*Larita Kutsarita - n. see THE AUTHOR
*Spoonfuls - n. articles/dispatches/scribbles by Larita Kutsarita
(Background photo by Aiess Alonso)

Monday, September 29, 2008

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.

Friday, September 19, 2008

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 21st 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.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

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!