which was good because he normally wakes me up at 7 am even during weekends) and asked me if I got to sleep at all. Ha-ha. (I had trouble sleeping since I kept waking up in the middle of the night, wondering what I'd bring and how I'd draft my LL.M thesis. But I wasn't going  to admit that to him. No no no.)

My dad went out to go shopping and then - when he was no longer face-to-face with me - texted me saying he's mighty proud. Of me. Yay.

For this, I have to thank Someone who made this all possible. Without him, I couldn't have achieved this. Nothing could've had happened. So, to the Great Architect, thank you from the bottom of my hypothalamus (and, okay, my heart even though you did not really mean for the heart to be capable of that).

I offer you this good song aptly entitled "Thank You" from your other daughter, Dido:

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why
I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window
and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey,
but your picture on my wall
It reminds me that it's not so bad,
it's not so bad

I drank too much last night, got bills to pay,
my head just feels in pain
I missed the bus and there'll be hell today,
I'm late for work again
And even if I'm there, they'll all imply
that I might not last the day
And then you call me and it's not so bad,
it's not so bad and

I want to thank you
for giving me the best day of my life
Oh just to be with you
is having the best day of my life

Push the door, I'm home at last
and I'm soaking through and through
Then you hand me a towel
and all I see is you
And even if my house falls down,
I wouldn't have a clue
Because you're near me and

I want to thank you
for giving me the best day of my life
Oh just to be with you
is having the best day of my life 

I got lost in the song. Somewhere there.