Memories

These are my most vivid memories about the following people:

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The first time I met Betch, she had the cords of her earphone tied around her neck, ready to hang herself. The second time I met her, she was wearing a green shirt, green retainers, and green earrings. I was her complement; I had green pants and a green jacket on with a green bag hanging from my arm. We're soulmates, Betch and I. Really. Maybe we got separated at birth, anyway, people say we look alike. Raise eyebrows. Or maybe we were lovers about three hundred years ago. Romeo and Juliet? Tristan and Isolde? Betch, you be the dam guy.

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The first time Mary entered my consciousness, she was wearing a pair of tan, paint-besplattered pants with this pomelo pink shirt on. My senses were assaulted. She beat my outfit of green abubot-covered punk pants and black shirt.

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I was running late for Psych 1. I crossed Taft and lo, there was Andrea. She said she liked my black OFW jacket. Yes, I call it my OFW jacket. Parang pang-Saudi! Anyway, I decided not to go to class since I hate the rambling teacher. Andrea went along with my evil plan, and we ended up sitting together in the library. I was trying to read some Caviteno's book (I don't remember whose), but of course i have to strike up a convo lest Andrea assume I'm, erm, anti-social. We discovered that we mutually dislike the same people! Dissing here, dissing there, diss was all over the library floor.

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We were eating at Sushaya. I was teaching Betch the art of sneering. Betch was pathetic at it, but I was trying to be patient. I glanced at Mishee, accidentally taken away from my responsibilities, and lo, she had this rapt look on her face, trying to sneer too. Hahahahaha! I wish I got the face on cam. She was even more pitiful-looking than Betch. I really have to teach those two. You know, Mishee, for these stalker frat guys and Betch, for these super-kulit frat guys and heads from Hell.

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The first time I noticed Paul (fourth grade), he was trying to walk through the wall of our classroom. The door was about five inches from his right.

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Manoy told me: pag gusto may paraan, pag ayaw may dahilan. This has been my so-far-infallible mantra. Indelible too.

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Geronimo was blowing his nose. I saw wet, gray snot oozing under the tissue clamped to his nose. I asked him, " bakit tumutulo yang sipon mo eh may tissue ka na?"

"Pang-takip lang kasi yung tissue."

I've Been Dying (To Tell You)

Favorite songs lately: Walking By by Something Corporate; Sugar, We're Going Down and A Little Less Sixteen by Fall Out Boy; Romeo and Juliet by Indigo Girls; Almost Happy and Butterflies Instead by K's Choice.

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All-time favorite books: Foundation's Edge by Isaac Asimov; The Book of Enchantments by Patricia Wrede; David Copperfield by Charles Dickens; The Space Trilogy by C.S. Lewis; Orion Among the Stars by Ben Bova; All of Agatha Christie's works I've read so far; A Hundred Secret Senses by Amy Tan; and on and on and on.

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Favorite people: Betch, Mishee, Manoy, Paul, Cha, Sabrina, Robert, Andrea. Ah, and Cc.

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You dont really need to know this. I dont mind if you skip it. =)

SONA lang naman

Well, SONA has been the usual triathlon—hurdles of glittering generalities, skillful twists to reality, and athletic dodging of relevant issues. It’s nice that Manny Pacquiao was around; at least he’s a frigging novelty for this year’s circus (wait, is he?).

This year’s SONA, Gloria’s sixth, is nothing new. We’ve heard it all before (let’s all join hands and be friends). The statistics give us jaded people a lot to hope for. Now, you and I know that both of us weren’t better off than we were last year. On the contrary, it seems much worse. So this is the deal: either Gloria’s stats are not credible, or they are. Gloria is not stupid. If she were, she wouldn’t be wearing a Carmine red saya with a smug look on her face about two hours ago. She will not give ‘facts’ unverifiable by the wolfish media. Therefore, the statistics she relied on for her SONA is credible, to a certain extent with which credibility can be measured.

However, statistics are just that: numbers. Numbers are impersonal. The squiggles of an 8 or the straightness of a 1 cannot really tell us how the unprivileged stomach does a marching drill every four hours. The citing of statistics is, for me, just a formality. It does not encompass reality.

The only thing that sickened me was the applause. Exactly 166 in all in a span of 60 minutes and one second. I assume that our congressmen and women are educated. They’re not teens cheering on their favorite rock band, for chrissakes. Not to say that cheering teens are uneducated, but I think it’s understandable why they lose their heads over, say, Champ. But Gloria? You’d think our politicians at least know when to clap. Every pause and their hands start working. Are they being sarcastic? Have they suddenly developed a sense of the paradoxical, of the ironic, of the antithetic? Really. Gloria stops a sec to catch her breath. Applause. Gloria farts. Applause. Gloria says she’s taking over as dictator of the Philippine Islands, will you please all resign now, thank you. Applause.

Time, please?

I'm very frustrated. I got these really good books hanging around my room, and i want to read them all, but there's no time. Hell.

Betch lent me Tim Winton's Scission, a collection of these really short stories. Australian setting. Twisted families. Twisted feelings. Cool.

Ting lent me I Will Fear No Evil by Robert Heinlein. It's about this century-old man who had his brain transplanted to the body of his sexy secretary. Lots of sex. Lots of queers. But sci-fi nonetheless. Thanks again, Ting. I really thought it was the Ray Bradbury (which Sir Marquez confiscated) you were going to lend me. I love Ray too.

From the library I have two books: A Book of American Literature and Black Southern Voices. They're both a collection of America's canons. I'm doing a paper about it for Tita Edna, for which she would pay me P1000---but she's underpricing. That's the problem with relatives. You can't haggle. But I love the work, anyway. I (duh) love to read and write.

And there's also The Great Political Thinkers by Ebenstein & Ebenstein. It's an extended and more detailed version of Sophie's World, minus the story about Sophie and the Philosopher. Really geeky but interesting. It's about the political ideas that defined our history, defines our present, and will define our future. It's our textbook for SocSci 2. Miracle I bought it, as it costs a considerable lot.

Argh. Really frustrating. I have a lot of books in line. Mishee will lend me Neil Gaiman's The Sandman (is that the complete title? Betch, correct me). But I can't do what I want because of Tita Edna's comission and other various school stuff. Exams are coming up. Grittingmyteeths.

By the way, I hope I get accepted by UP Panitikan. Finally, an org I like. But we'll see.

Blast My Eardrums Off

I’ve been heavily dependent on music lately. The accepted notion of ‘coffee’ (of which variations are not so variated if you ask my tongue) has the effect of an alcoholic beverage on me. It makes my planet tilt upside down, it makes my chest heat up---coffee makes me tipsy. My idea of coffee is about a pinch of it with a tablespoon of sugar in a cup of hot water. The world doesn’t seem to agree.

Ergo, coffee cannot be with me when I want to think things out alone.

Food is a nice companion, though. It fills me up with euphoria, various feelings the world is selfish to give. Sugar, spice, everything not necessarily nice. They land in my gullet and convince me that I am not deprived. However, non-deprivation has certain lows. What? Weight gain.

Ergo, food cannot be with me when I want to have a measure of self-confidence and kill frustration.

Drugs seem fine. Nicotine and alcohol may take me away from this craphole for a while. But there’s a problem with the sentence: the ‘a while’ part. Withdrawal syndrome will just make the craphole deeper and before I know it, even drugs couldn’t fly me out.

Ergo, drugs couldn’t give me a measure of permanence and stability.

That’s why I just blast my eardrums off. With my music I can think and concentrate. With my music I become inspired to believe in the impossible. When the people I trust and love betray and eventually leave me, my music will remain. I don’t have to feed it bits of devotion and concern, bits that drain me for the effort. I don’t have to love it or trust it. I don’t have to be there for it. When I’m sick of it all, I just blast my eardrums off. End of story.

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P.S. to me: this post is 40% cliche. hello, you must have something better to say than 'with my music I become inspired to believe in the impossible'. you make me retch. please do something about it, dear, you sound dreadfully pathetic. before you know it you'll be saying something like: Fifi has the best fashion sense ever. my god. save me from the indemnity.

love, myself

Clutter

I have a problem with throwing stuff away. My closet is full of clothes and paper I’ve had since Grade 1. Buried under my bed (which I’ve slept on ever since I was born) is more clutter I’ve hoarded over the years. Well, I don’t know. I’m proud of the fact that I have a poor memory, but I can remember where all my stuff came from. Memories are not material; they fly away from me, chained, but out of sight. Letters, clothes, books, myriad bric-a-bracs…they are concrete and real.
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It was Arcie’s despedida yesterday. A lot of our batch mates turned up for it, even the so-called ‘rare ones’ who are picky about what get-togethers to attend. Especially Ivan, who didn’t attend the fourth year retreat at Tagaytay, and after graduation (if he did attend it) have not been sighted but occasionally (like a long-haired, glossy-maned Lochness monster). Ivan is Arcie’s good friend. The first contact I’ve had with him would be a debate on the ethics of genetic modification when we were in third year. Even I picked that fight up.

I will miss Arcie. Everyone called him aso because he owns these askals who eventually die early. I think his current dog is also dying. From anemia. Large fleas have taken too much blood from it, so Arcie says. I remember asking him once how he can think up so many names for so many dogs so fast, them dying early. He said that ‘pag itim, Blackie. Pag puti, Whitie. Pag brown, Brownie’. I raised my eyebrows, ‘what if the dog is not monochromatic?’ He quipped: the dominant color would be the name.

Oo nga naman.

I remember this Saturday, the day before the prom. His Unrequited Love’s birthday is on Sunday, prom day, and he wanted to buy a gift for her. I called him up, to ask about the video for the Class Prophecy, and we ended up agreeing to meet up at the mall to get The Gift. Ivan was with us. I suggested a nice funny shirt. Ivan said it wasn’t romantic. Snort. Let’s talk about romantic, Ivan, some day. So we went to the second floor and we saw a stall selling ceramic figurines. Arcie didn’t want to be too cheap, so he snubbed the small stuff. We spotted a large hulk with mermaids on it, Arcie asked me if it was nice, I was sulking (I wanted to get a nice funny shirt) but I said yes. The ‘figurine’ was actually very pretty. We left the stall with an ugly carton box the size of two size-ten shoeboxes.

I ended wrapping the thing up with a Cinderella-motif wrapping paper. The guy didn’t even have the gall to have scissors in the house so I suffered biting the tape and tearing the paper. On prom day, Unrequited Love was espied carrying a big, pink box the size of two size-ten shoeboxes. Arcie was happy.

I will miss him. I can say that he’s one of my closest friends, that he’s a great listener and gives good advice…but no description can ever tell you what he’s like. Blah. This is getting mooshy. I can tell you all the funniest anecdotes, his life story, his love-life. We’ve been busmates and classmates since forever. He is a part of my life.
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I’m contradicting myself. I said I have a poor memory.

But…people can either be a part of your life or just pass you by after a momentary eclipse of circles. The ones who pass by, they become memories. They may fade away, eventually. Sometimes though, there will be remarkable people and you will share your life with them. By those two qualifications, I think, they become something concrete and real. They become material. Everything you’ve shared with them becomes something solid. They become clutter, perhaps, in the closet inside your head, but you can never throw them away. Not for years, not for decades, not for a century.

Back to (a semblance of) Normal

What is normal?

I think I’ve lost my, erm, touch. It took me 3 whole hours to do a 5-page reaction paper about the American foreign policy. Given that the whole thing is supposed to be double-spaced, I technically just have to put in two and a half pages. And yet, it took me three whole hours to say this at the end:

As of the moment, though, I tend to see everything as hopeless. I am inclined to believe that everything will simply get worse. It’s all a never-ending cycle of love and hate, and faceless policemen are spinning the wheel, laughing like hyenas and spitting on my face.

There’s also a 3-page paper for SocSci. It took me a substantial time of staring at the monitor to realize that I have no point to make. I tried relating the stuff to George Orwell’s 1984, but my argument all goes haywire. I have nothing to say. Maybe tomorrow (in the classic manana habit) I will.

I dunno, maybe all this babble will take your mind off the past few days. No? Of course, not. I don’t think there’s anything I can say to make you feel good about my decision. I’m not even asking you to try. If I finally realize that I’ve made the worst mistake of my life, there’s only one thing I’ll ask you to not do: poke me in the eye and tell me ‘I told you so’. I know that I’m taking an enormous leap of faith in deciding to forgive him. I won’t ask you to leap with me. I won’t ask you to stand by me or even catch me when I finally fall.

Just…don’t tell me ‘I told you so’. Believe me, I’m going to receive enough abuse from myself and I wouldn’t be needing yours, thank you.

If, however, I realize that I’ve just made the best mistake of my life, don’t look so glum. I won’t, in all due charity, tell you that you were wrong. Let’s all love and respect each other, shall we?

Punchline

"Libby-ah, do you know what loyalty is?"

"What?"

"It's like this. If you ask someone to cut off his hand to save you from flying off with the roof, he immediately cuts off both hands to show he is more than glad to do so."

"Oh."

-from The Hundred Secret Senses by Amy Tan

Betrayal

I know that you didn’t tell me because you had a good reason. But I hope that maybe, you considered a bit about this incident, the time when he cheated on you, remember? All of your other friends believed that not telling you was the best for you, the least painful, because of course, it salvages a bit of your pride if the sinner himself told you. And what did I do? I sat you down and told you. You cried. You were hurt. There was this pain in your chest. I was there. I protected you from the cats of Oble.

You were giving me hints all the time. I defended him every time. What did it feel like? If you weren’t laughing behind my back, maybe you’re shaking your head: poor misguided soul, I am. Too idealistic, too trusting, too stupid. How do you think would you feel if I didn’t tell you, then? Everyone would be shaking their heads too. You would have been the fool. But I couldn’t make you that, can I.

And you. You’re too nice. Even though you knew all about this business, you shut your mouth. You had the same reason as our other friend here, that it’s better if he himself was the one to tell me. You hung out with us. You agreed with everything I said. You laughed with him, you cried with him, you tried to understand him. Unlike out other friend, who moved away and swore that nothing will be the same with him again.

Both of you. Would you believe it, I understand you. I find your reasoning highly rational. You were only thinking about what’s good for me, because I am your friend and we’ve been through everything together. Thank you for caring so much. But do you know, I understand, I really do.

But I’m hurt. You knew I was being stupid and you just let it be. You watched me be his champion. You watched me while I still fussed over him. Again I ask: what did it feel like? How was the painful never-ending scene of my humiliation? Was it funny, to some extent?

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to say that…I do understand both of you. You were just out for me, nothing less. I’m sorry that I am an ungrateful little wretch.

And you. You.

I believed so much in you. I thought you were different. I thought that…fuck. No more. Suffice it to say that you’re a fake. I don’t think I can forgive you. I don’t know what I did wrong to get this shit from you. I don’t know why you have to do this to me. I always thought that if there was any reason for us to break off (like a pathetic piece of aimless driftwood), the reason would come from me. Hell no. And the funny thing is, you cheating on me, you’re blaming it all on genetics. Holy carabao shit. Genetics.

Where’s the punch line, I wonder.

Wait for a few days, and you’ll really hear the most hilarious punch line of my life.

Burnt-Out

There’s something worse than being sad or angry. It’s the point where you just don’t care anymore, when everything ceases to mean anything because they just don’t. It’s this feeling of searing frustration coupled with cold apathy. It’s being tired.

I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to believe in you. I’m tired of trying to figure out of your many lies, the truth. I’m tired of having to beg for your time all the time. I’ve told my friends that to be able to have any semblance of a relationship with you, I have to have blind faith, high tolerance, and low pride. Guess what. They’re running out.

It takes more effort to walk around a straight road with your eyes closed than to walk around a potholed path with your eyes open. It’s the same with blind faith. I’m sick of pretending to believe your excuses, of listening to things you say you’d do but forget anyway. I seem to have lost the talent of believing in you, and us.

I can always ignore you not coming to classes, being ‘burnt-out’ with this whole going-to-school thing. But I can’t ignore that you’re also burnt-out with this relationship. You’re really lucky that I have bad memory, do you know that. But you remind me all the time. Tolerance can only go so far.

Low pride…without blind faith and high tolerance, I can’t forget my pride. I’m sick. I’m tired. I can’t bow down anymore, forgive, forget. Anymore.

What now? Maybe it’s time to let go for a while. This shit between us doesn’t seem to be working well lately. There’s no sense trying for what used to be and what should be if we don’t really know what we want to do.

What do you think?

But of course you don’t read my blog anymore. Haha. You’re ‘burnt-out’. Tired, just like me.