The Secret: The Do-It-Yourself Guide on How to be God (book review)

The following is a review that I wrote on the phenomenal "The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne (in upper photo). I'd like to extend my thanks to Ate Nikki, my roommate, who lent me her copy. ^^


The Law of Attraction. This is the not-so-secret essence of the self-help book The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. Although, technically, she didn’t write it all, as she quoted extensively almost every best-selling self-help author/financial guru—and in her words—“avatar” alive (some have already passed away, though). Aside from quotations and repetitive teachings on “thinking out one’s reality” as declared by a handful of self-help authority (think Jack Canfield of Chicken Soup for the Soul and John Gray of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus fame), there are also testimonials sent out by The Secret “practitioners” who would’ve probably bet their lives on its effectiveness.


Well, I guess everyone’s got a “The Secret moment.” For instance, I first came across the Law of Attraction in U. P. Los Baños where I went in my first year. It was late February and I was attending to some very important papers for my transfer to U. P. Diliman. The office buildings back there are ridiculously built kilometers (I swear) apart from one another, and it was already afternoon, and I was DRAINED, man. All of a sudden, though, I met a friend along the way—a brother, actually, as he had been part of a religious community I once joined in. He was chuckling because I told him it was my first time to walk along the Engineering departments since I sort of got lost in my building-hopping [mis]adventure and I was a true-blue Humanities kid. He asked me what my errand was all about. Strangely, because of this meeting by chance, he was one of the first to know about my plan to move schools—despite the fact that we weren’t really as tight as Piglet and Pooh—and I appreciate the fact that he was really supportive. I was careful not to share too much with anyone, see, lest it migh not push through--this mentality being just another product of, y'know, the common Pinoy saying, "baka maudlot." I never regretted spilling it out to him, though. I remember him recounting a professor’s lesson in which he mentioned about the Law of Attraction, how all that you want can be attracted by your thoughts, and that everything is connected by this law, this force. After this little story, he then parted with some words of advice on how I could move to UPD if I believed hard enough and if I just put my heart on it. Up to now, I still remember the exact date of that fateful day. I'd never become that optimistic about a huge choice that I had to make in life. In fact, I sent my application for transfer thru LBC that very afternoon.


I don’t remember having consciously used the Law of Attraction to my advantage, but here I am, currently in my third year in the College of Arts and Letters in U. P. Diliman. If I get lucky--no, if I study my a** off, I'll be able to graduate next year, and "hello, world!" it is for me. In secondary school, I listed B. A. Speech Communication as my primary choice. I did not make it because I flunked Math in the UPCAT. The only reason they allowed me to enroll in UPLB was my test scores in English and Comprehensive Reading, or so I was told. However, my mind was set on SpeechCom so intensely that I vowed to run after it no matter what. To borrow a line from a nice little indie, it was "SpeechCom or NOTHING!" I was pretty happy in Elbi--no, extremely happy, in fact--but I knew that I had to pursue my calling in Speech Communication (naks!).


Even before UPCAT, I was certain I’ve always wanted to be a UP student eversince I made the UP banner my mobile phone’s wallpaper when I was in third year high (damn right, "feeling talaga!"). Mama also confirms that the first color I was able to spell that exceeded four letters was M-A-R-O-O-N and I was, like, four or five then (Awc'mon! Don't you think it's a rather startling coincidence?! LOL). So, I not being aware of the Law of Attraction in the past, is it still responsible for my being a UP Speech Major now?


To be completely honest, I am not a fan of self-help books. After reading The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren, I just decided not have a shot at self-help anymore. From the first chapters through the middle pages, I really thought that my life was about to make a 180-degree turn (I think the book intentionally meant to make its readers feel that way). I was incredibly inspired by what I’d been reading that I even asked my parents for a Bible so that I could study it more closely, and I almost read the entire Old testament, including Numbers--and that was a pretty hard book to get by...whoa! Talk about inspiration, eh? Then came the last few pages wherein Warren already sounded like some sort of recruiter. Being a Catholic just didn’t appear to be quite enough for one to find his/her purpose. It seemed to say, “Do good, and you’ll find bliss. However, for maximum results, go and be reborn.” Of course, everything was like a euphemism that should lead you to conversion. It felt like being Born Again Christian was the purpose, as if it really were the key to finding God—the entity of which is supposedly everyone’s purpose, no matter what kind of dream he/she may want to pursue. Then again, every religion/sect seems to claim that its god is the real God, so I was disappointed that Warren should be so biased with his own religious beliefs—just like any other evangelist—when I thought that finding and living out one’s life purpose was the business of everybody and not just a select few, i. e. Born Again Christians. What was worse was learning that The Purpose Driven Life was a huge franchise including daily devotionals, newsletters via snail and electronic mail, bookmarkers, greeting cards, and the whole shebang. I just could not help but feel bad that they’re making money out of virtually everything. I mean, I’ve always believed that the Ultimate Truth—whether it is finding out your own purpose, or uncovering the Secret, or meeting your one, true soulmate, or finding your G-spot for that matter—should come for free.


This has since been my problem about self-help sources: they are overly commercialized. They are little puking cash machines. I can totally understand if J. K. Rowling, Paulo Coelho, Joyce Carol Oates, and even Nicholas Sparks (although I personally think that his works are a bit too weepy) or Dan Brown (highly far-fetched conspiracies) get to be top-selling names. At least people still have the taste and time for literature (I don’t like the Dan Brown part very much, though), which, I believe, needs a lot of nurturing this day and age of the Internet. My only worry is that self-help books, especially those that promise wealth and success—and all other euphemisms for “money,” actually—are the ones which are stripping shelves naked, making their way into the society’s coffee tables, bedside tables, study tables, and libraries both private and public. It is somewhat saddening that most people only care about getting rich. And with what? The green stuff (the blue, in our case)…bread…moolah…mucho dinero. Whatever happened to being rich with relationships and “living, loving, learning” (Leo Buscaglia)? And even if the focus weren’t so much on “money making the world go round,” it’d have to be about dating, i. e. dividing the world into Mars and Venus or being bitches because men seem love 'em (Why Men Marry Bitches by I-forgot-who). And all these--because they have to sell like hotcakes, or more accurately these days, like those overrated, disposable jelly shoes—whatever the subject matter, lead to money, money, money, and more money. The elders were right: it’s not like you can bring it along with you to heaven.


Speaking of heaven, Byrne did not mention the afterlife in her record-breaking book. Neither was there any mention of sin and the evils of the world nor death. According to Byrne and the 29 co-contributors/avatars/teachers of the Law of Attraction, everything in the “Universe”—which has always been capitalized and usually synonymous for "God"—vibrates on a particular frequency. The only time you’ll ever receive wealth is when you think in harmony with the frequency of something, that is, to think only of wealth. You’ll have to attract it to you, whereas, if you think about your debt, you will receive nothing but debt. You attract what you think about. It is your thoughts that will have to determine your destiny. Donald Whitney, prominent spiritual conference speaker and writer, wrote:

In the final analysis, The Secret is nothing more than Name It-Claim It, Positive-Confession, Prosperity Theology (without God and the Bible), built on a foundation of New Age self-deification. In other words, the book is just another version of what some TV preachers have taught for decades, namely, if you will sustain the right thoughts, words, and feelings, you will receive whatever you want. But The Secret adds this important twist: your thoughts can bring anything into your life because you are god (emphasis mine).

This, in fact, is no exaggeration, as Byrne proclaims:

You are God in a physical body. You are Spirit in the flesh. You are Eternal Life expressing itself as You. You are a cosmic being. You are all power. You are all wisdom. You are all intelligence. You are perfection. You are magnificence. You are the creator, and you are creating the creation of You on this planet (p. 164).

If it is not Megalomania that this book is teaching, then I do not know what it’s called. Nevertheless, there is a brief chapter on The Secret and relationships. Of course, it still talks about bringing about the perfect romantic partner by thinking that he/she is already practically yours. Here comes the creepy part: Mike Dooley, one of the teachers featured, had a story to tell. It was of a woman who wanted to attract the man of her dreams. She did everything right. She got clear about the traits, both physical and on the inside, and visualized him in her life. Despite all these efforts, her prince charming wasn’t showing any sign of existence. And then one day, fresh from work, she was parking her car in the middle of the garage, and she just gasped all of a sudden. You see, she realized that if her car were in the middle all the time, then there wouldn’t be any room left for her partner’s car. So she immediately changed her position and began parking on one side. She also changed the rest of the setup in her house. She made room for her partner in her closet and she started sleeping on only one side of the bed. And when she met up with Mr. Dooley for dinner, she even had an extra seat for her imaginary—no, “visualized” partner. Dooley claims that this woman is currently happily married with a real, tangible man, thanks to—tadah! The Secret. This, to me, is the most disturbing part of the book. Dooley has somehow narrated some events from the life of a schizophrenic, and yet, they call it a miracle brought about by quantum physics (since they claim that the Law of Attraction is very much in the field of quantum physics and other impressive-sounding sciences).


There is one thing that I like about this chapter, though. The Secret stresses that “one’s job is oneself.” Lisa Nichols says that “inside relationships, it’s important to first understand who’s coming into the relationship, and not just your partner. You need to understand yourself first (qtd. in Byrne, p. 117).” James Ray, another teacher, verifies this by posing a few questions: “How can you ever expect anyone else to enjoy your company if you don’t enjoy your own company? And so again, the law of attraction or The Secret is about bringing that into your life….Here’s the question I would ask you to consider: Do you treat yourself the way you want other people to treat you? (qtd. in Byrne, p. 117)” Love and respect. Those two inseparable elements must be present in our relationships with ourselves. Prentice Mulford has also put it ever so nicely:

Undoubtedly to some, the idea of giving so much love to self will seem very cold, hard, and unmerciful. Still this matter may be seen in a different light, when we find that “looking out for Number One,” as directed by the Infinite, is really looking out for Number Two and is indeed the only way to permanently benefit from Number Two (qtd. in Byrne, p. 119).

Unless we fill ourselves up first, we have nothing to give anybody. Byrne says that we must “attend to our joys first” (p. 119). Then again, there’s a part that’s hard to stomach:

Many people have sacrificed themselves for others, thinking when they sacrifice themselves they are being a good person. Wrong! To sacrifice yourself can only come from thoughts of absolute lack, because it is saying, “There is not enough for everyone, so I will go without.” Those feelings do not feel good and will eventually lead to resentment. There is abundance for everybody and it is each person’s responsibility to summon their own desires. You cannot summon for another person because you cannot think and feel for another. Your job is You. When you make feeling good a priority, that magnificent frequency will radiate and touch everyone close to you (Byrne, p. 118).

This I cannot seem to accept because I firmly believe that love, more than anything else, is sacrifice. If one does not know how it feels to sacrifice, then I doubt that he/she knows about loving at all. The Secret also emphasizes that the Universe is infinite, that there is no such thing as “lack.” So how do they explain people below poverty line? Are they incredibly negative about their lives that they’ve become as miserable as they are? Is it really all their fault? I know rich people who can’t even appreciate a good thing when they’ve got it.


On a lighter note, though, Byrne did mention something about making relationships work. She says that in order for you to do this, you must focus on what you appreciate about the other person, and not your complaints about him/her. Because it is only when your focus is on the strengths that more of them will come to you. However, other than these, Byrne does not mention anything else on how to deal with people. All the book talks about is how to have this, have that, and how to be whoever you want to be. It is too “self-help” if you know what I mean. Almost everything is self-ward, which isn’t really surprising since The Secret even discourages all thoughts that emanate from the outside world. Instead, it teaches that one considers oneself as the Universe itself, and that foci on things other than the self will not bring anyone happiness. For example, if one has cancer, The Secret blames him/her for having brought the disease unto him/herself. The book stands by its conviction that we are a product of our own thoughts. Everything negative that happens to us is a result of all the negativity in our minds which is apparently the same negativity that we summon from the Universe. What’s even more dreadful is the fact that some fans have so devoted themselves to The Secret that those who were diagnosed with serious illnesses have refused medication because they believe that positive thinking will have to cure them eventually. Talk about being SICK! Oprah Winfrey—ironically one of the reasons the book became a household name in the first place, after having it aired on her show which is basically every woman’s TV bible—once urged a guest to seek medical attention for cancer by saying, "The Secret is merely a tool; it is not treatment (emphasis mine).” Alas, even its once stark—and probably most influential—supporter now knows that there really are limits to The Secret. It isn’t as pervasive and an almighty law as what Byrne and 29 other New Age thinkers might have claimed after all.


Karin Klein, editorial writer for the Los Angeles Times, called The Secret "just a new spin on the very old (and decidedly not secret) The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale (1952) wedded to the ‘ask and you shall receive’” kind of mentality. The editorial, in one of its strongest criticisms, asserted that Byrne "took the well-worn ideas of some self-help gurus, customized them for the profoundly lazy, [and] gave them a veneer of mysticism” (qtd. in Wikipedia). Tony Riazzi, columnist for the Dayton Daily News, also questions the phenomenal book. "The Secret's ideas are nothing more than common sense. Take out the buzzwords and pseudo-religious nonsense about what you 'manifest' for yourself, ignore the vague prose and you get the message that thinking positively serves you better than thinking negatively," says Riazzi (qtd. in Wikipedia).


Moreover, James Ray, one of the teachers featured in The Secret was interviewed by Harry Smith on The Early Show (CBS) in an episode that was aired on March 1, 2007:

Smith: If I get this straight, the secret of The Secret is, "ask—believe—receive." Is it as simple as that?


Ray: Well, that's one of the author's interpretations. I believe that you have to think, feel, and act...(qtd. in Wikipedia).

I guess James Ray pretty much summed it up for us and even for Byrne herself.


Thing is, one cannot possibly live in this world and turn a blind eye to all the negativity, i. e. poverty, racism, global warming, war, and what have you--also known as REALITY. This place is indeed filled with madness, but I believe that it is because of this dark side that we still know what is good, what is bright, and what is beautiful. This knowledge enables us to appreciate the good stuff, and that’s where love comes in. If I were to be asked, the hippies of the late 60’s are still right: All we need is LOVE. We do not need to proclaim ourselves God. Sure, we chart our own destinies and much of our lives depends on our own hands—not etched lines on palms, but actions…deeds…initiative. However, life has taught me the hard way that not everything is within our control. I have been humbled many times before and have since realized that my say does not really matter in all the things that happen to me and to the ones I love. Maybe the mind really is a powerful thing, but to shun the concept of suffering if only to make yourself believe that you are as powerful as God and that the world—the Universe, even—is some cosmos built in your brain, would be to defeat the purpose of being human. It is not every time that you can put on a genuine smile on your face. Because once conflict is obliterated for the benefit of HARDCORE POSITIVE THINKING, then I am afraid that The Secret is proposing a world of no interpersonal communication at all. To focus all of your energy unto yourself and yourself alone, without the slightest pain to spare for others would be to isolate yourself from the world to live in your own little corner where you can be eternally happy playing God...and come off as some retarded bloke in the process.


Frankly, The Secret is like “Building Your Own Planet for Dummies.” It is not even Utopic in a sense that it betrays the entire notion of an ideal unified society. It is narcissistic, materialistic, and utterly megalomaniac thinking. “Egotistical” is a term that does not even quite touch upon it. I honestly do not understand how anyone could've taken this book seriously. Then again, the number of sales that it’s made—which is fast surpassing that of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, last I heard—may be explained by the marketing and packaging of the product which, I must note, is not only a book but a documentary on DVD as well as a limited pay-per-view video on the net, not to mention a whole package of The Secret: Extended Edition and The Secret: Gratitude that may come along with the first book for an extra amount of charges, of course. The Secret has also been promoting itself as “The Secret to everything—the secret to unlimited joy, health, money, relationships, love, youth: everything you have ever wanted” without even saying what it really is all about. Imagine how much of the public imagination and curiosity they have spurred. It’s an incredibly deceptive way of introducing “a most important secret” to the world. It's even reminiscent of cheap, commonplace sales talks ("But Wait! There's MORE! Call ***-**** and you'll get **** for fu**ing FREE! CALL NOW!"). And The Secret has, in fact, been widely criticized for being a mere infomercial. It's poor literature, really. It’s like the Da Vinci Code and Donald Trump in one. I would never rely on it to save my own relationships, thank you. I believe I have been dwelling on myself far too long now for me to even consider to be more “self-ward.” If you want to have good relations with other people, then by all means start from within, but know how it is to love and sacrifice for them, for it is only when you do that you realize their value. If there is one secret that the world deserves to know, it is love. And they don’t even have to buy a pricey book that comes with a DVD and the rest of the self-help caboodle just to gain from it.


Albert Einstein, one of those who believed in the Law of Attraction, as claimed by Byrne, of course, once said that “Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former.” Oh, and this wasn’t quoted in The Secret, by the way.

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.