Life truly is about choices. It isn't just the choice itself, but the moment that contains the act of choosing - that entire time-space experience, whether instantaneous or protracted - that aptly and sometimes harshly defines your life.
Who am I? Why am I here? Such difficult questions that have hounded humans since the beginning of time. The long, painstaking journey to such end has been heralded by philosophers, writers, artists, even mathematicians, and has driven countless people mad. This, the greatest journey of all, can be answered in a split-second.
Every time you make a decision, your entire life flashes before you - your past, present, future. Every choice is a shoutout, an affirmation of your entire being, a confirmation, sometimes denial, resistance, resignation. Whatever it is, it is trasmitted as an active feedback to the situation presented before you.
Moreover, while this feedback is often considered as an end unto itself (don't we always treat decisions with a sense of finality?), it is also a beginning. It is the link that keeps the wheels of your life turning, whether you are aware of it or not, whether you like or not. It is dynamic. This feedback is part of, in the words of Friedmann, a transaction. A continuous experience that has quality, body and texture. It is unique in all the world because you are unique in all the world. No one sees the universe like you do.
Shit, could it be the gap Ivan has been looking for in his theory? Double shit, this is what I've been saying in my thesis all along. :o
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Easy like a Sunday afternoon
Last Sunday we drove to KidzWorld in Dasmarinas, Cavite. A friend of ours helped organize a Christmas party for orphans called Save a Tree, Brighten Up a Day. We were to be "foster parents" for the event.
Len looked flustered at first because she was paired with a boy, instead of a girl as we had been told. We told her not to worry, most of the gifts Mark bought were unisex anyway - good job bebe!
My foster child was an 11-year-old girl named Roxane, who said she doesn't like watching pre-teens gyrating to the tune of My Humps (good girl!) and loves to have her photos taken with her friends and ka-loveteam (huh?).
In fact, they all wanted their photos taken. Our group of children and ates and kuyas were positively disruptive, taking funny pictures, being noisy and not minding the dance number on the stage (yes, the gyrating pre-teens). I won't be surprised if the organizers ban us from next year's party.
Mark, Len, Edison and I met up with Armand, Becca and their friends and officemates in Alabang. We pigged out at Total while waiting, and then I spotted this:
I love it! Love it love it love it. It's the exact color I would've used on our own Volkswagen if it had been given to me. Papa promised that it would be mine once he's had the chance to restore it. But alas, our old, beautiful Beetle is now rotting in some talyer, completely destroyed and unfit for use. Pure neglect. Heartbreaking. :(
I digress. We left Alabang two hours behind schedule and arrived in Cavite wary of the ominous clouds and steady drizzle.
Len looked flustered at first because she was paired with a boy, instead of a girl as we had been told. We told her not to worry, most of the gifts Mark bought were unisex anyway - good job bebe!
My foster child was an 11-year-old girl named Roxane, who said she doesn't like watching pre-teens gyrating to the tune of My Humps (good girl!) and loves to have her photos taken with her friends and ka-loveteam (huh?).
In fact, they all wanted their photos taken. Our group of children and ates and kuyas were positively disruptive, taking funny pictures, being noisy and not minding the dance number on the stage (yes, the gyrating pre-teens). I won't be surprised if the organizers ban us from next year's party.
The priest's sermon about the eagle and chicken somehow left the children confused, because when the emcee asked them after the Mass, "Ano'ng sabi ni Father, sino ang darating sa December 25?" most of them screamed, "si Santa Claus!" while others said "yung agila!" Hahaha, lost in translation perhaps?
Anyway, between that and the magic tricks, dancing, loads of picture-taking and Faith Cuneta singing Langit Ka, Lupa Ako (for the life of me I don't know the title of that song), we did have a lot of fun. It was one afternoon away from the toxicity and boredom of daily life, and into the world of smiles, honesty and hope.
It kind of makes me wonder though if maybe we had more fun than the children had. That one afternoon made us feel good, and slightly above our normal selves; it benefited us more than it did the kids, who probably have had numerous "foster parents" before. Why would we be any different? I pray they don't get cynical and think of our presence as a fleeting thing, one among many others that they have grown accustomed to but have made little impact on their lives. Because we don't want to be like that - cosmetic, temporary facelifts to a deep-seated problem. I'll be the first to admit that one afternoon of partying and giving gifts can't do that. Heck, not even an entire summer spent in the mountains with a community can help alleviate their situation.
My only consolation is that these little acts, when strung together, might make a difference. Moreover, each is a learning experience that musn't be taken for granted and that should lead to something more meaningful and sustainable. Otherwise, it's a futile, one-sided exercise.
On another note, driving home from Dasma was friggin scary, man. I thought Metro Manila would spared from Supertyphoon Seniang , but we caught part of its tail. It was raining nonstop that afternoon and well into the evening. It wasn't pa-cute rain either. We had to be extra alert because of poor visibility - Absolutely no streetlights! In the pouring rain!! What's that about? - and the occasional mini-tsunamis created by buses zooming past our helpless little sedan on those flooded roads. Plus I had to keep wiping the windshield because it was fogging like crazy. Very stressful. Good thing I don't have a license yet. We got home around 11pm, and didn't go to work the next day. Yeehaa.
It kind of makes me wonder though if maybe we had more fun than the children had. That one afternoon made us feel good, and slightly above our normal selves; it benefited us more than it did the kids, who probably have had numerous "foster parents" before. Why would we be any different? I pray they don't get cynical and think of our presence as a fleeting thing, one among many others that they have grown accustomed to but have made little impact on their lives. Because we don't want to be like that - cosmetic, temporary facelifts to a deep-seated problem. I'll be the first to admit that one afternoon of partying and giving gifts can't do that. Heck, not even an entire summer spent in the mountains with a community can help alleviate their situation.
My only consolation is that these little acts, when strung together, might make a difference. Moreover, each is a learning experience that musn't be taken for granted and that should lead to something more meaningful and sustainable. Otherwise, it's a futile, one-sided exercise.
On another note, driving home from Dasma was friggin scary, man. I thought Metro Manila would spared from Supertyphoon Seniang , but we caught part of its tail. It was raining nonstop that afternoon and well into the evening. It wasn't pa-cute rain either. We had to be extra alert because of poor visibility - Absolutely no streetlights! In the pouring rain!! What's that about? - and the occasional mini-tsunamis created by buses zooming past our helpless little sedan on those flooded roads. Plus I had to keep wiping the windshield because it was fogging like crazy. Very stressful. Good thing I don't have a license yet. We got home around 11pm, and didn't go to work the next day. Yeehaa.
***
This Sunday we'll be participating in a Gawad Kalinga Build in Quezon City. Those who are interested, please contact me.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
La lang
I read somewhere that nuclear power needn't be dangerous, as long as you use thorium instead of uranium. This way you won't be able to create plutonium (a byproduct of uranium), the material used for nuclear weapons. Thorium is much more abundant, and can even consume plutonium and uranium through its tested technologies, nipping in the bud any threat. Of course you can't tell that to countries who wanted, and probably still want the plutonium. Neither can you convince the rest of the world, who have developed an almost irreversible fear of anything nuclear. And so the fear persists.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
wounded
I like picking my skin. Scratching it. rolling my fingers over it to discover the tiny bumps, the imminent zits, the uneven skin - hell, whatever I can find. When I sense something unusual, I attack immediately. I am relentless, possessed by the uncontrollable urge to take it out, to break through the skin, cut it, scar it, wound myself. When the wound begins to heal, I touch it again, again and again, until I realize that I've wounded myself once more, on that very same spot. It happens everytime, to many spots, such that no wound completely heals, and I am eternally scarred.
I don't know why I like it. It's certainly not pretty. It's quite disgusting, actually. But I can't help myself. I look at the imperfections on my face, my body, everywhere...and I just want to erase them all from my sight. Right. Now. No waiting for medication, no desire to clean my hand, no caution or care for the consequences I already know by heart. Right now it's just me and my skin, battling it out.
So here's what I've learned: I hate pain, except when it's self-inflicted. Then it becomes this twisted story of purging that I seem to enjoy. True, it's not a very healthy way of dealing with one's flaws. Especially when one is actively seeking them out, searching for every little mistake in the tiniest crevices. And then plowing through in the most unforgiving and painful way.
But so far this is it. This is how I treat myself. This is how I hate myself.
I don't know why I like it. It's certainly not pretty. It's quite disgusting, actually. But I can't help myself. I look at the imperfections on my face, my body, everywhere...and I just want to erase them all from my sight. Right. Now. No waiting for medication, no desire to clean my hand, no caution or care for the consequences I already know by heart. Right now it's just me and my skin, battling it out.
So here's what I've learned: I hate pain, except when it's self-inflicted. Then it becomes this twisted story of purging that I seem to enjoy. True, it's not a very healthy way of dealing with one's flaws. Especially when one is actively seeking them out, searching for every little mistake in the tiniest crevices. And then plowing through in the most unforgiving and painful way.
But so far this is it. This is how I treat myself. This is how I hate myself.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Lacoste/James/Manny
Napatunayan ko na mas maganda talaga ang naka-bakcpack kesa sa shoulder bag. Lalo na 'pag tumatakbo ka palabas ng Gateway Mall papunta Cubao MRT station to catch the last train to Ayala station, and the last shuttle from Ayala to Bicutan.
Ang galing. Salamat Lindsay sa discounted price ng favorite bag ko ngayon.
***
Hindi ko type ang bagong James Bond movie. No glamor, no flair. Looks dirty, like a dark cop movie. Not that I LOVED the old Bond movies, some of them were pretty tacky, but at least Pierce Brosnan had the killer looks and attitude to carry them somehow. Craig David - oops, Daniel Craig pala! See? Forgettable - looks decidedly old and amateurish, not to mention painfully vulnerable (I think they wanted him to be that way. But an amateur James Bond? NO WAY. And he should never be vulnerable for more than five minutes.) Not even that pretty, conniving female character was enough to save Casino Royale, which is partly an attempt to turn the nearly dead poker craze/fad into more than two hours of flimsy story-telling.
What an agony to watch.
***
Nanalo si Manny Pacquiao! Woohoo! I'm no fan of boxing, I think it's a death sport and could possibly dumb a person down from all those brain-jarring punches (maybe), but man, Manny is Manny! Yebah! Erik Morales was the picture of defeat even before the match began, and more so when he was sitting knocked out and dizzy after only three rounds. I felt bad for him. But that's life. Go Manny! You can now finish your 10,000 sqm house on your two-hectare lot. As Mama asked, sinong architect kaya ang pumatol sa kanya? Well, money talks, Ma.
Ang galing. Salamat Lindsay sa discounted price ng favorite bag ko ngayon.
***
Hindi ko type ang bagong James Bond movie. No glamor, no flair. Looks dirty, like a dark cop movie. Not that I LOVED the old Bond movies, some of them were pretty tacky, but at least Pierce Brosnan had the killer looks and attitude to carry them somehow. Craig David - oops, Daniel Craig pala! See? Forgettable - looks decidedly old and amateurish, not to mention painfully vulnerable (I think they wanted him to be that way. But an amateur James Bond? NO WAY. And he should never be vulnerable for more than five minutes.) Not even that pretty, conniving female character was enough to save Casino Royale, which is partly an attempt to turn the nearly dead poker craze/fad into more than two hours of flimsy story-telling.
What an agony to watch.
***
Nanalo si Manny Pacquiao! Woohoo! I'm no fan of boxing, I think it's a death sport and could possibly dumb a person down from all those brain-jarring punches (maybe), but man, Manny is Manny! Yebah! Erik Morales was the picture of defeat even before the match began, and more so when he was sitting knocked out and dizzy after only three rounds. I felt bad for him. But that's life. Go Manny! You can now finish your 10,000 sqm house on your two-hectare lot. As Mama asked, sinong architect kaya ang pumatol sa kanya? Well, money talks, Ma.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Thankful
A series of recent events and conversations confirm that I'm one lucky girl.
Lucky because I am loved, and loved sincerely and seriously. Lucky because my boyfriend truly cares. When people ask (I don't know why they do), "sino ang swerte sa inyong dalawa?" I always answered haughtily, "Swerte siya sa akin." But I'm wrong. I truly am the luckier one. I'm an incorrigible brat who always has to have her way. I am selectively impatient, stubborn, proud, defensive. Drama queen, crybaby, the 24-year-old who still thinks she's the youngest child in the clan (everyone calls me baby so why not?). And he puts up with all of that. Which is not to say he doesn't try to influence me to be better. I've taken leaps and bounds since I met him and I can honestly say I'm a better person. But he doesn't deprive me of who I am or was or want to be.
Someone asked me what an ideal guy is, and I answered, someone who doesn't break your spirit. That's what he is. He doesn't think himself better than his partner, he never puts me down. He directs the typical male ego towards more productive things. He doesn't mess with the head or play with the heart.
Amid all the chaos in my life, he gives me peace.
Lucky because I am loved, and loved sincerely and seriously. Lucky because my boyfriend truly cares. When people ask (I don't know why they do), "sino ang swerte sa inyong dalawa?" I always answered haughtily, "Swerte siya sa akin." But I'm wrong. I truly am the luckier one. I'm an incorrigible brat who always has to have her way. I am selectively impatient, stubborn, proud, defensive. Drama queen, crybaby, the 24-year-old who still thinks she's the youngest child in the clan (everyone calls me baby so why not?). And he puts up with all of that. Which is not to say he doesn't try to influence me to be better. I've taken leaps and bounds since I met him and I can honestly say I'm a better person. But he doesn't deprive me of who I am or was or want to be.
Someone asked me what an ideal guy is, and I answered, someone who doesn't break your spirit. That's what he is. He doesn't think himself better than his partner, he never puts me down. He directs the typical male ego towards more productive things. He doesn't mess with the head or play with the heart.
Amid all the chaos in my life, he gives me peace.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
I WONDER
if I could ever recover the 16-year-old, who was as wise as she was naive, who asked questions that mattered, who was not afraid because she did not know yet what fear meant.
It is not a longing for a past long gone, not really; 16 sucked too because I was gangly and clumsy. No, I miss the feeling that that time represents. I think the most glorious moment in any life is when one is standing at the threshold of a new world. Right now the world seems so old.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I notice the bits of me that are exposed, and bits that are covered up. It's the same as always I guess, just now I'm conscious of it. Consciousness is a killer. Every decision becomes consequential, each mistake more serious than the previous, and sillier than the next.
I am not depressed, okay. Just overly contemplative and a little bit trapped. I truly wish the sad words would stop.
***
Some time ago I wrote: The problem with waiting is that I'm fully conscious of it.
I philosophize the fact that I'm waiting for my wisdom to come. I may have lost it. Poetry. Irony. Magic. All I see are unifrom faces, dozens of them walking around in identical pin-striped suits and disheveled hair. It is a tiresome affair, sitting here and watching them. I'm sure they are more than their typical beige coats and perpetual pink blush. I know I am, even though I don't have a beige coat. So I don't understand why I'm so disappointed. Is everyone the same everywhere?
But I've been seeking something else, something I know now that I haven't found here, where I am.
Somewhere at the margin perhaps, a short distance away from this humdrum existence. A life of meaning, of movement. And I don't want to wait.
It is not a longing for a past long gone, not really; 16 sucked too because I was gangly and clumsy. No, I miss the feeling that that time represents. I think the most glorious moment in any life is when one is standing at the threshold of a new world. Right now the world seems so old.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I notice the bits of me that are exposed, and bits that are covered up. It's the same as always I guess, just now I'm conscious of it. Consciousness is a killer. Every decision becomes consequential, each mistake more serious than the previous, and sillier than the next.
I am not depressed, okay. Just overly contemplative and a little bit trapped. I truly wish the sad words would stop.
***
Some time ago I wrote: The problem with waiting is that I'm fully conscious of it.
I philosophize the fact that I'm waiting for my wisdom to come. I may have lost it. Poetry. Irony. Magic. All I see are unifrom faces, dozens of them walking around in identical pin-striped suits and disheveled hair. It is a tiresome affair, sitting here and watching them. I'm sure they are more than their typical beige coats and perpetual pink blush. I know I am, even though I don't have a beige coat. So I don't understand why I'm so disappointed. Is everyone the same everywhere?
But I've been seeking something else, something I know now that I haven't found here, where I am.
Somewhere at the margin perhaps, a short distance away from this humdrum existence. A life of meaning, of movement. And I don't want to wait.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
happy birthday to meeeeeeeee
Female, 24, in a relationship.
Twenty fucken four!!! Seeing it actually took my breath away. Even friendster is against me now hmp. Haha.
I woke up to birthday messages, a couple of them possibly half-drunken, and a quick phone call from the bf, asking me what I wanted for breakfast. Yep, got my breakfast in bed! Well, actually no. When he arrived (three hours after he left home, wawa naman), I was already dressed. Just the same, it was very sweet. Mwahbebe!
I was late for work again, 19 minutes. Best time this week!
Received lovely, lovely Colombian roses from my tita. Kahelera ko na (raw) sina Kris at Boy who both order flowers from the same florist. Sikat for a day, what can I say.
Pigged out on pizza, cake and ice cream at the office. Blew a candle, just one, thank goodness.
Looking forward to this weekend! I predict we'll have a beautiful seafood lunch. Yummy.
So all in all, this hasn't been a bad day. It's not over yet, but I'm choosing not to allow anything or anyone to ruin it.
O sha, gotta go. More later.
Twenty fucken four!!! Seeing it actually took my breath away. Even friendster is against me now hmp. Haha.
I woke up to birthday messages, a couple of them possibly half-drunken, and a quick phone call from the bf, asking me what I wanted for breakfast. Yep, got my breakfast in bed! Well, actually no. When he arrived (three hours after he left home, wawa naman), I was already dressed. Just the same, it was very sweet. Mwahbebe!
I was late for work again, 19 minutes. Best time this week!
Received lovely, lovely Colombian roses from my tita. Kahelera ko na (raw) sina Kris at Boy who both order flowers from the same florist. Sikat for a day, what can I say.
Pigged out on pizza, cake and ice cream at the office. Blew a candle, just one, thank goodness.
Looking forward to this weekend! I predict we'll have a beautiful seafood lunch. Yummy.
So all in all, this hasn't been a bad day. It's not over yet, but I'm choosing not to allow anything or anyone to ruin it.
O sha, gotta go. More later.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
BLUES
I'd like to blame it on my birthday.
I feel uneasy. Here I go again.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I just feel so down. Pucha. I'm not depressed about gaining another year per se. I mean, at the end of te day who cares? Everyones grows old.
On one hand I'm happy. Got everything I want at this point in my life, really. But on the other hand, inside me is this...monster.
Shit.
I feel uneasy. Here I go again.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I just feel so down. Pucha. I'm not depressed about gaining another year per se. I mean, at the end of te day who cares? Everyones grows old.
On one hand I'm happy. Got everything I want at this point in my life, really. But on the other hand, inside me is this...monster.
Shit.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
i miss you old friend
could you fill me up again?
drown me in your magical waters
it's been a lifeless walk without you
the sky is dull and the wind is dry
the leaves no longer spark fire
under the ordinary sun
it is a heavy emptiness
holding each breath hoping to touch some mystery
there is none
no iridescence
no wonder
no wild secret to share
where are you my muse?
come back
save me
please
make me write again
could you fill me up again?
drown me in your magical waters
it's been a lifeless walk without you
the sky is dull and the wind is dry
the leaves no longer spark fire
under the ordinary sun
it is a heavy emptiness
holding each breath hoping to touch some mystery
there is none
no iridescence
no wonder
no wild secret to share
where are you my muse?
come back
save me
please
make me write again
Monday, September 25, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
SLIGHTLY REDUCED AND MILDLY AGITATED
I have two recent vivid memories of when I felt I was in a real fix. One was when we were finishing our first ever group project in grad school. We had been holed up in a classmate's house for nearly a week, and on the very last day, the day of submission, Murphy's Law struck and all hell broke loose. The computers weren't cooperating, the printers ran out of ink, the sun was setting. All I could think of was the deadline and how we could possibly beat it - or extend it. It didn't help that I had a groupmate who insisted on doing what I thought at the time was really petty and stupid, like cropping each image just so, and placing a blue border exactly right there. It was painstakingly slow and I wanted to bash him in the head with a vase. Couldn't he understand that the document just HAD TO GO? RIGHT NOW?? To top it off, Enya was blaring from the laptop's speakers. Enya with her slow, trance-like melodies. It was so ridiculous and surreal I had to fight the urge to laugh.
Another time I was doing another project, with almost the same set of people, about a topic I knew nothing about. As most of our time was spent trying to understand the subject matter, we were left with only a few precious hours to actually get the presentation and the document together. This time around we decided not to leave anything to chance. We had to get our numbers right, had to cross the t's and dot the i's. The entire class waited for about an hour until we finally arrived with our powerpoint presentation and identical petrified looks on our faces. Of course we sucked. And it was the worst feeling in the entire world to know that you should have done better. But oddly enough, I also felt comforted by the fact that I had done absolutely everything in my limited capacity so that our output could be granted some level of respectability. Yes, it wasn't good enough. But I know I did my best.
***
This morning, I was slightly (and so very politely) chastised by my big boss. Short story: we had a proposal due 5pm yesterday, and at 425 we were still binding the damned thing. The long version is that that moment was preceded by a long series of events, which included delays in technical inputs, costing and team selection, erratic coordination with the India office (the time difference is a killer), very bad English grammar by people who supposedly invented the fucking language, and every little thing that delayed the processing of the document.
Yes, of course there are no excuses. But I had just come out of an experience where one minute, seemingly insignificant detail i.e. not stamping "certified true copy" on a single page (within a document of a thousand pages) could spell the sordid death of a bid -- and the chance to get an $8.5 million-dollar contract. That's 425 million pesos. Taste the guilt.
So no, I don't like to take chances anymore, and you can't tell me to hurry up when I know the client won't be able to understand that paragraph in Section 4.9 because it does not make sense. I will sit there until it does.
Then again I'm not the boss.
The question is: quality or punctuality? There is no clear cut answer, except that you have to know your priorities. And they should be able to tell us those priorities right at the very start, not when they're all huffing and puffing one hour to the deadline. And it's really insulting when, in the aftermath, you're told that they weren't really batting for the win, that they just wanted to get out there and show something, and that we were too pricey for the client anyway. So what the hell was I developing zits for? I should have sent out the first draft with the word "effects" spelled as "affects". Shet.
***
No, I'm not sourgraping. Just realizing that we cannot have it all. Half the time we come out with such crap, half the time it ain't half as bad. I should know that by now. I'd really rather have it all, but I guess when push comes to shove you have to choose what's more important. I just thought I had it all figured out. Who knew a crossed t was just a blue border after all?
***
an aside: For some reason I have this bitter taste in my mouth and a sick feeling in my stomach. I'm now thinking of things I could've spent my time on. But that time's over. And now I have tons of pending work, non-job related work that means a lot to me personally but does not pay my phone bill. Ah, life.
Another time I was doing another project, with almost the same set of people, about a topic I knew nothing about. As most of our time was spent trying to understand the subject matter, we were left with only a few precious hours to actually get the presentation and the document together. This time around we decided not to leave anything to chance. We had to get our numbers right, had to cross the t's and dot the i's. The entire class waited for about an hour until we finally arrived with our powerpoint presentation and identical petrified looks on our faces. Of course we sucked. And it was the worst feeling in the entire world to know that you should have done better. But oddly enough, I also felt comforted by the fact that I had done absolutely everything in my limited capacity so that our output could be granted some level of respectability. Yes, it wasn't good enough. But I know I did my best.
***
This morning, I was slightly (and so very politely) chastised by my big boss. Short story: we had a proposal due 5pm yesterday, and at 425 we were still binding the damned thing. The long version is that that moment was preceded by a long series of events, which included delays in technical inputs, costing and team selection, erratic coordination with the India office (the time difference is a killer), very bad English grammar by people who supposedly invented the fucking language, and every little thing that delayed the processing of the document.
Yes, of course there are no excuses. But I had just come out of an experience where one minute, seemingly insignificant detail i.e. not stamping "certified true copy" on a single page (within a document of a thousand pages) could spell the sordid death of a bid -- and the chance to get an $8.5 million-dollar contract. That's 425 million pesos. Taste the guilt.
So no, I don't like to take chances anymore, and you can't tell me to hurry up when I know the client won't be able to understand that paragraph in Section 4.9 because it does not make sense. I will sit there until it does.
Then again I'm not the boss.
The question is: quality or punctuality? There is no clear cut answer, except that you have to know your priorities. And they should be able to tell us those priorities right at the very start, not when they're all huffing and puffing one hour to the deadline. And it's really insulting when, in the aftermath, you're told that they weren't really batting for the win, that they just wanted to get out there and show something, and that we were too pricey for the client anyway. So what the hell was I developing zits for? I should have sent out the first draft with the word "effects" spelled as "affects". Shet.
***
No, I'm not sourgraping. Just realizing that we cannot have it all. Half the time we come out with such crap, half the time it ain't half as bad. I should know that by now. I'd really rather have it all, but I guess when push comes to shove you have to choose what's more important. I just thought I had it all figured out. Who knew a crossed t was just a blue border after all?
***
an aside: For some reason I have this bitter taste in my mouth and a sick feeling in my stomach. I'm now thinking of things I could've spent my time on. But that time's over. And now I have tons of pending work, non-job related work that means a lot to me personally but does not pay my phone bill. Ah, life.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
IF YOU WANNA GO THROUGH MY ENTIRE DAY, GO AHEAD
There's no point to this entry. It's just one of those Saturdays, with a lot of little nothings.
I wake up trying to remember the things I need to do. Take-home work, thesis, overdue book, what else? Please don't rain too much today.
I try to listen to the rain. None. Good.
I hitch a ride with my dad to the MRT. Have to be in UP before lunch, because the Econ library closes at 12 on Saturdays (Econ people are clearly not book readers). I walk up the stairs. The queue wasn't long, points for MRT! I pass through the gates and chance upona billboard on the upper platform area. The picture has PGMA's huge smiling face (this is what greets passengers on their way to the trains every single day. Imagine that.) It also has a simple outline drawing of the MRT Line, telling me "You are here", and shows the other existing LRT lines and proposed LRT lines, and how they link up with this particular Line.
I work for a consultancy that specializes in infrastructure. We (well, the experts) built LRT2. And some of our partner firms in that project built LRT3 - MRT to everyone else. I ponder on that fact as I try to decipher the criss-crossing lines of the different LRTs in the billboard. Amazing. Transportation. How these blocks of cement and metal (and all the big and little things I don't understand) can carry people from Paranaque to Quezon City to Recto to Kamuning. I look around at people scurrying by, rushing to the trains, and wonder if they can see that, these huge arteries that carry our lifeblood all throughout the metropolis, every second of every day - unless there's a power outage or some other malfunction, then everyone takes the bus and road riots ensue.
What was I saying? Ah. For a brief moment I feel slightly proud of the people and entities who work to build trains and roads and bridges, even though in the actual fact I've never had anything to do with the design and construction of any piece of infrastructure.
I walk away from the billboard immersed in that thought, and go down the stairs to the platform.
Crap, the doors are closing. GMA and her stupid smiling face just made me late for my train. Oh wait here comes another. Is it me or are things working well today?
It takes me about 20 minutes to get from Taft to Quezon Ave, and I spend it listening to the Beatles . Good times, the 60s.
I board the jeep at the terminal beside Quezon Av station. A young boy sits in front, in his mother's lap, with his father in the driver seat. The father keeps on tickling him all throughout the ride, arousing fits of laughter and little legs flying over the dashboard. At Philcoa the boy straightens up and shouts joyously, "Ahh--UP, UP, UP, UP!" cajoling people to get in the jeep in the biggest voice his six-year-old body could muster. His parents laugh at his attempt. Of course this doesn't stop him from belting out once more. I don't feel sad like I usually feel when kids do what adults are supposed to do. Probably because this child isn't working, he isn't being abused (at least not today?). He's playing - the way young middle class children put on their daddies' ties and their mommies' heels, prancing around the carperted room until they trip over their grown-up costumes. For this one Saturday afternoon, I feel slightly...relieved.
I stop at the Econ building and run to the library, to be greeted by an irate librarian who huffs, "OVERDUE." So where's your fire huh, Ms Dragon? I pay the fine and leave immediately. I go to the SC to surf the net and wait for Mark. Lunch at Rodic's would be fabulous today. And it was. The hustle and bustle, the clanking of metal plates, the carinderia-style call-outs for food, and the air of 60 years of Rodic's history invade my senses. Then of course there's the yummy tapsilog. I eat and think, I want to write about this place. I will, I promise.
Later on, Mark and I pass by the "70% Sale" at ISSI before going to SURP. I mull over a pair of Lee jeans while Mark buys shoes. Hm, should I buy these jeans? They look like they fit, but do they? I'm not allowed to fit, so I stare at the thing for a good ten minutes. I finally ask Mark, and he asks back, "is it an immediate need? How many pants do you own?" Well, thanks a lot for the support, man. Parang linya ko ata yan. Tip: Never go to a sale with a man. He will crush your faith. They do not understand it. Yes we do know, sales are not really sales, they are schemes, and often end up ripping us off more than normal purchases do. I know I don't really need the jeans, and I know that logically I should not buy them because, personally, I need to know that they actually fir me, and there's no way of of knowing that here. I even know that it's not actually 70% off. But that is not the point of going to a sale. Going to a sale means feeling good about yourself. Period. Bah.
The rest of my afternoon is spent at the SURP library, trying to lift my mood. I think I'm growing library roots, honestly.
I go to thesis consultation a little later, then off we go to Glorietta to watch Pirates of the Caribbean.
What a funny movie! Could not stop laughing. Can not. Hilarious story, funny characters. Gorgeous Orlando Bloom. After the movie I see a girl whip out her digicam and take a picture of a Pirates poster. I bet you she's zooming in on Orlando. But why would you endeavor to get a 2D copy of a 2D copy of a person? I'd shave off one degree of Kevin Bacon: Picture Version, and plot to get the whole tarpaulin instead. Unless it's a life-size standee of Kimi Raikkonnen, then I could have my picture taken with my arm woven through his cardboard arm. Which I have done by the way, in Duty Free. Hahahaha.
Anyway I go home still laughing at the running cage scene, and with a mental note to watch the first Pirates movie.
So that was my day. It was a good one. Yun lang.
I wake up trying to remember the things I need to do. Take-home work, thesis, overdue book, what else? Please don't rain too much today.
I try to listen to the rain. None. Good.
I hitch a ride with my dad to the MRT. Have to be in UP before lunch, because the Econ library closes at 12 on Saturdays (Econ people are clearly not book readers). I walk up the stairs. The queue wasn't long, points for MRT! I pass through the gates and chance upona billboard on the upper platform area. The picture has PGMA's huge smiling face (this is what greets passengers on their way to the trains every single day. Imagine that.) It also has a simple outline drawing of the MRT Line, telling me "You are here", and shows the other existing LRT lines and proposed LRT lines, and how they link up with this particular Line.
I work for a consultancy that specializes in infrastructure. We (well, the experts) built LRT2. And some of our partner firms in that project built LRT3 - MRT to everyone else. I ponder on that fact as I try to decipher the criss-crossing lines of the different LRTs in the billboard. Amazing. Transportation. How these blocks of cement and metal (and all the big and little things I don't understand) can carry people from Paranaque to Quezon City to Recto to Kamuning. I look around at people scurrying by, rushing to the trains, and wonder if they can see that, these huge arteries that carry our lifeblood all throughout the metropolis, every second of every day - unless there's a power outage or some other malfunction, then everyone takes the bus and road riots ensue.
What was I saying? Ah. For a brief moment I feel slightly proud of the people and entities who work to build trains and roads and bridges, even though in the actual fact I've never had anything to do with the design and construction of any piece of infrastructure.
I walk away from the billboard immersed in that thought, and go down the stairs to the platform.
Crap, the doors are closing. GMA and her stupid smiling face just made me late for my train. Oh wait here comes another. Is it me or are things working well today?
It takes me about 20 minutes to get from Taft to Quezon Ave, and I spend it listening to the Beatles . Good times, the 60s.
I board the jeep at the terminal beside Quezon Av station. A young boy sits in front, in his mother's lap, with his father in the driver seat. The father keeps on tickling him all throughout the ride, arousing fits of laughter and little legs flying over the dashboard. At Philcoa the boy straightens up and shouts joyously, "Ahh--UP, UP, UP, UP!" cajoling people to get in the jeep in the biggest voice his six-year-old body could muster. His parents laugh at his attempt. Of course this doesn't stop him from belting out once more. I don't feel sad like I usually feel when kids do what adults are supposed to do. Probably because this child isn't working, he isn't being abused (at least not today?). He's playing - the way young middle class children put on their daddies' ties and their mommies' heels, prancing around the carperted room until they trip over their grown-up costumes. For this one Saturday afternoon, I feel slightly...relieved.
I stop at the Econ building and run to the library, to be greeted by an irate librarian who huffs, "OVERDUE." So where's your fire huh, Ms Dragon? I pay the fine and leave immediately. I go to the SC to surf the net and wait for Mark. Lunch at Rodic's would be fabulous today. And it was. The hustle and bustle, the clanking of metal plates, the carinderia-style call-outs for food, and the air of 60 years of Rodic's history invade my senses. Then of course there's the yummy tapsilog. I eat and think, I want to write about this place. I will, I promise.
Later on, Mark and I pass by the "70% Sale" at ISSI before going to SURP. I mull over a pair of Lee jeans while Mark buys shoes. Hm, should I buy these jeans? They look like they fit, but do they? I'm not allowed to fit, so I stare at the thing for a good ten minutes. I finally ask Mark, and he asks back, "is it an immediate need? How many pants do you own?" Well, thanks a lot for the support, man. Parang linya ko ata yan. Tip: Never go to a sale with a man. He will crush your faith. They do not understand it. Yes we do know, sales are not really sales, they are schemes, and often end up ripping us off more than normal purchases do. I know I don't really need the jeans, and I know that logically I should not buy them because, personally, I need to know that they actually fir me, and there's no way of of knowing that here. I even know that it's not actually 70% off. But that is not the point of going to a sale. Going to a sale means feeling good about yourself. Period. Bah.
The rest of my afternoon is spent at the SURP library, trying to lift my mood. I think I'm growing library roots, honestly.
I go to thesis consultation a little later, then off we go to Glorietta to watch Pirates of the Caribbean.
What a funny movie! Could not stop laughing. Can not. Hilarious story, funny characters. Gorgeous Orlando Bloom. After the movie I see a girl whip out her digicam and take a picture of a Pirates poster. I bet you she's zooming in on Orlando. But why would you endeavor to get a 2D copy of a 2D copy of a person? I'd shave off one degree of Kevin Bacon: Picture Version, and plot to get the whole tarpaulin instead. Unless it's a life-size standee of Kimi Raikkonnen, then I could have my picture taken with my arm woven through his cardboard arm. Which I have done by the way, in Duty Free. Hahahaha.
Anyway I go home still laughing at the running cage scene, and with a mental note to watch the first Pirates movie.
So that was my day. It was a good one. Yun lang.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Saturday, July 08, 2006
WHO WILL SAVE MY SOUL?
If I could tell the world just one thing it would be, we're all okay...not to worry coz worry is wasteful and useless in times like these...I won't be made useless, I won't be idle with despair..
I remembered this song a couple of nights ago, lying in bed and feeling exactly that: idle with despair.
It has come down to this. That once again I question the purpose for and value of me being where I am. That the regrets I've been keeping at bay are suddenly creeping up. I had never been so desperate and internally out of control sitting at Starbucks sipping java chip, as I did early this week. I wanted to throw the chairs all over. It didn't help that the movement around me indicated the ever constant and steady: people walking hurriedly to work, that guy routinely ordering ham and cheese croissant like he does evey morning at 830, girl with uber straight hair and delicate face holding her morning cigarette. It's as though everything was working perfectly, except me. Of course inside these people, something else may be lurking, a criminal, or some insanity raring to burst out on that sunny-rainy morning. I hardly think so though. At that moment, it certainly felt like I was the only one helplessly struggling against the current, trapped in my little box full of mental toxin.
I'm clearly not stable. But hey, I've never been.
So what's the problem? The problem is What If. What if I hadn't taken on this job that I have now, and continued with my project work instead? What if I had spent my summer preparing for the board instead of, well, not preparing for the board and missing my chance to take it? What if I had stayed strictly on track instead of deviating from "the plan"? What if I had followed my heart and sought adventure and uncertainty, instead of falling back to what I thought was safe and familiar? Which turned out to be the opposite, by the way. What if everything was different?
Well, what if? I'm actually tired of asking this question, knowing that any response of any variation all boils down to "wala na akong magagawa, nangyari na" and "ang tigas kasi ng ulo ko."
And because matigas ang ulo ko, I've been igniting brain cells to bits overthinking the petty. I'm writing here when should be sleeping, thinking about the what ifs and their possible impacts on my future. The question moves to What Would Happen Then? and What Now? My head is running from Past to Future and back again at breakneck speed, spinning and falling at every turn.I am foolishly welcoming a head-on collision with the unstoppable and undeniable - time. Time has actually become a hazy concept, except for the very clear recollections of my personal mistakes and missteps. Time. You can never go back. You can never redo or undo. What did Rhea use to say, after everything fell to pieces? Don't look back. No regrets.
Regret is a nasty word. Regret clings to you like a leech, poisoning you little by little. It's a monster. Up until this point I have had a couple or so regrets: that I allowed myself to "fall in love" with a guy who ultimately broke my heart, that I didn't take Math seriously (I'm serious), and well, I can't think of anything else. In retrospect, of course, I wouldn't have changed a damned thing. Because getting hurt taught me a ton of things, like being a better partner and waiting for the right guy. Because being crappy at Math made me realize what I really wanted to do (and I'm not as bad at it as college made me out to be, promise! I actually like it, which is to say I appreciate the concept, just not the computations haha).
Anyway, looking back years after, I find that I have no regrets after all. Cliche as it may sound, those things in the past have made me a better person. Right up until the second half of this year at least.
Does this mean that the churning feeling in my tummy today will, years from now, be just a happy, nostalgic thought? Probably. Does this stop me from being miserable today? Hell no.
"You worry too much," says Mark. Yes, yes I do. I'm a worrywart. The worst, praning kind. And I've run out of good paintrushes so I can't paint to calm my nerves, much less save my remaining threads of sanity.
So I sing.
I remembered this song a couple of nights ago, lying in bed and feeling exactly that: idle with despair.
It has come down to this. That once again I question the purpose for and value of me being where I am. That the regrets I've been keeping at bay are suddenly creeping up. I had never been so desperate and internally out of control sitting at Starbucks sipping java chip, as I did early this week. I wanted to throw the chairs all over. It didn't help that the movement around me indicated the ever constant and steady: people walking hurriedly to work, that guy routinely ordering ham and cheese croissant like he does evey morning at 830, girl with uber straight hair and delicate face holding her morning cigarette. It's as though everything was working perfectly, except me. Of course inside these people, something else may be lurking, a criminal, or some insanity raring to burst out on that sunny-rainy morning. I hardly think so though. At that moment, it certainly felt like I was the only one helplessly struggling against the current, trapped in my little box full of mental toxin.
I'm clearly not stable. But hey, I've never been.
So what's the problem? The problem is What If. What if I hadn't taken on this job that I have now, and continued with my project work instead? What if I had spent my summer preparing for the board instead of, well, not preparing for the board and missing my chance to take it? What if I had stayed strictly on track instead of deviating from "the plan"? What if I had followed my heart and sought adventure and uncertainty, instead of falling back to what I thought was safe and familiar? Which turned out to be the opposite, by the way. What if everything was different?
Well, what if? I'm actually tired of asking this question, knowing that any response of any variation all boils down to "wala na akong magagawa, nangyari na" and "ang tigas kasi ng ulo ko."
And because matigas ang ulo ko, I've been igniting brain cells to bits overthinking the petty. I'm writing here when should be sleeping, thinking about the what ifs and their possible impacts on my future. The question moves to What Would Happen Then? and What Now? My head is running from Past to Future and back again at breakneck speed, spinning and falling at every turn.I am foolishly welcoming a head-on collision with the unstoppable and undeniable - time. Time has actually become a hazy concept, except for the very clear recollections of my personal mistakes and missteps. Time. You can never go back. You can never redo or undo. What did Rhea use to say, after everything fell to pieces? Don't look back. No regrets.
Regret is a nasty word. Regret clings to you like a leech, poisoning you little by little. It's a monster. Up until this point I have had a couple or so regrets: that I allowed myself to "fall in love" with a guy who ultimately broke my heart, that I didn't take Math seriously (I'm serious), and well, I can't think of anything else. In retrospect, of course, I wouldn't have changed a damned thing. Because getting hurt taught me a ton of things, like being a better partner and waiting for the right guy. Because being crappy at Math made me realize what I really wanted to do (and I'm not as bad at it as college made me out to be, promise! I actually like it, which is to say I appreciate the concept, just not the computations haha).
Anyway, looking back years after, I find that I have no regrets after all. Cliche as it may sound, those things in the past have made me a better person. Right up until the second half of this year at least.
Does this mean that the churning feeling in my tummy today will, years from now, be just a happy, nostalgic thought? Probably. Does this stop me from being miserable today? Hell no.
"You worry too much," says Mark. Yes, yes I do. I'm a worrywart. The worst, praning kind. And I've run out of good paintrushes so I can't paint to calm my nerves, much less save my remaining threads of sanity.
So I sing.
Hands (Jewel)
If I could tell the world just one thing It would be that we're all ok
And not to worry because worry is wasteful and useless in times like these
I will not be made useless
I won't be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith for light does the darkness most fear
My hands are small, I know, but they're not yours they are my own
but they're not yours they are my own
and I am never broken
Poverty stole your golden shoes but it didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me but i knew it wasn't ever after
We will fight, not out of spite for someone must stand up for what's right
cause where there's a man who has no voice there ours shall go singing
In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees and I will pray
I will get down on my knees and I will pray
I will get down on my knees and I will pray
My hands are small, I know, but they're not yours they are my own
but they're not yours they are my own
and I am never broken
My hands are small, i know, but they're not yours they are my own
but they're not yours they are my own
and I am never broken
We are never broken
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's eyes
God's hands
We are God's hands
God's hands
We are God's hands
Monday, June 19, 2006
*SHRUGS SHOULDERS AND SIGHS*
Why do I continue to have this ambivalence towards my work? I don't know, I don't know.
Last Saturday a friend was telling me about a certain work prospect related to our field, and I had the sudden urge to drop everything and resign from my job. Mark gave me a random email address and told me to send my CV for a planning-related position, and I had to muster all my strength not to. I don't know why, don't know why.
Am I not satisfied? Am I not learning enough here? Is this boring me? I don't know, don't know.
Maybe it's this great big stormcloud of regret hanging over me. Things I could have done, things I wanted to do, what I could have accomplished had it not been for my current work. Promises broken, excuses made, a little dream I started to realize and suddenly gave up. And now I feel miserable one moment, accepting and docile the next. I know I should be happy with the decisions I've made. There are lessons to be learned, after all. But why does this nagging feeling persist? I'm starting to feel like a broken record, really. But I just can't shake it off. Why? Why??
Oh, you know the answer.
Last Saturday a friend was telling me about a certain work prospect related to our field, and I had the sudden urge to drop everything and resign from my job. Mark gave me a random email address and told me to send my CV for a planning-related position, and I had to muster all my strength not to. I don't know why, don't know why.
Am I not satisfied? Am I not learning enough here? Is this boring me? I don't know, don't know.
Maybe it's this great big stormcloud of regret hanging over me. Things I could have done, things I wanted to do, what I could have accomplished had it not been for my current work. Promises broken, excuses made, a little dream I started to realize and suddenly gave up. And now I feel miserable one moment, accepting and docile the next. I know I should be happy with the decisions I've made. There are lessons to be learned, after all. But why does this nagging feeling persist? I'm starting to feel like a broken record, really. But I just can't shake it off. Why? Why??
Oh, you know the answer.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
NOTHING LIKE IT YET
I did it. Finally!
I climbed a mountain. Mt Gulugod Baboy in Anilao, to be exact.
This is a milestone , people. My theory about my parents is in shambles right now, but hey, better that than not being able to have this:
More kwento later. Right now I'm just savoring the hangover.
Friday, June 02, 2006
WHAT PAULA COLE SANG
Once in a while I get this feeling of restlessness. It's as though I want to run, to sprint away and just go. There's a pressure inside me waiting, just waiting.
I just learned that my old friend in the States is quitting her job and moving hundreds of miles to start a new life. Not that she's unhappy with what she has; on the contrary, I think she couldn't be happier right now. But she just felt she had to do it, to uproot herself and find a new place, to take on this adventure and give new and greater meaning to her life.
Naiinggit ako. Why couldn't I do that? Granted, she lives in a land where independence is widely encouraged, even forced. Her parents probably gave her the blessing to do whatever she wants to do. Mine, on the other hand, are determined to keep me strapped to the inside wall of our house, like a painting on display that they can examine whenever they felt the urge, and ignore when they're busy looking at a lamp near the couch. Ouf. No, they're not that bad. But it's not a very encouraging atmosphere either.
All my life I've sat, a good little pupil with her hands on her lap and her eyes looking straight ahead. The few times I've tried to break away ended in disaster, with me in the losing end of course. Recently though, I was "granted" some degree of freedom. I managed to cross a sea without them, on a non-school or -work related trip. And if I insist on going to Sagada, they'd probably allow me -- as long they have a copy of my complete and detailed itinerary, and with a semi-interrogation when I get back.
But to let me go? To send me off to a place with no certainty of transportation, food or lodging? To allow me to just be free and find my own way? No. In their hearts, probably never.
My brother is lucky he's now living in Cebu. Cebu! So far away! What a wonderful place to be in. Two nights ago he lost his celphone downtown. One on hand it's such a tragedy because there was so much more in that phone than mere contacts and text messages. There were ideas and concepts and various streaks of brilliance. On the other hand, it was probably cathartic. Now he has to start from scratch, quite literally. A totally new lease on life.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, with two celphones but no time, no money to spare and no one to go anywhere farther than QC with. I watch Travel and Living and dream of Italy. I book flights to places I won't go to and plan trips that never happen. Bleah.
But everyone says to wait. I've got a whole life ahead of me. Ok fine. But time is running so fast, you know? At least for me. Pretty soon I'll be 25, then 27, then 30, then no longer fit enough to climb a mountain or jump from a cliff. I just wish...haay, never mind.
I swear someday I'm gonna have my cake and eat it, too. But therein lies the problem. I want my cake now.
Aaaauuugghhhh.
I just learned that my old friend in the States is quitting her job and moving hundreds of miles to start a new life. Not that she's unhappy with what she has; on the contrary, I think she couldn't be happier right now. But she just felt she had to do it, to uproot herself and find a new place, to take on this adventure and give new and greater meaning to her life.
Naiinggit ako. Why couldn't I do that? Granted, she lives in a land where independence is widely encouraged, even forced. Her parents probably gave her the blessing to do whatever she wants to do. Mine, on the other hand, are determined to keep me strapped to the inside wall of our house, like a painting on display that they can examine whenever they felt the urge, and ignore when they're busy looking at a lamp near the couch. Ouf. No, they're not that bad. But it's not a very encouraging atmosphere either.
All my life I've sat, a good little pupil with her hands on her lap and her eyes looking straight ahead. The few times I've tried to break away ended in disaster, with me in the losing end of course. Recently though, I was "granted" some degree of freedom. I managed to cross a sea without them, on a non-school or -work related trip. And if I insist on going to Sagada, they'd probably allow me -- as long they have a copy of my complete and detailed itinerary, and with a semi-interrogation when I get back.
But to let me go? To send me off to a place with no certainty of transportation, food or lodging? To allow me to just be free and find my own way? No. In their hearts, probably never.
My brother is lucky he's now living in Cebu. Cebu! So far away! What a wonderful place to be in. Two nights ago he lost his celphone downtown. One on hand it's such a tragedy because there was so much more in that phone than mere contacts and text messages. There were ideas and concepts and various streaks of brilliance. On the other hand, it was probably cathartic. Now he has to start from scratch, quite literally. A totally new lease on life.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, with two celphones but no time, no money to spare and no one to go anywhere farther than QC with. I watch Travel and Living and dream of Italy. I book flights to places I won't go to and plan trips that never happen. Bleah.
But everyone says to wait. I've got a whole life ahead of me. Ok fine. But time is running so fast, you know? At least for me. Pretty soon I'll be 25, then 27, then 30, then no longer fit enough to climb a mountain or jump from a cliff. I just wish...haay, never mind.
I swear someday I'm gonna have my cake and eat it, too. But therein lies the problem. I want my cake now.
Aaaauuugghhhh.
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