Tuesday, October 31, 2006

When You Were Young, Mr. Brightside

When I first met Holden Caulfield, which was the summer before my second year in high school, I hated him. He was too erratic, too punk, too alien for my taste. I just threw the book down the bed and wondered why these punk guys just don’t live normal. I was straight then—ears chock full of OPM, in plain jeans, plain shirts, and classic curly hair. Dammit, I didn’t even cuss.

I came across David Copperfield about the same time as Caulfield. Now, David was sensible. He lived a straightforward life—he studied well, worked at a comfortable career, got a beautiful wife, bred kids—the works. He was what I wanted to be. Okay, that in itself is weird, which would smudge the claim that I was ‘straight then’. I mean, what 14-year old idiot would want to be David Copperfield when the rest of the 14-year old world wanted to be Holden Caulfield?


Besides pointing out that terrible fact, that I was an idiot even at 14, I would like to emphasize an ever more upsetting (amusing?) fact. After four years, in college and all, I still want to be an idiot. When the rest of the 18-year old world is plotting on how to become the next David Copperfield, I now want to become Holden Caulfield.

That’s hilarious! Really, I’m laughing my head off. These shenanigans remind me of a poem by A.E. Houseman:

Oh, When I Was In Love with You

Oh, when I was in love with you
Then I was clean and brave.
And miles around the wonder grew,
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by;
And nothing will remain.
And miles around they say that I
Am quite myself again.

Shit, the world is inverted don’t you think? Or is it just my own customized world we’re talking about, maybe. I have my fancies, and quite a lot of them (if I do say so myself). I don’t know which is fancy, and which is love—sometimes.

I was so sure then! I knew what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do. Well, I still know, but I’m not so sure these days. I’m not talking about romantic love per se. It’s just now that I’m wanting to be Holden Caulfield, I’ve got to change my plans. Maybe allow for an office which would let in a punk in fishnets and purple nails.

Now is this punk thing just a passing fancy? And who am I really, a Lizette slash David Copperfield or a Liz slash Holden Caulfield? Oh, humour me honey. I’ve got to indulge in idle thinking such as this at least once a year.

Friday, October 27, 2006

The Clouds Are Taking A Piss (On Me)

It's raining. The rest of the world is covered in a dreary sepia, a half-light bright enough to see in and dark enough to see back. Just the kind of weather to make you think things you'd rather not.

Impunity. I have dealt with my life right now in impunity. The rain seems to be mocking me, pissing on my roof, and laughing its pattering laugh. It doesn't even have the decency to stop a while and take a breather. Figures of speech will not forgive me.

A song: I'm dancing with myself, I'm dancing with myself, when there's nothing to lose and there's nothing to prove, then I'll be dancing with myself.

Now look, Lizette. Look at what you've done.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Arthur Dent Minus The Punk

Tad William's Otherland, iced tea, and punk gunk---the planets of my galaxy for the last 10 hours and 38 minutes. Someone notice my thumb, please, and hitchhike me out of here.

Er, let me ask my mum first.

Sembreaks. Throwshandsuptotheair.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Brother Dear

I’ve always believed that my brother is the most moronic person I know. He’s been my brother for sixteen years, and any hope of us being lovingly devoted to each other has been dashed since the day he said that Patrick (from the sitcom Jake In Progress) is not gay.

Patrick is gay, okay.

There have been other differences of opinion. The most common would be the dish washing schedules. Just last Sunday, the household witnessed a siege; a No One Will Wash The Dishes If You Don’t Because I Won’t siege. The siege ran thus: I have been washing the dishes for a week since it is (I bleed) sembreak. The only time my dear brother has the time to wash the dishes would be during weekends. This weekend, he washed the dishes only once. I demanded that he wash again. He invoked the ancient rule of Ye Who Washed Shall Not Wash Again---meaning, he will not wash the dishes until after my turn. Well, he was right, but certainly the rule must have exemptions! I’ve been doing mindless drudgery for a week now!

To make the story short, we both refused to do the chore. I whined to my mum. She threw a tantrum. My mother likes throwing tantrums lately whenever someone complains to her about house chores, but that’s another story. To say the least, mum was not very helpful as she gave a long winding sermon about responsibility and how frightfully easy it is, in the first place, to wash the goddamned dishes! I retorted by saying that it’s a matter of principle. No one should get away with doing nothing all day, especially when that certain someone successfully decreases the food supply.

The equal division of the pantry is also a sore point between my brother and I. I’m trying to lose weight, but does it mean that he has the right to steal my Butterfingers? No. Like I said, it’s a matter of principle.

Anyway, back to washing dishes. He refused to and I refused to and in the end I washed them Monday morning. I can’t bear staying in a house full of unwashed dishes. Bad vibes. When my brother came home, he sneered at the clean, dishless sink, and asked who washed it. My disintegrated pride and honor forced me into a sullen silence.

Most times, my brother says things he knows I will disagree with. Like the other day, we were watching the news and he commented about Philippine politics. In verbatim: “ang bobobo talaga ng mga Pilipino, dapat talaga umalis na lang tayo lahat sa Pilipinas eh!” in that loud, booming, annoying voice of his. The first few times he made such a statement, I argued. Later on, I just shut up. I’m not entirely sure now whether he actually believes that statement. But, the entity above forbid, I hope not. I’d find it hard to associate myself with someone who has such a dumb opinion of his own race.

He also enjoys dissing UP, my cooking, and my clothes. He likes, no, loves doing anything that he knows would piss me off, especially when he is bored. When people step on your feet, they don’t always step on your bunions. The problem with siblings is that they know exactly where your bunions are, and all the other gory details like what they look and even what they smell like.

Sometimes I get tired of the whole thing. He’s acting like a kid, and I’m an adult. Most days I’d just ignore him, but with someone who keeps annoying the hell out of you, that’s a really difficult thing to do. Growing up with my dear, bratty brother is one of the more difficult trials of my life. He has made me cry more than the Spouse Equivalent managed. It is really unfair when my mum decided to shackle me up with that pain-in-the-ass of a brother for the rest of my life.

What, you were expecting a mushy ending about how I love him besides all his faults? Screw you. I love him, but I won’t say it in a mushy way.

Really. Really Bored.

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Nothing to do at home? Whip out your camera and satisfy your narcissistic urges! (if you haven't already). Sembreak can only do so much. And one can only do so much during sembreak.

Monday, October 23, 2006

What The!

It is easy to want to be this or that, but it remains to be seen whether we have the power to change into what we would like to be. If such power be lacking, then our pretensions cannot appear otherwise than ridiculous and futile.

-From the short story A Character in Distress by Luigi Pirandello (1857-1956)

It couldn’t be said better than this. There are nasty names for that those whom Pirandello pertains to; ‘pretentious’ is such a nice adjective compared to them. Posers, nag-feefeeling, epal—after taking that risk of having the world’s collective eyebrow raised against you, you realize, too late, that that acid green shirt makes you look pathetic.

Check a mall. Any mall. The average Filipino wears a pair of jeans and a printed shirt. Sometimes, though, we find special people whom the entity above has forgotten to gift with the sense of fashion---heck, even propriety! You can’t have possibly missed that mini-skirted, massively thighed creature strutting a little ahead of you. Or were you looking at that fat guy wearing a muscle shirt? Ooh, first one who finds a peeking panty wins a prize!

Do I sound mean? Hell, I always sound mean. And I don’t just sound mean, I am mean. And you know what, I’m not the only mean person on this benighted planet. If you know what’s good for you, please don’t do ridiculous things. It hurts. It hurts you know.

But what if you don’t know what’s good for you? Well yeah, you might feel cool and not know that you’re not. But really. I refuse to believe that you are that stupid. It’s not that hard to take a look inside yourself, you’re always with yourself anyway. What I’m trying to say is that: can you live up to the challenge of breaking away from the stereotype? What challenge? The challenge of a coldly critical society judging you, first and foremost, from the clothes you wear. You don’t have to say or do anything yet; just wear something stupid, and you’re a dead giveaway.

This is not a treatise on fashion. If you want one, get a magazine.

Sunday, October 22, 2006


One day, Spongebob lost his identity. Everything he ever was, is, and could be is stuck in a tiny repository, which is none other than his Krusty Krab name tag. His name tag is a solid thing, something which can be misplaced, say, in a garbage dump or in the oven. And he did misplace it. But sometimes, we find the things we lost—especially if they’re material in the first place. And an identity?

No one can see, touch, taste, hear, or smell an identity. What happens when you’re not Spongebob and you lost yours?

In college, you can be anyone. No one knows you well enough to cook up unreasonable expectations of who you should and shouldn’t be. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, anyway, not the things that matter so much to you to prove. In a setting like that, what stops you from losing sight of who you really are, and which things really matter to you? It’s a big world. You can be someone, no one, anyone, even nothing—but you can’t always be you.

I guess most of us had or is having an identity crisis. I’ve had mine. Of course it was tough, but like Spongebob, a part of who I am is stuck on something more solid and hard to lose than a name tag. I am stuck on (and I can’t believe I haven’t figured this out earlier) Obzite.

With my high school batch mates, I am who I’ve been for the first 16 years of my existence. Everything is strictly defined. So who cares if I listen to punk now and wear black stockings to school? I’ll always be the Weird one (well, yeah, I’m still weird in school or out of it, but weirdness has varying degrees—I’m weirdly normal in UP, and normally weird with Obzite), the sentimental Gitarista, the Honor Student. Which leads me to propound a theory: after two years, our batch is still close because it gives us a chance to get back to the identity we misplaced once we stepped into college.

Do you understand the lure? Many of us were itching to break away from the strict stereotypes which defined us ever since we were in Senior Prep. And who wouldn’t be? Then the time for college came. Liberation! It even rhymed with graduation. After it, some of my batch mates never did show up for any gathering, even the major ones like debuts. They did break away, and for some reason or other do not have any inclination to go back.

However, most of us did go back. We step into the foreign halls of our colleges and morph into something unrecognizable. We step into Obzite and morph back into the familiar.

Sometimes, you’d be surprised why you didn’t look behind in the first place.

If you’ve watched the episode, Spongebob found his identity stuck behind his shirt.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

“Naked Boy Pissing On Cat”, ∞cm x ∞cm, reality on blog

Reading disturbing books might offend your intellectual perception of the world; witnessing disturbing scenes, however, definitely offends my five senses. Which scene? Read the title miss, mister, misser. It’s something Betch would definitely love.

The past few days have been…darn it, I don’t know what to say about them. So I won’t say anything about them. Though I know you want me to.

Gah. I don’t feel like blogging at all. I’ll get back to you when I’m fixed up. Er, rather, when internet in the house is fixed up. Oh, someone wants to sell me a plug and play modem for only three pesos and a plate of spaghetti. Blink. Blink. BLINK.

And, PS---the dresses at this bedamned mall are finally fitting me! Thanks to a flash flood and the ensuing five days of noodles. The result: 102 lbs.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Now what can i possibly say that would possibly mean something to you?

i can go about it the Reader's Digest way. or the Holden Caulfield way. or maybe the David Copperfield way. whichever the case is, our house was flash flooded about five feet, and i had to swim to save my dogs. life is still not normal.

what, do i sound angry and traumatized? nah, im just in an internet cafe and i can't make my creative juices work. not yet. oh, there was a debut last Saturday, and i slept off most of it. it's been a long week, after all. what followed was a hamburger and a bottle of C2, but you don't really have to know that story, eh? no.

and oh. i can spew off p's and q's, but you'll never really change. i'm tired of your antics most days, but i love you. ha. zip it. someone told me i'm being stupid, and that's a really smart thing to say. now why can't i throw off a witty conclusion for this paragraph?

i'm swept away.