It Is Not "Romantic Love"

Because I have not yet escaped the adolescent phase of loathing the concept of romance, but am slowly entering a state of dependence:

The lack of a relationship somehow makes us feel more secure, if that makes sense. Do we want each other? Maybe that is not the case. Maybe, to each other, we are a convenient presence, only a phone call away in case the other needs company.

We think the same way (despite the vast difference between our personalities) and we know each other better than anyone because we have our own brand of empathy. If soul mates did exist, and I hate believing that, you would be mine.

We are a pair of no-one-knows-what-exactly:

Waiting for one to finish a meal even though it annoys the fuck out of the other (and the other hides it anyway),

One having monologues, no matter how stupid and unnecessary, but the other still listening to them,

Keeping each other interested in the universe,

Hating the same things and laughing because you both know you are horrible people,

Accepting each other despite that,

Laughing at overheard conversations,

Laughing at practically anything,

Forgetting the burden of living for a while -
(Ultimately, growing scared at the thought of not having the same relationship with anyone else in the future.)

And when the whistle of society blows again, we take different routes to continue surviving until we are seventy-five. We forget because if we remembered, we would be dependent. We would hate that, so we move on

(but once in a while, take pleasure in coming back, and one is always welcome to the other.)

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I Love the City

I have a lot of crazy life goals. I am one of those pathetic people who are innately idealistic (but are constantly  bombarded with reasons to be pragmatic) so I have a growing list of careers I want to be associated with: writer, doctor, filmographer, musician, illustrator, pastry chef, owner of a strip club, and all other occupations that would elicit a gasp when mentioned. I am delusional to the point of thinking that I have many, many life skills.

In reference to Sylvia Plath's confessional whines, though, I am not as talented as I make myself out to be; neither do I have enough time to fulfill all of the jobs I listed. So in my grief, I content myself with idolizing genuinely talented people, like Pepe Diokno.

Pepe Diokno is a Filipino filmmaker who was behind the 2009 film Engkwentro, which won him three international and one national award. He is currently making Above the Clouds, due in cinemas this year.



I have always lived in the city. When I was younger, I labeled myself as "nature-lover" in those little "autograph books" that were the fad. Not Facebook profiles, but autograph books. And now I scoff every time I remember that because while I do appreciate the greenness of nature, I have never really enjoyed stepping on anything that isn't concrete.

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Does anyone want some Tylenol?

I don't usually involve myself in these matters but because everyone I know seems to be very serious about expressing their sides on Myrtle Sarrosa's Pinoy Big Brother victory, I have come up with a consensus in behalf of Filipinos. (The dry laugh comes in here.) Before the opposing side (we call them "haters" but that is such a tacky word) tries to beat the other (or vice-versa) with spiked clubs and twelve-inch cigarette heels, I just want to voice out something.

Myrtle, as a cosplayer, has always stood out in the most obnoxious of ways. People talk bad about her probably because she is different. She handles it well, and from the few minutes I've withstood watching PBB, I can say that she knows where she stands. Maybe she isn't obsessed with attention. Maybe she just likes putting on makeup the same way I like poring over books. Maybe she just likes anime too much.

The problem with us is that we can't understand that. We don't know her. The probability of PBB being scripted is higher than her being crazy. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a fan, but I'm not a member of the opposition either. Even though seeing Myrtle in long-ass wigs scares me more than having my hair burned, I respect her. I have always found bullies pathetic for expressing their insecurities through badly-executed catcalls Act with class, please, if you may.

So you don't like the way she dresses. You don't like her face; you don't like how she gets things done. But she won, so respect that. Perhaps ABS-CBN rigged the results because she has the biggest chance of generating loads of income for the network. Or maybe people actually sympathize with her because she represents the bullied faction of the youth, hence the votes.

It's a simple philosophy: To each his own. Ergo, can everyone please calm down?

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Tact

It's an annoying, tugging feeling, this loneliness. You sit on one of those stone benches in a park for comfort but you don't feel comfortable anyway because the weatherman predicted the weather wrong again last night. Suddenly and all too impertinently, a current of cold air descends to wrap itself around you like you needed it. You don't. You chose this.

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Four o'clock at the Salon

I once read on the Internet:
the only remedy to damaged hair
is to have it cut off.
So today that's what I did;
walked off to a salon
that smelled of hair products
too strongly for my liking.
"Welcome, Miss,"
the owner said.
She had a nice smile
and I felt consoled.
She called out a name,
(a forgettable name)
probably a John or a June;
I'm not really sure.
Then a man beckoned me,
just as I sat on a chair,
to have my hair shampooed.
It's an awkward place to be in, really,
but, hell, it felt good.
I was lying on my back
with nothing to do
but to stare at the ceiling,
at those fluorescent lamps:
too obnoxious, if you ask me;
like they knew about you
when in fact they didn't.
So I focused on those hands,
his hands -- John's or June's?
that knew what to do,
that weren't lost in my head of hair.
'This is uncomfortable.
I can't look at someone I don't know,'
so I did what I should have done
seconds ago.
I closed my eyes
and the next thing I knew
I was on that chair again,
looking at myself --
someone who would be gone
after a few scissor snips.
"Are you sure you want
to cut your hair short?"
asked the stylist.
I nodded and she cleared
five inches at the first trim.

There you go.
Change.
It's perfectly healthy.

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Mother

My sister and I made breakfast for our folks (Mama especially) for Mothers' Day
and  gave our mother a card with our tiny hearts mushed (pun intended) into words.
I can afford to be corny once a year.

See, see the hands that hold
and foster souls
that probably don't need the help
but are blessed with it anyway.
See the pair of eyes
that observes no error;
only happiness, contentment
in a child's inadequacy.
See the lips that once spoke
of spoiling only herself,
but now puts her name last
in her shopping list.
See the face that is marred
with decades' worth of work
to give you the life
you'd be proud to have lived.

See the woman -
not only the mother,
not only the aunt,
not only the nana.
See the woman
whose existence
begot yours.

It is from her
that you learn to love.

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Art and My Slowly Disappearing Social Life

Apparently, I'm not exactly active as a blogger right now. My cousin just flew from America and we've (my sister and I) been giving her tours around Iloilo. Each tour proper lasts for around an hour, then we spend the rest of the day lazing around. Honestly, I love Iloilo for its demure commercialized cuteness and dominant suburb atmosphere, but there really isn't anything to see here aside from the churches. I'm not an uber fan girl of Catholicism (but still devoted somehow, despite the fact that I don't listen to homilies) so . . . Meh.

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You Know

Right now it's four hours and forty minutes until December 25th. I want to take this opportunity, because later I'll be busy helping out the family in setting up the table for noche buena, to wish all of you a happy Christmas. My holidays have been sort of disappointing save the fact that I got to see some of my high school friends over the week. I hope, though, it's been magical for you.

Then again, I still have seven more days to set things straight.

My sincerest greetings to everyone.

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Meanwhile in Singlehood

Yesterday was November 11, 2011-- 11/11/11 for the superstitious gits out there. I'm not entirely against superstition; I mean, I have my own set of nonreligious beliefs, but I find it a little crazy to believe that one day is enough to change a person's life.

Nah. I'm just bitter. Last night, at 11:11, nothing happened. Imagine my disappointment.

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