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. 

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.

Dare.

Step out
onto the concrete pavement,
with its tiny cracks figured about

as vines

beneath your boring, but proper shoes.
This is not Ireland
nor Africa,

not Japan

where you long to be at this moment.
This is your place in the world
and though you can escape it

for a time,

inevitability brings you back.
If you were only a daring gypsy,
you would have cleaned out your closet

and your life

a week ago
and floated towards the exciting unknown
and beyond

independence's doorstep.

Ah. If only you were that brave
and free-spirited.
But you let yourself

be shackled

onto tradition and culture,
onto the dregs of your roots that people call "family",
which you'd rather call

"forced history".

You know that if you take a moment to stand on the pavement
and feel the people and time go by,
your feet and conviction would take you

to where you long to be.

With a little money and big dreams,
both fanatical and highly plausible,
you can survive out there.

Better.

You will be happier.
So,
will you now

step out?

Rantings of the Employed

A lot of people complain about their superiors - the latter's unreasonable tendencies and inconsiderate demands. They rant about how they are fed up with their jobs. They promise that they will definitely, definitely quit soon and look for other employment opportunities where they could spread their wings and fly and be happy and all sorts of crap.

Let me join that roster.

Yes, I hate my superiors. Don't get me wrong, though. I don't hate all of them but just a couple. And like most of dissatisfied employees (let me stress that I am not an employee, by the way), I claim to have valid reasons for my spite.

Let us discuss these superiors one by one.

Superior No. 1:Mr. Loveless North-South Pole
He calls in the wee hours of the morning and late at night to order you around. He does not have any inkling as to what "holy day of obligation", "family day", "rest day" mean. He believes that everyday must be devoted to his whims and wishes.

While it is completely valid to make someone under you to do a job or perform a task preferably within the bounds of that person's job description, that does not give the superior ultimate hold over his/her employee. Unfortunately, Mr. Loveless North-South Pole does not realize that.

He crosses every boundary available to mankind. He orders the office messenger to do personal chores for him. He does not care whether you are at the church on a Sunday (your rest day): you are to go to a particular office and guard the activities which are being done a mile or more away - and you have to do that without any telescopes or zooming contraptions at that. Once you point that measly fact out, you'd get a shout or two from him for your idiotic observation.

He makes you do everything he can think of, without regard as to what really is important and necessary. He expects you to be in two, three, or four places at the same time and if you even protest that splicing yourself will not be a very nice sight to behold, you will be treated to a scornful look and a high-pitched sermon about the important of being in two, three, four places at the same time. His word is the law. (Though it rarely ever makes sense. But that's just your opinion, so it doesn't count.)

Superior No. 2: Mr. Forgetful Breacher

Such an ordinary name for an extraordinarily forgetful man. Yes, he tends to forget things. Often. But, noticeably, he only forgets those items and details which would be beneficial to you and harmful or offensive to his cause. Yes, he wants to downplay your rights and establisheshis idea of howyour rights should be. He calls the shots. He makes your rights. He decides what is best for you. After all, he should know best, being the manager and all.

And he conveniently forgets your agreement. Yes, he is no man of his word. He denies you every point that you both have agreed upon. He denies the existence of any agreement whatsoever between the two of you. He breaches your contract by substituting his template of an agreement for the original contract. In the end, he will be thoroughly benefited. In the end, you are left clutching the remnants of your violated contract wondering what the hell happened and who the hell is this monstrous, wealthy but selfish person before you who is presently pretending you do not exist.


So these are the two monstrosities who are ruining my days and giving me cause to complain and rant and threaten to quit my work. (Oh, and they also fuel my desire to bitch-slap them to my heart's content.)

They are the reason why I do not enjoy working anymore. If not for the other inhabitants of our simple workplace, I would have done a Ruffa Gutierez. But unlike Ruffa G., I do not have the benefit of another employment offer, which will save my hide and ego.

So instead of going hungry and succumbing to mendicancy, I tolerate these vile prejudices against my persona. And I swear to myself that time will come when these monstrous superiors will kiss. my. feet.

This girl

This girl is just one of those crazy girls who'd drive by you, throw a pie at your face, and apologize with a happy, happy laugh. And all you can do is shake your head and laugh in spite of your pie-smeared face. Yes, this girl likes her jokes and her pranks. She likes teasing you about anything, really. She's after your reaction, and not after any possible smugness a person might have after teasing another.

This girl likes her halo-halo dessert to have a sweet surprise under the shaved ice. She likes hanging out with those people she is comfortable with. She likes laughing out loud, throwing her head back when she does. Laugh. LAUGH. She has a big laugh. And she snickers at almost every imperceptible item in the world. She likes her happiness. She thrives in happiness.

But she also grows in her misery. She writes poetry and believes they ARE poetry. She would call them such, no matter what others might say. And though she'd claim others' perception of her doesn't matter, in truth, it does. But she'd laugh, still. Nothing ever goes wrong with laughter in your life.

This girl loves her freedom, but also yearns to be hugged tightly at night. She likes to have someone open the car door for her 'just because' and not just to prove that chivalry hasn't completely left the world. Yet. She appreciates it when a friend helps her with her gym bag or book bag or whatever big or bulky that she may be carrying. She likes her brunch to have fruits and pancakes and brewed coffee for good measure. She never puts sugar in her coffee and she'd rather have it black, although she'd settle for an instant 3-in-1 when that's the only thing available.

This girl also loves her lunch-outs with friends. One friend, two friends, more friends, it doesn't matter. The conversation will still be good. And conversations get better as the sun sets. Over dinner, the conversations take a lazy but comfortable toll. The talks are easy here. And with beer, wine, and good armchairs, conversations with good friends can never go wrong.

As with conversations with herself, she has that all the time. Yep, a monkey might call her crazy but hey, we need craziness in this life to survive. She's still planning to vandalize someday, nevermind if she does that alone. She wants to make her mark in the world - every big mark that she could ever make. And she wants to vandalize, not just because it's a mark, but because she wants to do something she has never done before, and one that she has already promised to do. A mark on a wall is just a start. She has more tricks and plans up her sleeve. This girl is just bidding her time. She's pacing herself.

This girl will surprise you: you'd think her absence would be a welcome respite. But you'd miss her, too. You just won't understand why.

Oh, but she runs! Not too long, not too far. But she runs while she can. She'd like to do it in the rain, across the freshly-mowed lawns. And when it'd finally be time for her to stop, she'd look back at the direction where she started her sprint and be amazed by the distance she had been able to cover. Yes, this girl would like that.

This girl gets tired, too. Well, she is tired. She wants to just withdraw and crawl under the covers, lie on her cold bed, while hugging her knees to her chest. She'd like to sleep soundly tonight: she had a good day and tomorrow, she'd have another. Possibly, an even better one.

And this girl is tired now. Although she still wants to write a few more paragraphs, her brain is slowly shutting down. A glass of milk and she's ready to call it a night. (And then she remembers an adventure she had just rejected. Yes, just an hour ago. All paths are adventures waiting to happen, you see, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant they seem to be.) She wonders. And she smiles: she made a good decision for a good day. She remembers to pace.

This girl says good night to jokes and pranks, good night to laughter and misery, lunches and conversations with her own self. For now, that is.

Tonight, it will just be this girl and her dreams.

105

You have everything
in you.
Yes, you do.
Drinks and good time,
dirt and shame -
you're a conundrum
of trash and treasures
and you leave me
speechless,
wanting to close
my eyes,
so as not to see
your evil.

Often,
I walk past the threshold
and pray for enlightenment
along the way.
Other times,
I walk with acceptance:
you would be no different
from yesterday
and the day before,
save for maybe
a few more empty bottles
and silent protests
from the distressed sheets.

"Open the door",
you tell me.
I hear a wicked promise
of change;
I am drawn towards
a hopeful drama
of adventure.
I put my faith in
your promise
and prepare for something
magically neat.
But you,
you
you stay the same.

Ugh.

A Valentine Note to (place your name here)

I'd been staring at this screen for about 5 minutes before I could even begin to type this first sentence. It's not because I have absolutely nothing to say to you but because I don't know just where to begin. Like the motormouth that I am, I have a lot to say - stories to tell you (the chorale is working on an interesting piece and although we have yet to finish it, it has, I must say, come out rather well. I can't wait for the whole song to be finished), rantings to unearth and force out of myself just so I can hear your soothing words, questions to bug you about (do you...? did you...? why is the sky blue?), and truths to confess.

This note, or this blog rather, is too small a space to write down everything I want and need to say to you but I'd try. Frankly, I know I never would nor COULD, even if I wanted to, say everything I want and need to say outright. Social norms prevent me from doing such. Thus, here I am, resorting to explanations on why I couldn't type things as quickly and bluntly as I could. Here I am, resorting to tales and childish questions.

But this is all I could ever do.

It's going to be Valentine's soon enough, and although I don't really celebrate the occasion (I'd smirk and say with a patronizing tone, "Who does?!?" but of course, deep down, I'd also love to receive some flowers and girly whatnots, which never ever come, by the way), I'd take a big step forward and type embarrassing things in this "note". No, I don't have alcohol and circumstance to blame this on right now. I only have myself to claim all the credit for this stupid move. Consider this one of the dumbest moves I'm ever going to make.

Still, I don't know how to begin.

*takes a deep breath*

*prays for guidance*

*bites lower lip and curses her need to confess*

*imagines herself looking into (place your name here)'s eyes*

Crap.


Then again, scrap Valentine's, big leaps, and dumb moves. I'm keeping my pride. Or at least, what's left of it.

Bye bye, fiction.

Law school's assignments and readings have become a little more tedious; the classes have become so monotonous that my ears can't help but drown out class discussions and recitations. God help my grades, then.

When I'm in Veritas (our classroom which is located at the 4th floor of our school building), I often find myself staring out of the glass windows, that is, when the blinds aren't drawn. Otherwise, I'd just be staring at the wall behind the current professor's head and dream.

Hah! So times haven't really changed. I'm still physically present in class but my thoughts are elsewhere. I don't think it's normal since all my other classmates can thoroughly immerse themselves in the Rules of Court and what-nots. I, on the other hand, dream about actors, and singers, beaches, and Volkswagon autos, and musical compositions, and going to Ireland, and Korea, being swept off my feet by the perfect man ever, and... everything that I can never have and everything that can never happen to me, really.

*Sigh.* Just thinking about having to stop daydreaming and creating stories in my head depresses me. It's only in my head that "things" happen. The hopeless dreamer. Or hopeless romantic. Suit yourself. My classmate told me to stop reading novels and to stop watching movies or series which cater to the emotions. She said these catalysts will only make me idealistic and, obviously emotional. I got the impression that those "states of being" have to be avoided, just like the plague.

And I think to myself, wouldn't that be really hard - to be devoid of emotions, I mean, and to be so cynical that all you can see are the sharp angles and lines of everything around you? Angles, lines in all harshness. But with dreams, idealism, and a heart, I can play with these angles and lines and turn them into something fun and creative. Or something impossible. Fiction. Whatever you fancy. But still, the life is there. My life and my heart are there.

I don't want to live in a cold, indifferent world. But if I continue dreaming about impossible things, I'd find myself in a backwater town, hanging clothes early in the morning while whistling country tunes. But if I quit daydreaming, I'll turn into an unimaginative old prude who's as robotic as the Energizer bunny.

Daydreams lull me to sleep. They calm me somehow. They cheer me up when I'm down; they entertain me when there's nothing to do. They give me my healthy dose of sadness at times, even. But they also distract me like crazy, as if my brain is on daydream autopilot and there's nothing I can do but watch the images. And everything gets drowned out, even the important things. In that case, they blind me.

As anticlimactic as ever, I know now what to do: I have to let go. Grow up. Forget the fantastic stories in my head.

It's going to be a hard withdrawal issue. But I just have to deal with it.

Bump ahead!

After countless days' worth of soul-searching, after all the sins, after all the old-fashioned ways, I've come across a billboard made especially for me bearing the words: "Maybe you're not living it right!"

Wow. Maybe I'm not! Yes, that's probably it. I do not really seek contentment - to be content is to lose all passion. To be content is to whistle as you go to your medium-size desk at the office, which has a semi-tall pile of to-prepare papers for your boss and tell yourself, "Life can't get any better than this." To be content is to sit on the porch, sipping your lemonade on a hot day and watching the kids play on the lawn. Not that the latter isn't fun to do - IT IS FUN TO DO! - but if being content is to do that thing everyday, then I'd gladly welcome wishful thinking and more ambition.

I welcome passion. I crave it like a strawberry daiquiri. Like a soft Taco from Miggy's. Like buffalo wings and paella valenciana. Maybe that's why I've been so bored and restless throughout the semestral break. This is supposed to be my last sembreak before I get my Juris Doctor degree. I'm supposed to be going out and having so much fun that 10 years from now, I'll be looking back to this sembreak with a wistful smile, saying "My, my... Now that was such a fun time!"

Oh yes, I went to Boracay and stayed at a posh place. But I could have had more fun there. I could've done better.

Maybe I'm not drinking enough. Yeah. I should go out and party and dance like that time at Blue Onion - the last time I went there. Okay, I'm definitely drinking this week.

Maybe because I'm in law school and if I had an inkling of sense back in 2005, I wouldn't have enrolled in law school. I could have just followed what my impractical and frequently fickle-minded (if that is even a plausible description) heart wanted to do back then: go abroad and get a second degree or even master's in theater or literature or communications or international relations. Now, I'm stuck in law school and I have to love and learn every legal process that can save my future clients' asses from utter destruction. Or die trying.

Of course I want an escape! Unlike the other sane people in the law school, I am still dreaming about Prince Charming and how he's going to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to a faraway land where he'd propose to me, we'd marry and have babies, and live happily ever after. And I won't ever gain a pound.

But seeing that such fantasies are far from appearing at my gate, I just feed myself with comical chick-literature by Sophie Kinsella and teenage vampire love stories by Stephenie Meyer. (Have suggestions, do share.)

In the chick-lit reading vice, I can honestly say I'm living it right. I like those books, however shallow, irritatingly dumb, hopelessly romantic, and anti-feminist they may be. And I'm reading them. For sembreak, at least. But in other life-aspects, I'm not so sure. I don't really do what I want to do.

I don't drink a lot for fear of getting drunk and crashing my car against something and, worse, killing other people in the process. That wouldn't do well for my potential legal career. And I'm scared of hangovers. I don't like having puke in my throat every 5 or so minutes. I don't like worshipping the toilet bowl for more than half of the day in an attempt to keep my bed and bedroom floor puke-free.

But I like cocktails and wines and tequilas and citrus-flavored daiquiris and, sometimes even beer. I like experimenting with drinks. I like trying new drinks everytime I go to a bar. I like how my tongue loosens up (although alcohol is really unnecessary) after 2 bottles/glasses/shots or something. I like dancing with friends and strangers (strange BUT HARMLESS AND GORGEOUS, and not to mention hygienic and well-groomed - is requiring an IQ of at least 160 pushing my luck? - men) and just.not.caring.at.all.

Oh I'm definitely going to a foreign country (out of Asia) and trying out the beer there. And the bars. And, ... *wicked smile*

This is not to say that in order to "live it right" one has to be a party-girl. Of course not. It's just one of the boxes in my should-have-done-this list. And I can still do it, mind you.

Living it right. For me, it just means living the way I want my life to be lived. By myself, of course. By thinking of other people, too, but not letting them dominate my choices. I should always do the "right" thing, but my morals are my own. I'm not saying that if one thinks murdering one's neighbors is morally good, one should do it. Duh-h-h. I'm not speaking for the murderers. Or the rapists. Or the super pious. Or even my neighbor, for that matter. I'm speaking for myself.

And partying/having a fun time out is just one of my many check-boxes. I don't want to reach 30 and regret not ever having done this and that. I've already destroyed a big chunk of my life for things I don't really care about. I've already gone to a tunnel I don't really like much.

The least I can do to help my sanity and to salvage my passion is to accomplish as many of my check-boxes as possible.

Propriety be damned.

brink

I wonder
if you'll materialize before me - for me - soon
or if I'll fade into my dreams sooner.

Morph

MyHeritage: Family tree - Genealogy - Celebrity

A lot of the things I know, I learned from Sweet Valley part 2

1. Harlequin dolls, though outdated, can still be great Christmas presents even to those people who claim they're too old for toys. But stick to those harlequin dolls which are magical 9e.g. they come to life at the strok of midnight and turn out to be dashing princes from a faraway kingdom). - (Sweet Valley Twins Magna Edition "The Magic Christmas" featured twin harlequin dolls/princes Dorin and... uh-oh)

2. Either Sweet Valley Jr. High books were not available in Manila when I was in my (bookworm-y) prime or I simply did not ask the saleslady for their whereabouts.

3. Nerds have always been at the bottom of the food chain.

4. In Sweet Valley, Halloween happens at least thrice when you're in second grade. Christmas happens a lot more often. And you can celebrate your birthday five times in a year and you will still be 16 years old.

a lot of the things I know, I learned from Sweet Valley

My professor in Political Law Review, Atty. Jacinto Jimenez, was dishing out lines from Macbeth earlier and ranting about kids not knowing Shakespeare's works nowadays.

I got kinda smug since I knew the lines he was reciting:
"Double, Double
Toil and trouble
Fire burn
And cauldron bubble."

Although, honestly speaking, I didn't learn it by reading Macbeth (but, yes, I do have a copy of Macbeth. And a Midsummer Night's Dream. And Julius Caesar. And Romeo and Juliet - of course. And... ahh. Just refer to my book shelves.). I learned the same by reading... dan-da-ra-ran! Sweet Valley Kids! I'm not so sure though if that was in Book 12 "Trick or Treat" or in another issue but, still, I learned a lot from the Wakefield Twins.

Contrary to what most people think, Sweet Valley books aren't at all useless (Refer to the Macbeth learning). In fact, I discovered the poem "Remember" by Christina Georgina Rossetti through Elizabeth Wakefield's diary (to those who don't know her, she's one-half of the Wakefield twins of Sweet Valley, the other half being Jessica). Now, I can't be too sure if that was Volume 1 or 2 of her diary.

The poem goes:

"Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
You tell me of our future that you planned;
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve;
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad."


The poem was recited by her then-boyfriend Todd Wilkins in the auditorium. He dedicated the poem to her since he would be leaving for Vermont a short time thereafter. And I remember having cried buckets of tears as I read the poem over and over and over again. Yeah, yeah. But c'mon! I think I was in sixth grade at that time! The twins' diaries were actually part of the Sweet Valley High books, by the way.

Ah. Let's go back to Sweet Valley Kids. Aside from lines from the great pillars of literature, the series teach young bookworms a lot about other matters, too.

Book 13, aptly titled "Starring Winston Egbert" gave me a quick lesson about the Indians and the history of Thanksgiving. In that book, the second-grade kids took part in the play commemorating the start of Thanksgiving in America. Jessica (my favorite twin) saved the day.

Tonsils may be taken out, as per Book 20, "The Twins Go to the Hospital". Once the operation is over, the patient loses his or her voice and it's a good reason to play Pictionary in the hospital room and eat ice cream.

Jessica's Snobby Club (I don't remember the book number), I think, was the first culprit to turn me against the idea of sororities and fraternities and "elite" groups. There, Jessica and her "snobby" friends formed the "Orchid Club", which was composed of those girls who had elaborate orchid pins/brooches or whatever you call them. None-owners of those pins may not join. Plus, the members may not run, play with other people, or do other things which entail association with non-members and prejudice the condition of the delicate orchid pins. Yes, the beginning of a sorority of sorts.

Another Jessica-centered book was "Jessica and the Spelling Bee". Jessica is not known as the smart twin - that's Elizabeth. But Jess was the one who managed to represent her school to the Spelling Bee. As she tried her damnedest to extricate herself from the said contest due to fright and insecurity, which was largely brought about by the jeers of her classmates about her having cheated her way to the Bee, Jess researched on hearing impairment. Then and there, Jess and I (hehe) learned about the stirrup - a small bone located in the middle ear (yes, yes. The same word refers to the loop which hangs from either side of a horse's saddle. This bone in the ear is shaped like the horse saddle's stirrups, hence the name.).

Spell it: Stirrup. S-T-I-R-R-U-P. Stirrup.

Sweet Valley. S-W-E-E-T V-A-L-L-E-Y.

That's it for now, children of the 80's and 90's. More about the Wakefield twins and their series next time.