Onli in Da Pilipins

A scientific study once observed that in all of Asia, only the Philippines has people casually greeting one another with just the raising of the eyebrows. This simple gesture already means anything from “Uy!” (roughly translated to “Hi” in Pinoy context) to “Kamusta na?” If Chicanos make beso with one another and some Middle Easterners kiss on the lips, the Filipinos can get away with this effortless way of acknowledgment: the ascent of both eyebrows. This is also not far from the special use of our lips which may very well serve as substitutes to fingers pointing to certain objects. Whether it is “’Yun!” or “Doon!” the nguso has never failed to guide the Filipino sense of direction.


There are just a number of things that are intensely Filipino. These distinctions are even given special focus by a particular sub-field of knowledge that has been known as Sikolohiyang Pilipino. Even our values are considerably distinct from other cultures’. One Pinoy societal value that’s always appealed to me is the concept of hiya or shame. A couple will have to settle for a huge wedding celebration even if their finances aren’t sufficient enough because there simply is no way that you should invite people to the wedding ceremonies but not to, say, the reception. This greatly contrasts with the American way of sending separate invitations to the ceremony and the reception, a course of action that is highly pragmatic. Back here, the town fiesta is serious business that “caters” to the entire population whether we are capable of feeding n number of mouths or not. “Mangutang na lang tayo, nakakahiya naman”—a statement that is not atypical among true-blue Filipinos. This is also greatly mirrored in Filipino politics. One significant outcome would be that the great interplay of powers from small institutions to “Lopez-ish” ones involves endless bloodlines. Seemingly, nepotism in other countries has never taken a form as orthodox as it has in our country’s many establishments. You get your nephew into the company—never mind that there must be a better applicant around, say, a U. P. graduate—because it is a given that you prioritize the ties that bind the most over anything else. And those ties, in the normal Pinoy’s case, would be of blood and kin. You run for president and choose a running mate who may not exactly have the ideal characteristics of a competent leader but who happens to be your primary supporter in the turbulent political scene. “Walang kumpa-kumpare. Walang kai-kaibigan,” or so one infamous president, Erap, would say. And this was quite ironic because it was his friends themselves who sold him out. One particular kumpare, Bobby Tañada—who was lead prosecutor for the plunder charges in the impeachment case against him—would be throwing Erap’s lines back at his face by replying, “Walang kumpa-kumpare at kai-kaibigan kung paglilingkod sa bayan ang pinag-uusapan” when asked if his role in the case would ever affect their friendship. So much for the “nakakahiya” frame of mind. It is not as much as a positive trait of being thoughtful as it is a brand of hypocrisy. Kaplastikan. And the way I see it, it has never really taken us anywhere progressive.


Of course, one should not get me started on the Pinoy superstitions that have plagued everyday life, from the waking-before-sunrise-just-to-be-more-prosperous all the way to not-sweeping-during-night-to-avoid-bad-luck kinds of mentality. My personal favorite is not passing by an area in which a black cat has crossed, which finally condemns the poor believer to searching for another possible route, if any, to his/her destination. It is ludicrous that we’ve stuck with these superstitions even in the 21st century. During my Lolo’s—my father’s dad—burial, the family even had to break down a wall just so they could make a pathway for the casket since there is an old saying that one is not supposed to carry coffins through doors because that would mean more deaths would have to “come in” and occur in the family. Many practical matters are betrayed because of some of these beliefs and somehow, I cannot help but hypothesize about the reason the Philippines has not flourished, and has remained a third world country for centuries up to this day. These simple manifestations in the ways we communicate—the rhetoric of them all, if you will—say a lot about who we are, who we have been, and ultimately, what we will be, if at all such behaviors persist.


That is not to say, however, that there is nothing positive to be found in Juan Dela Cruz’s frame of mind. The world has been constantly amazed by our distinct way of laughing even during the heaviest misfortunes, i. e. happily bathing in chin-high floods during super typhoons, usiseros waving in excitement at cameras during a mutiny’s media coverage, etc. We are an exceptionally happy country in the most dismal of times. In my opinion, this all boils down to the broad scope of our concept of tiis. “Magtiis ka na lang kasi nakakahiya” (being considerate or being a hypocrite); “Magtiis ka na lang sa abroad para sa pamilya” (being family-oriented or being individualistic); “Magtiis ka na lang para swerte” (being hopeful or being superstitious); “Magtiis ka na lang kasi wala nang iba” (making do with what one has or being tolerant of society’s deficiencies). There is this pressure to be enduring at all times even if it meant keeping mum and tolerant of all things arduous. Whether this spawns more positive effects than dreadful ones is beyond me. Onli in da Pilipins, indeed. After all, I am only one Filipino, and—despite all this—proud to be.

Back to Basics

The following is a brief essay that I've written for a major course last semester. It's [supposed to be] about my self-concept. I dunno if I did the right thing. Then again, I'm usually clueless when I'm able to write something. So...whatever, right? Here it goes:


Interpersonal Communication:
A Worse Kind of Writer’s Block
(on the Concept of Self—and Self-rediscovery)
by Lara Sinson Mendizabal


I am not the typical “girl next door.” That, I’ve always known eversince I knew that I hated the word “ordinary.” I do not believe that I am a “girly girl,” either. My Barbie doll never really had her head located where it was supposed to be, and I’d go off and make my own paper dolls and their paper clothes and paper things. If that was girly, that was a more creative kind of “girly”—no, I’ve always taken fashion more seriously than just dressing myself in pink and sporting all the season’s goods all at once. Sometimes, I also doubt that I am young at heart. For some reason, I’ve always found it difficult to try to like my generation’s trends, e. g. some hip hop, a lot of pop—boy bands, most especially, my one and only past guilty pleasure being A1—as well as Gossip Girl and American Idol. Oh, and EMO (short for “emotional rock,” a subculture that’s had kids applying thick black eyeliner, growing bangs over an eye, and threatening to slash their own wrists whenever they’re down in the dumps--and they're always down in the dumps) may just die anytime, thank you. Whereas with The Beatles, phonographs and vinyl records, faded photographs, worn-out radios, yellowing pages of dusty books, vintage cameo brooches, vintage tees, vintage cars, and vintage what have you, it’s almost like I feel one with them. Many have often told me that I’m an old soul. Back in high school, they thought I was boring, and I thought they were tiring.


In college, there have been a few—or so I believe—changes. I’m glad to say that I am able to cope with diverse kinds of people now, very much unlike my pre-college antisocial self. I guess it’s mainly because I go to the University of the Philippines where—and this is totally my favorite illustration—you may find yourself sitting next to the mayor’s nephew to your right and the janitor’s son to your left. I’ve often told Mama in my utter amazement that it’s only in U. P. that you learn how to rise among the great and stoop along with the oppressed and lowly at the same time. Oble’s crest definitely makes up an enormous chunk of my self-concept. U. P. does not just mold you to be “men and women for others.” More importantly, you also learn how to think for yourself just so you may live for your fellow Filipino men and women—or so the ideal scenario goes. I owe it to my school that I’m well aware that I’m only part of something bigger than myself, and that is the society we are all living and struggling in. It can be mirrored in so many ways, art being one of the strongest and most enduring.


The arts have been close to my heart from the day I first held a pencil. From smiling angels with halos on their heads on little nimbuses, to wedding dresses I’d pretend to have designed for my aunts’ girlfriends, to short stories about mermaids magically gaining legs (not very original, I know), to my crack at creative nonfiction through blogs and campus journalism, my pen-and-paper affair has introduced me to many worlds. Eventually, writing—my very first love—has also led me to my second love which is speaking. It all started when I wrote a speech and delivered it, and from then on, I just couldn’t understand—for the life of me—why Glossophobia, fear of giving public speeches, is actually number one among all phobias on earth. I love talking and I love writing, and I love how one can play with words.


And yet, there are times when I cannot help but question where exactly I am to go. After all, all I have are words. I cannot remember any particular Physics formula to save my life. I’m too nonchalant to care for money for me to be running a long-term business in the not-so-far future. I’m way too in love with freedom for me to be stuck in an eight-hour cubicle job. And I worry that a freelance job may never really be enough to sustain my unstable self—well, as far as my sense of handling money is concerned, anyway. I’ve been pondering on this quite heavily this past semester, and it’s been real hardcore thinking so far. At times, I wonder if Speech Communication will really be able to give me a future to look forward to. But then I realize that thinking about it won’t exactly do me any good, so I guess I’ll just have to work my eyeballs out—something that I know I should have been doing but have largely neglected due to some personal dilemmas. It was actually more of a question whether everything I do was going to be worth it. And I’ve been questioning for as long as I can remember until I realized that I’ve been worrying too much about tomorrow that I forgot all about today. That’s me, a constant distant dreamer.


Recently, I think there’s been a clash between my present self and my ideal self, and it just so happens that I got lost in all that discord. Right now, all I have are my passions and my rhetoric, but as to a personal vision, I am not even sure about what I want exactly anymore, and that, to me, is quite sad. “Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worse kind of suffering.” Paulo Coelho wrote it so beautifully. Oh well, perhaps it’s just a phase, and I do hope it is. I guess I’ll just have to take on one day at a time, and slowly rediscover my dreams, one by one, like picking up little breadcrumbs in a tangled wilderness, gradually directing me from loss to my gingerbread house—without the old hag, of course. No, I’ve had enough of old hags this year. And I think I’ll be going back to my smiling angels with halos on their heads on little nimbuses for now. Yep, I’m back to basics.

Introducing..."The Do-It-Yourself Blast from the Past!"

Clutter. I was running through my stuff the other day when I suddenly realized that a massive portion of it was clutter. There are heaps of empty PET (that’s Polyethylene terephthalate for you…wapak!) bottles which are a constant semestral requirement in every dorm, course, project, and org imaginable. On the floor are drained coffee jars (I avoid the three-in-one stuff if I can help it) while tacked on my corkboard are spent concert tickets, DUP tickets, Icebag tickets, UAAP tickets, meal tickets, bus tickets, and all kinds of tickets you can possibly think of. There are countless inkless pens (including the blasted pink one) as well as leaves and leaves of thank-you, could-you-do-me-a-favor, sorry-forgive-me, happy-birthday, happy-valentine’s, and what-have-you notes pinned all over the place, and oodles of souvenirs and tokens and gifts that are best kept in cupboards or boxes—and not on college dorm tables, which have already been invaded by such sentimental whatnot, that I have surrendered and retired to studying on my bed instead, a practice that has not really done me any good except much-needed and yet VERY unnecessary sleep. There are also several aluminum pull-tabs robbed off beverage cans waiting to be utilized for a probably better purpose. Oh, and I seem to be developing a blossoming affair with candles, too—scented or scentless, used or unused—all from numerous types of ceremonies both weird and normal. And I’ve found expended lipsticks and expired products, too, stuff that I don’t really use anymore but still own up some space for reasons I myself cannot pinpoint exactly. Baubles and beads and buttons from broken necklaces and all that jazz remind me of Lola Lising (Mama’s mom) who also has her own little nook of vintage dandies she uses for sewing. I’m tellin’ yah, my corner in the room is not far from Professor Trelawney’s office—no, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. I even have a hard time throwing empty “hygienic containers” to the bin—you know, stuff like used-up isopropyl alcohol, facial cleansers, baby powder, and the whole caboodle. Oh, and don’t get me started on scent bottles—may they be of cologne or oil-based perfume—I am just mad about keeping ‘em in my closet…and I just love sniffing it all in whenever I do open the cabinet door. I seem to be obsessed with collecting virtually everything…and this is one fact about myself that I have just most recently discovered. O.o


I did a bit of research on this mind-boggling habit and found out that extreme cases may lead to obsessive-compulsive disorder, and that the worst-case scenario is never being able to open the door of one’s house because a wave of stuff could actually drown you to death. O.o No s**t. Well, the world is indeed a crazy place—a colossal mental institution if you may—and we all have our psychotic tendencies. I wouldn’t go about interpreting that I’m way too stuck in the past just because I like—LOVE—keeping stuff away from the bin. No way. I mean, I’ve always believed that “moving on” (in its most common Filipino romantic context and beyond) is a great skill of mine. They say it’s my curse, I say it’s my gift: I know when to turn and never look back—well, until it’s already "safe" to look back. ^^


I guess that’s why I like keeping clutter. It’s the only way I can move forward without the encumbering guilt trip. It does help, you know. Reminiscing the past isn’t as hard as tracing one’s roots, one painful person after another, if y’know what I mean. I just browse through my receipts and I immediately know what exactly happened on this particular day, at this particular time, in this particular place—why it happened, how I felt, how they must have felt, how much it had cost me (this is probably the most painful part), whether it’d be good if it happened again, or if it just stayed a distant memory on a white piece of thermal paper. Clutter is an instant time machine. Those people who keep immaculate rooms, not a speck of the past in sight, could be the bad guys, y’know. Moving on is not a skill for them, but a life. They go leave their homes and live in blank spaces, careful enough to not unpack their things yet--just in case they've to move again to some other place anytime of the week--careful enough to not get too attached to anyone. When they receive presents, they throw the wrappers, the cards, and if the gift’s not good enough—“Gosh, can’t they see I already have glassware?!”—they recycle and hand it to somebody else who just might keep the stuff, no matter how “useless.” Like moi, for instance. ^^


Well, unless I already start keeping actual skeletons in my closet and not scent bottles, then I’m quite happy with my clutter for now, thank you.

All the "Grave" Stuff I Should've Learned in Kindergarten

My throat is itchy. For the past few days, I’ve been coughing like hell without giving out any phlegm. It even sounds like a fake cough. I’ve never had it before—well, at least not that I remember. Don’t they say that when your hands are itching, then it must mean you’ll be holding a large sum of money soon? Hmmm…so I must be in danger of uttering a pretty huge truth soon, eh? Nah. I keep my truths and lies in check. And I always face their consequences responsibly. It just turns out that both of ‘em—truths and lies—can get you into deep s**t. *coughs* There goes the imaginary phlegm again. I wonder when this’ll ever end. We’ve been singing for Theater 111 (Voice for Theater, under the tutelage of the great Sir Lou), and I gotta get rid of my coughing spell PRONTO. Thing is, I don’t take any meds. I’m not a fan of legal drugs, except for the trusty sour United Home Ascorbic Acid, and doses of Iterax and Claritin for my allergies. I abhor everything else. I prefer curing myself in more natural ways, not that I’m an herbal expert or anything. Water. That’s probably the only substance that you can’t not have too much of—well, unless we’re talking about drowning. “Drink at least six to eight glasses of water a day,” so they say. Robert Fulghum should’ve included that advice in those things he listed down for All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. People may live a lot longer if they just live by this particular creed. My Psychology101 (General Psychology) professor (the “salacious transgender psychologist of the Palma Hall Annex” according to his—or her—own words), it’s recently been discovered that people have been dying mostly because of cancer, heart diseases, and the like, all of them brought about by our 21^st Century lifestyles. Whereas in the past, people died because of ignorance: Manuel Quezon lost to tuberculosis, Apolinario Mabini died of cholera, and Francis Bacon contracted a fatal case of pneumonia because he was trying to preserve meat with snow. Those were diseases that couldn’t be cured simply because there were no cures yet. At present, anyone can get down with these sicknesses, but die of something else, like, say, cancer or aids. You could be smoking like a chimney (and die even before the months Doc gave you were through), or you could’ve had sex with a total stranger (unfortunately, even the hottest and most gorgeous of people are not exempt from the HIV virus), or you could’ve had eaten too much of something (I’m guessing McDonald’s), or you could’ve had too, too much coffee (ouch). This way, you can die at your own hands. We are all committing a “gradual suicide.” Dead men walking. I remember this ultra-cool music video wherein the man could see the total remaining hours, minutes, and seconds of living on people’s foreheads (and on tummies, too, so he could tell if a woman was pregnant—cute). I guess each of us has a running countdown stamped on the forehead. I mean, the best thing that you can do is to die happy. Now that is our purpose in life, Mr. Rick Warren.

I was on my way to the dorm the other day when I encountered probably the sixth of those kids trying to sell you a P100-peso pen with a—tadah!—calendar. Of course, they say that you’d be doing humanity a huge favor if you bought that freak of a pen. I already heard the full-length pitch when I gave a boy the chance to at least deliver his speech. That was late last year. So naturally, I wasn’t eager to hear another one. I mean, a hundred bucks can already buy you a ticket to an indie at the Film Center, y’know. And so the girl was like, “Uhm, Ma’am, can I take just a minute of your time?” And I smiled and said, “Sorry a, nagmamadali ako.” I walked away, thinking that she should’ve said, “may” instead of “can.” But then I thought about her minute. A minute. Anything can happen in a minute. Somebody could be born in a minute, not knowing how much s**t he/she is in for. Then again, somebody could be dead in a minute just because he/she didn’t have a hundred bucks to spare for a fever. And that poor girl was asking for a minute? F**k your minute, kid, and go get a life before the Grim Reaper comes at yah. We’re all on the run, anyway.

The Many Lives of Mere Mortals

“Kamusta love life mo?” And so that incredibly most-asked question pops off somebody else’s potty mouth again. Why is it so embedded in our culture that we find ourselves each of our own partners? It’s like we are not allowed to be independent and complete individuals. Coupling up is the most normal thing that you can get yourself into, which leaves “singling down” to be as serious as a brain tumor. And one more thing: why do we refer to our romantic affairs as “love life?” Who knows, people could be asking just to gain a hint about whom you’ve recently slept with (for the common casual “shaggah”), or whose pockets you’ve been sticking your little hands into (for the Holly Golightly’s of today). Why do we have to compartmentalize life—abstract as it is—into little “sub-lives” that we think will make the big picture seem a lot clearer, the scheme a lot less complicated? Why do we have “spiritual life,” “sex life,” “night life,” “academic/work life,” “social life,” “org life,” and God-knows-what-else-is-there-kind-of-life? I find it downright silly that we should be treating LIFE as a huge puzzle that can only be solved by putting in the littler “life” pieces as we see fit. One day you’re into God, and then you’re into that random guy dancing next to you at the bar, the next.

You only let your friends become bad influences if you see them as some kind of escape from all your problems in your scholarly pursuits, man. Sure, you go have a hell lot of fun, but really, is it necessary to be one different person in each of your presupposed compartments? It sort of lessens the sincerity of living life itself, doesn’t it?—well, since you can only devote so much time to just one part. Why not live the whole sum of its parts and quit splitting yourself out among the rest? They say it’s easier to be focusing on one thing at a time, but when the focus has become too, I dunno, “focused,” that you prefer to forget all the rest of your life for the meantime, it sort of betrays the essence of living, doesn’t it? Oh, but here I am, talking about how it’s best not to live life, when I should be busy just living it, myself. Bollocks!

Of Time and Pink Ink

"There is no such thing as 'too soon,'" concludes X, the primary character (the gay gigolo who gives a full-blown series of confessions about his romantic entanglements) of the film "Boy Culture." I do NOT know what went into my head that pushed me to watch a movie about homosexual men and their sexual escapades. All I know is that my brother sort of hated me (although he might never admit it, being the self-righteous person that he is, not risking giving the impression that he could be—and I believe he is not—homophobic) for tagging him along ("Lara, do we really need to see the first part? Let's just get outta here, you said you were hungry, didn't you??" with a matching mono-eyebrow and a strangely commanding tone for an assumptive question O.o).

TOO SOON. Too long. Too fast, too furious. Too, too timebound. And yet what is the ticking of the clock when the world seems to stop for that "one, single, momentary moment?" What is the flipping of the calendar when you meet your oldest friend after, say, a decade, and it only seems like you just sat by the swing yesterday?? What's ten years? What is a week?

Time is man's invention. You could be together for five [or so] years, past the four-year itch and everything, but you may still end up parting ways. You could meet and hit it off straightaway and talk from night 'till morning, and decide that you’re for each other "2008 and beyond," only to say a casual “buh-bye” after a month or so just because it didn’t “feel” right anymore. You could be walking down that aisle and go through a twenty minute-ceremony (that’s emptied your pockets too, by the way) and promise someone the rest of your life; fast forward ten years later, and you could be wondering, “what the f**k was I thinking??” Damn time, to hell with watches and first dates, and courtship stages, and eternal vows of love and what have you. No. It doesn't take much experience to say that time is overrated. God never invented the days, did He (or is it a She?)? All He said was "Let there be light," and there was light. He never said "Let there be Monday" and in came *poof* a Monday! Is it Julius Caesar's fault? Or Gregory (didn't he invent the Gregorian calendar??)? Who came up with the "hands of time" whose constant ticking keeps us awake at night, haunting us, chasing us. If there were no time, there wouldn't be words like "hurry," "rush," "late," "early," and oohhh, the most dreaded and yet the most used: "cram," and sooooo many others like it (e.g. “procrastination,” “que sera sera,” etc.).

And yet, the world is hard to imagine without time. It's like...the world...without Baygon. Haha. What am I blabbering about? I HAVE NO IDEA. I just find time annoying, that's all...recently, that is...well, it's not like I can do anything about it. Looking back, the worst (or best, depends on how you see it) thing I did for love was scribbling a thousand letters and tracing through them one by one because my pen lacked ink (and I didn’t have any other pen and it was already too late in the night to get myself another pink one—yes…pink…ink. Told you it was love). I stopped at the very final period and saw my right middle finger—purple and bruised. There was little blood, too. I did not feel any pain ‘till the end because each and every one of those tiny pink letters was for him and him alone. And I thought there’d be no end, I was only too glad to write more letters for him, to paint my finger a darker shade of blue. Now, my finger still has that one scar to remind me of what I thought was forever. But no, for some reason, (and as much as I am ashamed to admit it) I can’t seem to get past those four months filled by so much love and smitten sighs and hate and passionate declarations of “I’ve had enough!” all at the same time. There goes that word again. “Time.” She and the world. It's like Philippines with Gloria...impossible to get rid of (although I'm still keeping my fingers crossed for the riddance of the latter). Just the same, I am a slave to the alarm clock. Once it turns off, I rush to come closest to the normal idea of "living one's life." And if I don't get to wake up on time (which has been happening most recently and most miserably)?? Well, I come closest to "dying" running and puffing on my way to Docla's class ("GET OUT!!!"). Tsk, tsk, either way, time does not help much. And yet, it kind of OWNS us all. Pity.

Lob(by) Notes

“…Sabi ko, ‘Tay, bili mo naman ako ng Batmobile o.’
Pero kakatanggal n’ya lang ata sa trabaho no’n at wala na siyang pera
Kasi kasali yata sa unyon, nagwala sa piketline kaya ayun, natanggal
Kaya gumawa na lang siya ng tarak-tarak na lata ng sardinas
At binutasan na lang at kinabitan ng tansan
At do’n ko nalaman ang ibig sabihin ng pagmamahal”

…Lourd de Veyra (in “Alaala ni Batman”) resounds in my head. Must be one of the most beautiful lyrics of all time. Radioactive Sago Project is a tad underrated, eh? It’s got me thinking about what love really is. That Batman guy in the song gave a nifty example. The rest of the whole “bigkas” talks of personal obsession, though…a kind of sickness (probably mental), actually, that’s taken over a superhero-wannabe (I am reminded of someone…*sighs*):

“…Ngayon, hindi ko na talaga kaya, hindi ko na talaga kaya, hindi ko na kaya
May narinig akong putok mula sa kaibuturan ng aking utak
Bumigay na ang tali, sumabog na ang bulkan, nabasag na ang pula
Kaya ngayon, isang madilim na madilim na gabi
Ako ay narito na sa tuktok ng isang mataas na mataas na building sa Ayala
Ang sarap ng hangin na umiihip-ihip sa aking kapa
Nakataas ang aking mga kamay, nakataas na ang aking mga kamay
Malapit na akong lumipad, malapit na akong lumipad, malapit na akong lumipad
Lipad Batman, lipad, lumipad ka, lumipad ka
Lumipad ka papuntang langit, lumipad ka, lumipad ka
Nakataas ang aking mga kamay, nakataas ang aking mga kamay

E pero, bigla kong naisip, hindi naman pala lumilipad si Batman, ‘di ba
Hindi naman pala lumilipad si Batman
Hindi naman pala lumilipad si Batman kaya, paalam, malupit na mundo
Paalam, mahal
Paalam po, inay, itay, kuya, ate, lolo, lola, paalam po
Lolo sa tuhod, paalam po
Lola sa siko, paalam po
Bantay, paalam
Muning, paalam
Ewan ko kung sinong ‘papakain sa inyo
Paalam po, Aling Tekla
Paalam po, Mang Goryo
Tsaka ko na lang po babayaran yung sukang inutang ko sa yo
Paalam, Junjun
Paalam, Bongbong
Babay, Rose, hoy, babay
Babay Pini
Babay Baby
Babay Pablo, Asis, Rastem, BJ, Jay, sige ‘yan
Wowie, sige pare, Pards, Arwin, ingat kayo
Sige paalam.

Too bad he had to die in the end, just because he forgot that Batman couldn’t actually fly. *smirks* It’s always given me a good laugh, though. Anyways, back to love…I won't be saying that it's "complicated," "painful," yadah yadah yadah yadah...everybody knows that already. I'm only too thankful that as of now, I haven't been going through that same tangled wilderness…I’m just outside it, squinting my eyes, trying to see its core, which is an impossible feat, of course (now, I'm sticking metaphors to it, sheesh).

But heck, Valentine's is just peeking round the corner, in the form of little boys and girls in each other’s arms, holding on for dear life, mocking each and everyone who belongs to the singles’ race. Back in our humble abode, in this sorority house of a dormitory, there’s a current rule that strictly forbids public display of affection. Nope, girls haven’t gone wild enough to be kissing one another (don’t let your imagination get away just yet). They happen to have become too lazy to go find themselves and their boyfriends a nice, romantic spot at the Lagoon or Sunken Garden or God-knows-where-else, that they’ve just settled for our lobby (it magically transformed from a receiver’s area into a gigantic kissing/hugging/petting/necking booth…I am exaggerating, of course, or I just wasn’t lucky enough to see everything for myself…go figure) in which certain “activities” have reached fever pitch. It all started with an open letter that was anonymously posted a week (or two) ago. It was signed by a “concerned dormer” who was condemning such, such…such horrible acts of love and care…*shivers* I’m guessing that the concerned little girl comes from a Catholic school, and is probably single…but on second thought, could actually be attached (poor guy), just “concerned,” y’know. Forgive me for my simplistic and sarcastic remarks. But that is what we oughtta take into consideration: the girl’s “concerned,” man…”disturbed,” most probably…but “concerned,” just the same. How can you be concerned if you don’t want any of it? Such euphemisms that we sugarcoat ourselves with, eh? “Havaianas” for f**king rubber slippers that our lolas only used to buy at the local palengke, “lapse in judgment” for buying votes in the elections, “war on terror” for stealing oil from third world countries, pfft! They’re all the same. Point is, if you choose not to get bothered by raging hormones on the loose, then you don’t get bothered, or even more so, offended. Personally, it’s not anymore a question of morality. I mean, sure, be “concerned” if they’re already doing “the deed” at the lobby, setting a bad, bad example for 300 grown women who actually go to, surprise, surprise, college…oh and did I say UP? If it’s a question of ethics, though, then I don’t see the need for an open letter. People have brains. They have the initiative. They don’t go lovey-dovey over one another just so they can “offend,” “disturb” and make everybody else around ‘em “concerned.” These kids could actually be in love, for all we know. Don’t get me wrong, though. I am not, in any way, defending them. I don’t speak for the lovebirds, nay…for I am myself single and happy at best, single and miserable at worst, but that doesn’t matter…there are some things that must be left unspoken, like your disdain for a dormmate who eats like a pig, for example…or your murderous feeling for the one who always forgets to flush (and I’m not talking about taking a leak, alright). Gawd, give these human beings a break…if they want to eat their lovers’ faces, pity the lovers…if they want to eat their whole plates, pity their stomachs…and if they’re always in a rush to leave the cubicles and end up forgetting “something,” pity the next toilet users. But if you’re gonna be concerned, go straight to your lovestruck offender and tell her how concerned you are, how you’ve been raised to hate such a sight of free love and displays of affection in a world of network wars and nearly permanent environmental damage…no need to hide behind colored ink on paper posted on a door, sounding far worse than a fraile’s sermon…go and give the bad girl some spanking…well, of course, if you do feel that it is somewhat your business, right?

Oh, but I can go on rambling here ‘till my school deadlines and it’s not like anything will happen (well, aside from flunking my majors *knocks on wood*). It’s not like that sign on the canteen door that says “NO-PDA-ALLOWED-or-else-you-go-face-the-office’s-wrath-or-something-to-that-effect” will go away. Hmmm…now that I’m thinking about it, the lobby has been “PDA-free” for the past few days…eversince the “public declaration of concern.” Tsk, tsk, such wusses…apparently, love doesn’t exactly seem to, y’know, “conquer all.” I’m only too glad that Lourd de Veyra can still sing about a dad who makes a Batmobile out of a tin can for his Batman diehard fan of a son...now that is worth concerning. Happy ValenTIMES, mga repa’t rema. Go show some love, for cryin’ out loud. ^.~

P.S. This is my Valentine offering (forgive me for riding with the times, I just couldn’t help it), “Paperbag” by Fiona Apple…nifty song…equally nifty video…all for my little superhero/wannabe (he doesn’t know who he is, of course)…not exactly the happiest tribute but hey, not all love stories (if I’m starting one) end up getting all cheery and marshmallow-y, if y’know what I mean.

I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on, or wish on, or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb
Looking for a little hope
Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine,
And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope
I said, 'Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void,' he said
'It's all in your head,' and I said, 'So's everything'
But he didn't get it I thought he was a man
But he was just a little boy
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love.

Blues Schmooze

The Moon is in her most beautiful, almost perfect shape tonight…and I can’t even relish the sight of her on the deck (it’s like the dorm’s “secret” rooftop). You’re not at all deprived of significant people whom you love and who, fortunately, love you back…and you can’t even be with them when all you wanna do is give ‘em a hug tight enough to kill. Bamboo and a smorgasbord of other bands are coming on the UP Fair kickoff…and I can’t even be totally certain about seeing them (in cases like this, I usually don’t let anything get in the way), never mind that the ticket’s only P85, an eensy-weensy glitch in the wallet that’s worth all that real, face-melting music. Oh, and my roommate’s just told me about Heath Ledger’s death…and I can’t even feel sorry enough for the guy or Michelle or their little daughter. Nah…all because it’s February, and all the professors are chasing after time like a ravenous pack of wolves in search of Paradise (Wolf’s Rain, anyone?). Summer’s just round the corner…but kids are talking about “hell weeks” and “DEADlines” and “suicide” (yep). Life is beautiful…and yet, sometimes, you’re just too busy to actually live it. The “human blues,” I call ‘em…the inexplainable wretchedness caused by your lack of control (or entire bereavement thereof) of the things that happen to you…the same things that you have to deal with yourself. It’s when you’re reminded how utterly powerless you are, when all your life, your parents [and everybody else who has always wanted you to believe in yourself] have all been telling you that “it is you who charts your own destiny…it is you who decides your fate...it is you who makes something happen.” Well, not entirely, but thanks anyway. See, “making something happen” is one thing…“what happens next” is another, and how d’you cope? Well, I can almost hear God saying, “Maybe it’s your call, but it just ain’t your ball, man.” Me: *scowls *…goes back to work. Whoop-de-doo.

Sundae's Already Melted

If Rico Blanco would “drive on a Sunday” and hum along some catchy lines that he himself had written, I’d be singing some of my own: “Shopping on a Sunday, tucked in the mellow pace of life, lalalalalala.” Well, technically, they’re still Rico’s. But I swear the feeling was as light as that song. There’s nothing like going back home with an empty wallet, fully aware that you’ve just made great deals (January’s about to end, there has got to be a googol of clearance sales all over the world. I say, “ATTACK!”), and that those will have to enjoy a long shelf, I mean, closet life. Oh, but the song doesn’t last. Night came and the reason behind my new black flats (because he hated my sneaks) just gave up on me. Fast and furious…yeah, that’s what he is. Darn it, I knew I should’ve had those cute Pony’s, instead. The moral of the story? NEVER dress for somebody aside from yourself…oh, and never get into something temporary when the other one’s pretty much convinced that it’s permanent. Hey, that’s life…s**t does happen…a lot. Oh well, it does go on, too…life, I mean. And so, what do I do? Hum, of course. “Sweet little melodies, I embrace the memories until you return into the arms you once called home….”

Cheers For Fears

It’s 7 a.m. and I’ve just gotten roughly three hours of sleep. But the morning sunshine’s just way too irresistible to sleep through. Besides, I’ve been thinking so hard since midnight about some sick stuff…real hardcore thinking, man, that it’d eventually wind up in my dreams during my shortlived shuteye. And if I don’t write about this now, I’ll definitely lose my saneness (or what’s left of it)...like…soon. So never mind that my eyes are still squinting, refusing to open up. Never mind that my head’s a little light, or if I am currently nursing three sore pimples—two on my forehead and one on my chin—due to obvious lack of sleep (I have been staying up ‘till four since Saturday, no thanks to severely piled schoolwork that was neglected during the holidays). Never mind my personal vow to “never make this blog my diary, as internet should never really be completely trusted, and as vanity should never be one of my countless other sins.” I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve today. I’m typing, and that’s it! Oh…and by the way, a groovy morning to you.

Fast and furious. Yeah, that’s him. I should’ve known what I was in for. It’s hard not to have any strings attached, despite the very fact that I am the perpetrator. Lesson learned? Don’t mess around with somebody who wants something serious, especially if he’s rushing like some modernday, rugged Casanova. I say “Casanova” because he might get too alluring along the way, that you actually find yourself asking if you have indeed fallen for somebody who can’t tell you straight those three sacred words like a man would (just when you thought you were finally dating a man, sheesh)…or even spell it properly, for that matter (well, I’ll be damned). Wait a sec, that ain’t very Casanova after all. O.o And then, all of a sudden, you’re stuck in a glitch…because just when you decided to “explore and expand your horizons,” you actually find your own space shrinking…real fast, too. You’re gonna be all about him for the next few days…or weeks, even months. And yet, you can’t help it, man. ‘Cause you’re way too engrossed…not even in love. Tae, right?

But thank God for other guys with depth, especially the ones who think they’re too cool for Friendster. Then again, there are some profiles worth checking out (yeah, the ones where the spelling’s right)…oh, and I’ve been a fan (I prefer that term to “stalker”) of one just recently. Gawd, I love such depths which I can actually swim in (not that I know how). That fragile, boyish look doesn’t hurt, either. And those hands…GAWD. At first, I’d be sighing to myself, “I think I’m in love”…but NAH. He must be WAY too out of my league…we’re not even friends in (or is it “at” or “on?”) Friendster and I doubt if he still remembers me, too. And then the prospect of declaring unrequited love to someone pops in my brain…and then images of high school, all pimpled, martyred and hurting and everything, come streaming afterwards…and I say, “No f**king way.” Tae nanaman. Again, your space shrinks even more and then you wonder where the hell your “horizons” went. You go and say, “No, thanks…nothing serious for now” and yet, like a little kid getting up on a stool to steal some cookies from the jar once he’s left alone in the kitchen, you actually take EVERYTHING seriously…everything to heart. How many times do I have to tell you to get your heart outta here?? It’s got to take a rest, man.

Every new year starts with a bang. Before you know it, you’re once again being hauled into something strange…and yet, it’s kind of familiar at the same time, which always freaks you out. After hours, perhaps days, of hardcore thinking (when you should be doing that for French 10 or Theater 100), you’ve come up with a theory: it’s not that you’re scared of being single forever. The one thing that threatens you more than anything else is that you may fall in too deep and too fast every chance you get. That seems to be your specialty, see: going crazy over someone who’s just not crazy enough for you…not that you want something in return…you actually need it, man. There are alternatives, though…except that you should never get dead serious with something, lest you get caught up again in a labyrinth that you have actually built for yourself in the first place. If you don’t get your dose of casual fun and keep on taking the things that break you in the end, you’re pretty sure that you may not live very long...which is a bummer, since you’ve yet to own your first pair of Manolos, raise a child or children, and help save the world with love, peace, and of course, art. Just thinking about everything you’ll miss…is a huge pain in the a**…total bad scene. You may want to take some Prozac or mere Aspirin…get involved in something uncomplicated and yet unstable OR something stable and yet too, too complicated. O.o And if love comes, as in the real kind, it’s always when you least need it…and when you already do, it never seems to stay…and THAT, my friends, is the saddest part of what d’you call that again? That most painful four-letter word (you-know-what or it-which-must-not-be-named) that burns your throat, and tears at your heart, and sucks you dry of your best, sweetest words (only to make you eat ‘em again later on), and makes you sick with both the good AND miserable kinds of drunkenness, and makes and breaks you, and drains your wallet…and…oh what the heck, it’s not like you’re alone, right? C’mon, Bianca Gonzalez lost Lino Cayetano to KC Concepcion. Owen Wilson almost killed himself because of Kate Hudson. Jenny lost to Angie. Regina and Samson weren’t mentioned in the Bible. Simoun Ibarra never got the girl, and Vincent Van Gogh lost an ear…and his mind, for cryin’ out loud! So quit sulking and scowling and let’s do this the better way. Sing with me as we toast to 2008. *hic*

Bagong Taon

by Rivermaya

(“post-Bamboo, pre-new, pretty boy from Bicol” days)

Album: It’s Not Easy Being Green

Baby rocket,
Bakit ang panget ng lipad?
Hindi deretso.
Naisip ko tuloy ang buhay kong
Na’ng mawala ka’y
Naging trumpilyong
Paikot-ikot
Hanggang ito’y maubos.

Bagong Taon,
Lumang problema.
Kailan kaya ako
Liligaya?

Super Lolo,
Ba’t ka ganyan?
Nambubulabog.
Naisip ko tuloy itong
Lumipas na pag-ibig,
Paarang luses na
Pagka-liwa-liwanag,
Pagka-iksi-iksi ng buhay.

Bagong Taon,
Lumang problema.
Kailan kaya tayo magsasama?