Plans

A couple of weeks ago, I had planned to attend the International Coastal Cleanup event in Anilao.  I am not a certified diver, and I could just imagine the divers among us urbanites flocking south of the city, doing a good deed to the environment, and then get drunk later in the evening.  It was something that I SHOULD attend although I would most likely end up doing most of the actual coastal cleaning as divers are usually, well, underwater.

However, a few days before the event, I was told that the family was quite planning to go to Tagaytay on Sunday (today); as we are to celebrate my grandmother's seventh death anniversary and my grandfather's "forty days" in a week or so, my aunts wanted to revive the tradition we sort of had when we lost my grandmother: attend mass at the Caleruega chapel and then spend some time at the Pink Sisters convent.

So see, I was faced with a dilemma: coastal cleanup weekend on the beach with urbanites (and as I am technically still "on the market" you throw something at the universe and have it conspire with you, if you know what I mean) or a Sunday driving with the family to Tagaytay for practically a whole day of praying?  Very, very tough choice.

Although I did consider the option of spending the Saturday in Anilao, I thought it would be bogus; of course I would love to stay and party.  And get drunk.  Whatever.  But that option got blurry in my head as I spent the entire Friday recovering from a hangover (as Thursday was a night of sangria, some lemony drink and a bottle of red), so yeah, when I woke up Saturday, it was too late to go to Anilao.  I had no other choice but to drag myself to the airport, pick up my sister and her friend, and the drive up north to my parents'. 

And so I did spend most of my Sunday in a pretty religious, Catholic realm.  With tons of driving.

See, my family's not really religious; on the outside we probably look like heathens.  Although my siblings and cousins were sent to Catholic schools, my family never really went to church.  It was standard-issued, cafeteria Catholicism.  But I knew my grandmother prayed, and an aunt liked going to church, and my mother prayed to the Virgin a lot.  But I don't remember being forced to pray or go to mass.  The men in our the family are not religious at all.  I consider myself as more on a spiritual path than religious --- I mean, hell, I was interested in wicca, fascinated with Eastern religion, I subscribe to a regular Kabbalah mailer, and I like to believe that I have some supernatural ancestry (mwahahahaha).  At the same time, I've always loved science; I like evidence and logic.  But anyway, I am not going to launch into another religion vs science debates --- the POINT is, I am so lucky to have a family that has given me the liberty to choose how to express my faith.

But anyway, this interesting turn in my family's, say, tradition started with the death of my grandmother about seven years ago.  For a few months we visited Caleruega and the Pink Sisters.  And then afterwards it kinda waned; we went back to the "religion is personal" mode.  We didn't do anything exotic, we just went to mass and embraced some praying tradition after the death of a family member.  When my grandfather died recently, somehow the need to go back to Tagaytay was felt; other than praying for his soul, what else was there?

Like in my previous post I think it has something to do with feeling orphaned; my grandparents are no longer the head of our young clan.  This is about family ties, it is about keeping everyone together in the midst of loss and the inevitable feeling of uncertainty. Sunday was not just about going to church and praying; it's time spent with each other in an environment that magnifies the being.  As everyone's praying around me anyways, I placed my prayers as well: I found it surprising that half the time I was praying for my my family.  Of course I had the usual litany of prayers (haha), but I really prayed for the people who mean a lot to me, my family and my friends.  I realize that the need to pray for them is due to the fact that at the end of the day, their lives are not really in my hands.  I do not have any control what will happen to them, and what their decisions are going to be.  I just prayed for their happiness and well-being, and I did pray that I did not want to lose them although they're not really "mine".

The homily in this morning's mass in Caleruega emphasized the meaning of plans, and how a person may live each and every day.  The priest highlighted the three ways: living your life according to the will of other; according to your own will; and according to your addictions.  Evidently, none of them are the perfect means, but the priest pointed out that it is important to find the meaning in the things that happen to you, to the people around you, to the world.  It is therefore important to manifest what you want to happen, but you need to see beyond what is manifested.  It is inevitable for us to avoid living Number 1 as we have to live with people, Number 2 is too selfish, and  Number 3 may be a disease.

In the days leading to this Sunday, let's say my Number 2 was to go to the coastal clean-up; but a Number 1 came up, and I thought of working around to still achieve Number 2.  However, Number 3 happened (drunken Thursday and Hangover Friday --- my choice anyways), which led to, well --- conceding to Number 1.  And so I found myself praying for most of Sunday.

It was something I didn't really plan, but I think it wasn't so bad.  I surprisingly found my focus.  I guess I found a sense of quiet today that I can't normally find in my apartment, even though I live in it alone.

Male Bonding

A few minutes ago, I smelled the freshly squeezed calamansi juice that my father was making for his bedtime tea.  I looked up from where I was sitting and asked if there were any calamansi left.  He told me that there were enough, and implied that if I wanted some I should get off my ass and make a cup for myself.

As I started to slice the fruit I casually asked if he had any small strainer ready; he said no.  He said I should fish out the seeds using a teaspoon.  I then continued slicing, and then he handed me a teaspoon, interrupting his own masterpiece.  He then noted how I was slicing the calamansi; he mentioned something about how to properly do it, which was his way, of course.

I started squeezing and then scooping the seeds out.  He handed me a small jar of honey; he told me to use it.  As he started dipping an herbal teabag, in and out, bouncing up and down the elixir, he said that I should put in some teabags because it would make the concoction delicious.  I went to the thermos for some hot water, and then he called out and said that he had some freshly-boiled water ready; as I am not very much familiar with my parents' kitchen I turned and looked like I was caught in a hazy maze.  He pointed at one corner; apparently, he used the coffee pot to boil the water.  I then poured some water, put the pot back, and started going through the cupboard for some teabag.  He hissed that he already had something ready for me.  Like a little girl I took the teabag from him, ripped it open, and started dipping, in and out, bouncing up and down.

As I was clearly finished with the ceremony --- which he was watching as he sipped his tea, standing up --- he told me how I should secure the teabag by wrapping its end around the mug holder.

Although my dad and I fight sometimes as he is a terrible (and sexist) backseat driver and like many men he always insists that he is always right, I found that supposed-annoying instance comforting and thought that I simply missed being a just a child, that I will always be somebody's daughter.

Independence

After my grandfather passed away about two weeks ago in which an almost week-long wake followed, I somehow found myself "stuck" at my parents' house.  I guess the string of events would generally ease me into this state of quite refusing to go back to my apartment; likely reasons are as follows:

1) After the funeral on Friday I went to a reunion Saturday night, and then by Sunday it was already the pasiyam.  I got lazy driving back to Manila when I had the chance, say, by Monday.

2) I was overwhelmed with the fact that I did not work for more than seven days, and those days were not spent on some exotic holiday but in grief and in the freezing funeral home.  The state of overwhelm somehow led to, uh, a suspension of disbelief, as how a favorite phrase from college goes.

3) I feared my grandfather would show up in my apartment (whooo).

Anyways, after more than a week of disconnect I finally decided to go back to my humble abode.  I have to admit, a significant reason I did not want to go back was that my apartment was a huge mess; I had not cleaned it for at least two weeks due to my absence.  It was a good decision to give my parents' househelp additional income by contracting her to do a major clean-up.  So right now, I am sitting in an apartment that smells of Pledge, Lysol, and *sniff*sniff* another Pledge product.

Being here, being now, I am then again  in this niche of being "independent".

This thought somehow occurred to me: what is my issue with independence?  I think I was merely in the double digits when I was already told that I was an independent kid.  I was probably ten and I was already independent.  I am trying to remember now how I got to be this thing, this state which supposedly-admirable women are supposed to characterize.  I had a pretty strong personality as a kid, and I liked to learn on my own (with some constant nudging from my grandmother) --- independence.  As early as grade school I was so curious about a lot of things that I learned stuff from my aunt's Mills and Boon collection and (gasp) Anais Nin's Delta of Venus --- independence.  No, scratch that, that was not independence, that was going through other people's stuff and accidentally reading erotica.

Hmm.

Somehow I reached the point in which I sensed that being independent was not admirable at all, it was a liability.  It made me feel quite isolated.  Sure, I do like to do things on my own, that I can and have travelled alone (and I will, still), and at the moment I live alone.  Because of these things, I surprisingly amaze people.  Yes, I live alone (ooohh), yes I have done Southeast Asia mostly alone (ooohh), and yes I usually feel guilty every time I hear Destiny's Child's "Independent Women" (hah).  But are these things being independent, really?

When I moved out I was expecting some form of freedom to the degree of a Sex and the City episode: lunching with the girls, having DVD marathons, throwing a dinner party, etc.  Yes, this entire "living alone" thing has highlighted this thing called independence.  I pay my bills, I pay the rent, I cook for myself, the works.  I laugh on my own whilst watching TMZ, and I get lonely alone too (haha).  Independence.

Spending all these days at my parents', playing with my nephew, annoying my sister and my mother, and having someone cook for me and wash my clothes made me think that at the end of the day, that was what I wanted: to be with someone, to be with family.  I did think that if what I really wanted was company and family, then why the hell did I move out in the first place?!!

Tricky, huh.

As I drove away from my parents' house, and exited and entered the freeway, I thought of my grandfather; see, he and my grandmother generally raised me.  I grew up in their house in Manila.  I slept between them when I was a child.  My grandmother made sure I did my homework, and my grandfather made sure I would laugh at his jokes and his attempts to entertain me.  My grandmother passed away when I was 23, and recently, my grandfather was gone.  When I moved out of their house my lolo was almost bedridden.  For several months he was starting to fade, he lost his senses, he lost his sight.  I could no longer talk to him, and every time I visited it would truly broke my heart to see him.

I think somehow I finally felt that the child in me, that kid who would become me, was now an orphan.  And to be honest, those years are my favorite years so far.

I stayed at my parents' because it made me feel like I was somebody's daughter, somebody's sister, and somebody's aunt.  I needed to make sense of my independence especially I am in this critical stage of transitioning.  I moved out not because I wanted freedom; fortunately I've always had that.  I moved out because I wanted to build a relationship with myself.  This is not just an experiment; this is the life I am choosing to have, right now.  Even though I do want to have my own family, and to be with company and such, at the moment I just want to be somebody to myself.  And yes, to quote Bridget Fonda's character in Cameron Crowe's Singles: "Being alone... there is a certain dignity to it".

I think losing my grandfather --- and my grandmother --- has made me realize that I am an adult now, and that it is my time, it is going to be my era, it is now my turn.  I am independent not because I moved out, or I have a strong personality, or I can do things alone.  I am independent because I am embracing the process of fleshing out who I am from a long line of history, of roots, of relationships, of dependence.

On Crooner-ing Again

It was a good decision that I attended UP Red Cross Youth's 18th anniversary gathering.  I was having second thoughts to go as I had buried my beloved grandfather the day before, but as lolo would probably say (though not really in his words, haha), Go lang ng go.  Or as how he and my grandmother used to tell me annoyingly every time I bugged them I wanted to get out of the house: Hay, umalis ka na nga.  My family didn't frown on my decision to go to a party after a sad event as they, including my lolo, knew that UP RCY was family for me.


I honestly found the entire thing a bit... strange.  I used to hang out a lot with these people, and I meant A LOT.  UPRCY took up most of my college years.  The org was essential in my character building as, I have to admit, UPRCY enabled the adventurous and lakwatsera in me.  This is not to say I wasn't those things before I joined the org, but as they say, it's a meeting of kindred spirits.  Prior to RCY I was a member of AIESEC (partying) and UP Quill (artsy folks) which I thought would generally represent who I was, but it was in this org, which I initially thought were populated with geeks who practice first aid during their free time, that I experienced some of my very best years.


And of course, it was through UPRCY where I met many of my closest friends, and those I shared certain bonds with that couldn't be easily destroyed by time.


The thing with the gathering last Saturday was that the old generation Crooners were requested to perform.  See, UPRCY had this, er, glee club which generally performs during the holidays for fundraising purposes.  I own up to naming the group Crooners (I was Project Coordinator of the group for a semester and had to "sell" ourselves), and Crooners practice and performances were always the main highlight of the year.  I was among the altos along with... oh, maybe four other girls?  I remember Leah and Ayo in our small group, and I think Thessa, Liz and Rica were sopranos.  Evy was probably an alto.  Anyway, we had the best fun.  El, who was among the leaders of the group, would arrange a small spot in an engineering building extension (?) beside the Melchor Hall where we would have our practice until 9PM.


At that time I had no problem singing.  I sang a lot.  I sang while drawing and drafting my plates for architecture class.  I think I even sang whilst solving those annoying engineering science problem sets.  I thought I had a pretty decent voice.  I sang along with my Tori Amos, Tuck and Patti, and Everything But the Girl cassette tapes (how ancient).  See, I had no problem singing.


When the Crooners had a very brief meeting during the event last Saturday, and I was handed the piece we sang a lot outside our Christmas carols ("Minsan Lang Kitang Iibigin"), I was suddenly flooded with fear.  I couldn't remember how to sing.


I had been trying, all these years, to sing again.  I don't want to be dramatic, but really, I somehow lost my voice.  Maybe because I just stopped singing.  I don't think cigarettes have to be blamed anyways as I only smoke occasionally and I smoked A LOT back in college.  Singing was one of those things I used to do, and oddly enough, I really can't remember when I just stopped.  I can't even remember a single song that I can sing in full.


Singing with the Crooners again became a reminder and proof.  I can still sing, somehow.  Maybe it takes good company to sing with, no?  And the good years to get the voice going.  The performance was not perfect, and there were only few Crooners who showed up, but we managed and, hell yeah, we sounded good.  To be honest, if the teasing stops and becomes a serious discussion of having the group form again for some small gigs (I am talking about fundraising and caroling, mind you), I think I am going to say yes.  Why not?  It's the good things that need to be revived.

And then the Bride Slapped the Groom

Note: Wrote this back in 10 July 2008 on Facebook's Slates application.


Years ago, I was an active blogger.  Truth be told, some people may think that what I blogged about was total nonsense.  There were days I was incredibly cryptic that Haruki Murakami may even end up scratching his head trying to decipher between the hints, and there were those days I sounded like Bridget Jones on paper.  Of course there were the days I was angst-ridden, the days I was paranoid, the days I was quoting left, right and center, and days of pure honesty.  It was nonsense, but I was vulnerable, very much NOT in a victimized manner.

There were also the years that I actually made friends with those I found online, or those, say, who "friended" me.

I just stopped writing.  I don't know.  I guess in the past months --- or say last year --- I had this need to keep to myself.  Or not to be bothered too much with my online persona (though frankly, such persona can be considered pretty transparent).  I probably got sick and tired of myself, blogging almost the same things, which, when you really think about it, further proves we are who we are. However, I probably stopped because I wanted to experiment with this thing I read in some guy's blog a few years ago, that when someone stops blogging, he/she found someone.  Or putting it in another context, if someone starts to disappear from your life, he/she found someoneelse.  Tee-hee.  So yeah, I figured, if I stopped blogging, the someone will come.

The point is, as based on this experiment, I therefore conclude that whether you stop or continue bogging, someone will come, and someone will leave.  Eventually and finally, someone will stay.  The world keeps turning.

Well, in this entry I want to write about this blog buddy I met years ago via my old blog.  She's older than me, but those few years ago, when we were obviously younger, we were giggling like girls, dropping comments about what she dubbed as the Vespa Seduction Plan (because she had a Vespa then and there was someone to seduce) and the creation of a Shag Map.  She also checked on me when I met this ... okay, I am NOT going to mention that, haha.

Anyway, since I stopped blogging, I didn't hear any news from her for months.  And since I suddenly had this impulse to visit my old blog, I suddenly wanted to know how she's been.  And she's married.

Of course I am aware of their love story, which is a blogging kind too (meaning they met via blogs.  Dammit, maybe I should start blogging again?).  And I knew that he proposed while they were probably drunk in some pub, and they were to wed.  And they did.  And I just saw some of the wedding photos online in which apparently they pulled some kind of a Britney Spears/Kevin Federline drama where they initially told everyone it was an engagement party since they didn't really have one as they were living in Indonesia (she's a development/aid worker, he's a... I dunno.  Researcher?  Phd candidate?).

Anyway, it seemed like a lovely wedding.  She was wearing this Chinese blouse (as she is) and pants, and he's just wearing this... shirt that nomadic expat guys wear when they're in hot climate (okay, so it's probably widely worn in South Asia by South Asians, haha).  It took place in their home country, Australia, in some botanical garden with a lake, and there was a small band, tents, and their friends wore casual wear.  One guy was wearing skinny purple pants.  The cake was baked by the groom's mother, and it's brown.  Some of them were barefoot.  They had beer and they played cricket afterwards.  It was so informal that she posted a photo where it seemed like she was about to slap her groom.

I like this kind of weddings though unfortunately, I hadn't experienced anything of this set-up.  Everything here is so... grand.  Even those that take place in the provinces.  It's so... formal.  Rehearsed.  Everything needs to look perfect, as my friend pointed out, weddings only happen once.

But isn't a lifetime that people look forward to, not just that single day?

I guess it really is up to taste.  Frankly, my favorite movie weddings took place in Sex and the City --- where Miranda and Steve got married in this small garden in New York which they found whilst walking with the "reception" in this small restaurant, and Carrie and Big in City Hall, and their reception food were pancakes and bacon.  Even my friend Liz would tell me that one day, she'd just surprise me and tell me she's already married.  No fanfare.  Well, maybe afterwards as people here would demand, "You're not even going to hold it in a church?!!!"

The funny thing is, I have this three main set of really dear friends (as probably everyone does) who fall in these stereotypes that evidently also influence my thinking: my high school friends from Catholic school, my friends from UP, and friends I met in various projects and meetings who are mostly artists, actors, filmmakers, writers, environmentalists, backpackers, semi-activists, semi-socialites, etc.  Of course, the high school friends are getting married off; one of them is getting married next week, and I am to wear this pink floor-length gown which I am going to pair with purple heels.  One of them is getting married next year, one of them is almost as good as married, oh, and yeah, two of them are already married, with one now with a kid.  College friends --- we're pretty screwed up, which means we're like the Sex and the City / Bridget Jones women who constantly find ourselves in, say, dysfunctional and questionably romantic situations, and post-college friends ---- a mixture of happily married/engaged/paired off straight and gay couples (in the U.S.), single mothers, and incredible Angelina Jolies still searching for their Brad Pitts.  It's a good life.

Maybe among friends getting hitched seems like a race, which I can prove many times over as between conversations and reunions, there is always that guessing game who is going to get married next (and Liz just told me during our long text conversations that I am notgoing to be next in our small group of friends).  Not that I am complaining (though in my old blog there are those moments I'd constantly complain about it), but I think it's fun to look at such circumstances.  Maybe I am in this race, but I still have questions about the prize, the prize being sharing a great life with the man who is perfect for me.

I just like to think of my friend, her new groom, and their history.  There were seduction plans in this one, alright, but the point is, they both worked hard.  She's found someone to create a shag map and build a vegetable patch with.  Hence, there is the possibility.  I also like to think that it is possible that come wedding days, they can be small and simple that when the bride slaps the groom, there is a private joke in it.

Reflections of a Frustrated Traveler and Nomad

Note: I wrote this back in 10 June 2008 via the Slates application on Facebook.

I just saw this documentary on the National Geographic Channel on a family of nomads/shepherds in Iran (I think it's a part of the "Top 30: Last Chance Journeys" program).  In the documentary, I saw a very fascinating landscape of mountains, rough terrains and trails, fields of poppies, streams and their herd of hundreds of sheep; I didn't really think that Iran would be this beautiful. This family, as led by the father, is about to move north to Kakan from Garmsir since that summer has set in.  The migration will take months and higher altitudes, but despite those, their destination holds their preferred pastures.  Its' their home during the summer, and they make a 180 degree turn before the snow falls.  They travel about 15-20 kilometers per day, on foot and on donkeys.  They worry about robbers on the road who are now equipped with vans and can now steal about 70 sheep.  The landscape is fascinating but it's a tough journey.

I have to admit every time I see such documentaries I feel really envious.  I've seen those who have managed to join Mongolian nomads, those who have lived with fishermen and farmers, and those who have disappeared into their chosen societies, living the life they truly want.  I admit as a city girl, all I can do is travel, and the idea of becoming a part of such journeys and everyday life will be difficult.   As a girl also raised in a society that usually sees a radical sabbatical is irrational, it is also hard to get out of the rat race despite my continuous efforts.

Somehow, I thought of my travels and the treatment I received as a traveler.  Here in the Philippines, I am the girl from Manila.  I don't speak other local languages other than Tagalog.  When I travel I also become the source of income.  I have been ripped off and treated as a tourist.  I was constantly required to hire a guide even though I didn't really need one. When I went to Sagada a few months ago, I was scolded on my way to the Bomod-ok Falls because I managed to get there without a guide and renting a jeepney, just like how the tourists would usually do it.  It's not that I prevent them from earning tourism income, it's that in that instance I did not find it necessary.  After getting scolded at, I encountered a local woman and when she found out that I was from Manila, she accused Manilenos for thinking that the Igorot (the locals of Sagada) have yet to outgrow their tails.  My jaw couldn't resist from dropping in bewilderment.

I also had this interesting realization.  When I traveled in other parts of Asia, I was also treated as a tourist.  In Vietnam I got ripped off by this cyclo operator, in China, you couldn't help but give in to the local tour operators due to the language barrier.  In Bangkok, a tu-tuk driver begged me and a friend to at least feign interest in the wares of the shops where he forced us to make a stop since, apparently, bringing in potential customers meant fuel coupons for them.  I did not have to complain; despite the hassles, I got to visit too many temples in the city for 10 Baht.  Why not.

And then I remember the time I went to Europe.  Now this time it was different.  I was very much left alone.  However, I did get some attention since I was this Asian girl who was lugging two suitcases between stops in the U-Bahn who also did not know how to operate the doors.  The guy behind my favorite grillery would always keep himself from laughing everytime I would order bratwurst mit pommes ... in German.  I also got attention on the Dutch railway when I followed my Dutch friend who put a foot up on the seat across, and the conductor handed me a newspaper to cover the seat I was obviously spoiling.  In Europe, finding myself mostly alone, I was not a tourist.  I merely disappeared and floated over the experience.  A French ground stewardess in Charles de Gaulle refused to speak to me in English when I asked her how to get to the next terminal without suddenly finding myself in a secret passage to Leonardo's supposed secrets at the Louvre.  I was tempted to say, "Are you some kind of moron?  Why the fuck are you working in an international airport --- in a Western European country at that --- if you don't speak English, you French bitch?"  Now that I think about it, I should have said those words.  She wouldn't understand anyways.

At 29, I feel pressed for time.  I haven't seen much of the world.  I want to go to Iran and join for one season the dwindling number of nomadic families traveling north-south-north.  I want to go to Mongolia and live in yurks for a few weeks.  I want to spend time with Korean monks living in isolation in lakes, like that monk in that wonderful Kim Ki Duk film.  I want to understand more the mysteries of the Mayan civilization, the Easter Island, the Galapagos.  I want to pretend to be Gandalf's lost apprentice in New Zealand.  I want to float on the Amazon and try those unheard-of concoctions.  I want to go to Africa and spend time with the children with disease and ailments, I want to volunteer and help the victims of calamity in China and Myanmar.  I want to walk on icebergs and chase the geysers in Iceland.  I want to go to the Wailing Wall and see if I am allowed to wail too.  I want to get high on the poppy fields of Afghanistan, I want to remain calm in that temple in India where rats are gods.  I want to get married in Tibet.

Financial-wise, I need to be incredibly rich in order to do these things.  Despite the fact I earn an income that is, say, pretty decent, I still can't afford to do all these things.  It will take years.  Ironically, my friend, who works as a waitress in an Irish pub Berlin, can afford to spend two months traveling in Asia and chilling in Thailand without that much care in the world.  Global and social realities, man.  No wonder Filipino professionals --- doctors, lawyers, etc. --- study nursing just so they can move West.  I wonder if the demands of their life in the other hemisphere will allow them to really enjoy their travels.

Well, what else can I say.  I am thankful for the stuff I see on TV.  Thankful that I have National Geographic, the Discovery Channel, and even The Amazing Race.  And maybe a taste for foreign films. Maybe by the end of the year I'll get to at least visit some of these places.  Though unfortunately, as a "tourist" with funding and visa restrictions, I may get stuck in the city and can only afford to stay for a few days ... because I need to go back and work.

But who knows?  Maybe I will eventually write my blog entries here in the middle of a journey, between borders and seasons, and a part of something really different.

Going back to the documentary, the head of the family shared that he's been thinking of selling his herd, buy a house and settle.  Although this may seem it diminishes the romance in the idea of the nomadic life, I don't see anything wrong with that.  I think real travelers do not just go around for the purpose of getting lost in a different environment and learning about new things.  I think what goes with traveling is the searching.  Finding something that is permanent, in any form from any place in the world, is the real reward.

The Spotless Mind Debate

Note: I wrote this entry via Facebook's Slates on 2 June 2008.

What I love about Charlie Kauffman and Michel Gondry's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is that the premise of the film is essentially true.  People want to forget things, people want to forget people.  And in the film, there is the solution: go to Lacuna, Inc. and have your memory erased.  Strip your life off any traces of the thing you want to forget.  It's a tedious process and technically, as how Todd Wilkinson's character put it, the process itself is brain damage.  I really love how that conversation in the film went between Jim Carey and Wilkinson.  It was funny, yet as-a-matter-of-fact.  Like getting slapped by the truth.

Of course, in the end, the film concludes that maybe, forgetting is not the solution.  This is then followed by Beck's croon, "Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime" at the closing credits.  People make decisions, people take risks.  The point is, you'll never know what you're going to get.  How I wish I have a box of chocolates instead.

Last year I experienced this one-of-a-kind drama where I almost ended up hitting a truck.  It was a stupid incident, but the point is, it was one of those situations where it would be better if I had forgotten.  For someone who can be quick at burning bridges, I was surprised that I was not totally over this thing that happened a few years back.  The time between that day in August of 2007 and those days in August 2005 I thought I emerged from the experience unscathed.  But then, maybe I didn't.  Maybe I was just in denial the entire time which is why one day, when I got slapped by truth, I opened my eyes and ended up driving throughout Manila incredibly upset.  It was also the best time to get a tattoo because I had to divert the pain inside into something physical.  I hate to say this, but the pain on my skin liberated me.  But I must say, that was a critical lesson learned.  Never again.

I wish I could say in confidence that such things will not happen to me anymore.  It's hard to say.  Ironically, a few months after, I found myself in a very similar situation.  I might justify that that time it was different, but when it ended, which happens to be my present by the way, I find the unknown stretched before me and I find myself in this state of uncertainty.  In order to prevent another drama, I have consciously slapped myself with the truth.  I am taking the initiative.  I wish I can be emotionally unattached.  But I am a woman and I am not a jerk.

For the past 12 hours I have received very good advice from outsiders.  I have slept on it and thought about it.  See, it's all about the mindset.  It's really not in the forgetting, it's a major shift as to how you see yourself in the situation.  It's a response to the lessons learned, not a reaction.  Frankly, it's easier said than done.  It means going some stages back.  In order to move on, one must go back.  Like when you get lost, you retrace your steps.  In order to get there, you need to know which parts where you made the mistakes, which forks you missed and should have taken, which direction to look at.

I woke up this morning with my finger on the reset button.  It's hard, but I might as well.  Then again, I think of the possibilities of a clean slate.  I am not going to forget, but I am not going to be resentful.  Yes, everybody's gotta learn sometime.  Because when the right experience comes along, I want to be able to look forward and say, "I want to be new to you".

Precautionary Measures, Pattern Recognition

Note: I wrote this entry on my Facebook's Slates application on 24 May 2008.

This thought ran in my head during the time I was in the middle of my recent adventures: how come I keep slipping and seem to meet small accidents?  How come years ago I would just take a step on a boulder, on a patch of grass, foot into a running stream, and did not even experience slipping or losing my balance?  Does age have anything to do with it or did my hesitation take away my concentration?  Or too much concentration --- thinking --- led to my hesitation?

I was in Camiguin about a few weeks ago and almost slipped on boulders while canyoning.  I was also in Palaui Island in Cagayan Valley about a month ago and managed to slip on shallow streams.  I have climbed the second highest mountain in the country, and probably a significant portion of the climbing I had to use my butt and crawled my way up on a horizontal trail.  During my spelunking adventure in Sagada I also almost fell into a hole that would lead to the unknown when, again, I lost my balance on a slippery limestone.

I am not sure if those were just signs that I have become accident prone over the years, but really, why do these things happen when I start to tell myself, "DO NOT SLIP!!!"

I started this mental dialogue in some mountain in Camiguin leading to the Katibawasan Waterfalls and confronted myself that I was not like this years ago.  Years ago there was so much trust in my every step: cross a river, hop on a series of rock formations, my feet grabbing the earth with no fail.  There was no fear.  I trusted the elements around me, and if I fell, I did not have to think of the fall, I got up and moved on.  This time --- with life experiences somehow concocting a mixture of conflicting knowledge not necessarily leading to useful personal wisdom --- I would think of every step, tell myself not to fail, and if I did, I would think about it and strategize.

I hate to say this, but what's happened to me?  I have written articles on strategic planning and I have read materials on risk management --- how come if  I applied  them in my life I seem to always end up on my ass?  How come the anticipation leads to the manifestation?  Is this proof that "The Secret", which I have seen out of curiousity, is actually true (tee-hee)?

I read somewhere --- in an Oprah magazine I guess, haha --- that people do not behave randomly but rather their behavior is based on what has always worked for them.  For instance, some people may have seen that indifference work for them, so voila --- unless such inaction does not work for an important situation, they will continue to be indifferent.  It 's like Darfur and Africa --- yes, I think I read this in an Oprah back issue I bought the other day --- the apathy that the world has shown may be due to this thing called psychic numbing.  There's a difference between a tragedy and statistics.  Put a face on an event and it matters, but if the numbers are brought in, it's just another headline, a fact.  Such attitude towards things may be a means for people to keep from experiencing grief, which is why, I hate to say this, psychic numbing has worked for a lot of people.

I guess I like to think that psychic numbing is an innate precautionary function among humans.  We tend to protect ourselves from getting hurt and find means to keep ourselves together.  It may be an individual thing: people taking a more indifferent approach at life and putting less value in things that may hurt or fail them, or it can be collective, like religion.  People find a fall back for the sum of all their fears.  They arm themselves with knowledge and a certain attitude.  Like my mom and superstitions --- she told me before it wouldn't hurt to believe them.  Which is why I kept doing the sign of the cross every time I would take a bath, and I think it only stopped when I was thirteen when I thought, "What if I didn't this time?"

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just did things without thinking too much about it.  Ignore the hesitation.  Hop lightly on rocks like Tolkien's elves.  Frankly, it is easier to be held back than to dare and do ...  but being held back has not put miles into my personal journey, no?  I wondered if I just kept moving and not think too much maybe I'd put more value on the movement rather than the process itself.  Because my personal process is innate.  In my quest to be "normal", I think I am going to have to concede to the truth that I am not a person that runs on management paradigms.  It works for some people, but in my case, I don't think it does for me. 

Or maybe I am also running on a personal strategy which is basically understanding life more in order for me to live it fully according to my own terms.  And a spontaneous girl that I am I should not fight against my schema.

"and yes I said yes I will Yes"

Note: I wrote this via Facebook's Slates last 21 April 2008.

My first exposure to James Joyce's Ulysses was when I was browsing through Microsoft Encarta probably in the late 1990s, probably when I took a break from that interactive trivia game I was addicted to; as a digital encyclopedia on CD-ROM, it had bits where certain passages from novels and poems are read outloud.  And of course, this part from Ulysses threw me off, like a call out from a personal Holy Grail.  And who does not want to miss this:

...and yes I said yes I will Yes

Imagine how sensual the lady voice-over pronounced each syllable, and how she reached the climactic Yeses!  Imagine how boggled I was trying to figure out how such affecting line may not be grammatically correct!  You want to know what or who she is saying yes to!  A yes to what, who the bloody cares, I want to be able to say that kind of YES!

But I shall have a chance.  The dares to myself do not end yet.  Maybe in some audition I will do this monologue and have the casting director, director, producer and spectators jump out of their seats as I start with, "I was a mountain flower..." and they will say Yes to my Yeses!

Last night I have finally finished Danny Wallace's Yes Man.  Now this book is what I'll call a Significant Coincidence.  I was stood up (for a meeting), and that bloody arse who made me drive like a madman all the way from suburban north to metropolitan Makati should be thankful that I was in a jolly mood.  And I hate wearing heels for no reason.  But anyways, I was not as upset (though pissed) that I ended up in Powerbooks.  Yes, I am that kind of girl who goes to bookstores when disconcerted or incredibly annoyed --- my (future) husband is going to love me for finding bags of books instead of Manolos and Jimmy Choo shoes in the closet.  Don't be surprised if I opened a library in the future.

Although I consider James Joyce's Ulysses as a personal Holy Grail --- note that I looked for it for years, and now I have it since 2003, I haven't even cracked it open yet --- Danny Wallace's Yes Man, I must say, is my current inspirational source.  So FINE, I have recently browsed through some Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus texts (haha), but Yes Man made me want to say Yes More.

It is quite obvious what the book is about.  Danny Wallace, through a Significant Incident, met a man on a bus who somehow suggested that he should "say Yes more".  And so the experiment started --- he would Say Yes to everything! Until the year ends! 

Of course it would turn into an interesting adventure --- he'd become a nurse, a minister, ended up in Amsterdam looking for a man named Albert Heijn (haha!), and he even exchanged numerous correspondence with the son of a Sultan from a Middle Eastern country who needed to transfer billions of dollars into his account.  He also found himself hanging out with random people and got an undeserved promotion at the BBC.  And he's impulsively gone to Stone Henge, Barcelona, Singapore, (almost) to the Stone Henge replica in Texas, and then to Australia, to go after the woman he loves who lives Down Under.  Si a Todo!

Well, it's not like I am going to say "Yes" to everything.  I guess this book has somehow opened my mind about the possibilities that are available to you, if only you won't turn them away.  Don't wait for opportunities to happen, make them from the smallest, 'inane' things!  And from there, things will fall into place.  Who knows, you might say yes to a little thing, and eventually, it will lead you to something significant.  So who cares if some of the Yeses do not result to significant things?  The point is, you get to say Yes and you put your foot at the door of a possibility.  So if someone would ask me, "Do you have time to join our group's 2-hour Bible discussion?"  Why not!  I may get inspired!  I will learn things and understand people who go to these things.  It's also called networking!  Some of them may even have that audition I have been looking for!  It's better that something happened instead of you moping around, grumpy that your job sucks, etc. 

And so it goes.  And to begin, I just said Yes to a couple of projects due in a few days... in addition to tons of projects I need to finish before the week ends.  I, Yasmin, am living up to the Yessence.

Ah, progress.

But then the power of choice is intriguing, no?  The power of the Yes and the power of the No.   Which direction shall the pendulum swing to?

I hate to say this but I am starting to think along the scientific lines.  Magnetism.  Does the positive force attract only the negative ones?  Or does the positive force merely affects the behavior of the negative particles?

Ah, si.  And I just said yes to a friend request from a stranger.

Einstein Had Dreams Too

Note: I initially published this via Facebook's Slates on 27 March 2008.

I think the term was "significant coincidences", as how Chin put it.  Generally, it means some things just happen, not out of random collision but as something that the universe may have somehow conspired.  There are patterns and occurrences everywhere: meeting people, letting go of people, opportunities leading to more opportunities, opportunities lost, you get the drift.  Frankly, I don't want to think that ALL things happen for a reason, that things happen out of purpose, just because I believe in the power of free will.  Well, I guess in the general aspect of things, free will is not isolated thereby creating a certain force that lead to, well, things.  That particular common force.  Maybe this is what purpose is all about.  "Collective consciousness" is another term Roan and I usually discuss especially when we see some creative things that have already manifested which used to play as concepts in our minds; unfortunately, those who realized these are other people, hence, you cannot just easily accuse anyone of ripping off your idea (unless you have proof --- write it down!  Apply for copyright!  Yeah right!).

So basically, as how Allan Lightman theorized how Albert Einstein may have formulated relativity, such ideas do not just spring out of sheer intellect.  Einstein didn't just have those dreams, he addressed them, translated them into scientific equations, and had them IP-ed in the patent office where he first worked (haha.  I mean, really, it's possible!).

I read this book back in college, and again, through "significant coincidence", I did not just discover this book out of general knowledge: I just happened to be listening to talk radio.  Fine, it was Jessica Zafra's show.  And my former "idol" fell in-love with the book and she read an excerpt.  And then I fell in-love with the excerpt.  And so I looked for it (now I realize, if I really, REALLY want something, I look for it and go after it.  Explains the sudden trip to Amsterdam, hahaha!  Though I did not find it *sob*).  Powerbooks only had the Pasay Road branch then, and unfortunately, I could not afford a hard-bound copy of the book with my allowance.  It probably took me a couple of years before I finally got to buy the book, this time Powerbooks' branch in Alabang Town Center was already open, and I bought it on New Year's day.  I think this was my first Book-of-the-Year, meaning, I have a, well, Book of the Year, which oddly somewhat foretells the year ahead.  Last year it was "Notes on a Scandal" (I did not mean to, but I have a system, and the system resulted to this book) and this year, again, incidentally, is Ma Jian's "Red Dust", which was highly recommended to me by Mike.

Anyway, back to Einstein.

The book talks about different stories on time, and how its physical reality can be romanticized (note that Lightman's a physicist, among other things --- theologian or philosopher? --- either from Harvard or the MIT).  It describes how time seems to be suspended, how time flies, how time seems masked sometimes.  And how time, despite its supposed linear properties, is actually a cycle or maybe like random billiard balls tossing each other off, and through its force it all equates to equilibrium.  It balances the sum of all forces.

What if time does not amount to zero?

Somehow it made me think of relationships --- all kinds --- where time seems to be limited.  Life's like this as people die, and things such as your favorite classmate is going to move to another country, or maybe an unforgettable summer course suddenly gives way to a bitter autumn.  Or maybe you run out of money, and vacation's over.

Okay, let's say look at "Before Sunrise".  Jesse and Celine knew that they would be apart by the next morning.  So what would they do?  They maximized the small time they had and had an amazing night.  Hence, before they went their separate ways, their time was about to tick to zero.  There is a "however" though.  There's a hanging prospect of time.  Which is funny because in the movie, they named the date December 16, 6 months away, and Vienna.  That's how they are supposed to get from point A to B.  In a way, this shows that time, in their case, does not terminate at zero despite their initial conditions.

However, instead of making it to B, Richard Linklater  had to make "Before Sunset", and 6 months turned to 9 years.  In Paris.

But what led to the meeting again?  Jesse's book.  It was hope thrown into the wind.  She found him after his attempt to find her through his supposed fiction.  And in the movie, they admitted that it seemed as though the last time they saw each other was just yesterday.

According to time, it was nine years.  There are things you can quantify, there are things that only certain relationships will understand.  But this understanding needs to come two ways, otherwise this time it's just an illusion.  But time can be broken from its quantified stage; in some instances, rules are broken.  That's when time stops as a form of measure, it becomes an essence.  It's the matter where understanding, purpose, and maybe intention float.  A day can seem like an eternity, a moment can be stretched, certain affairs, at the end of the day, may not seem to matter at all, and it would amount to zero.  Everything merely exists with respect to time, yet time does not have to be circumstantial.  Action can always contest time.

Now that I think about it, I think what made this book special to me, especially after seeing it in the bookstore the other day (my copy is buried under piles of books in my bookshelf), is that it made me hopeful again.  It's not really a book of hope, but it made me look forward to possibilities: it is never too late, and when the time comes for things to happen, they will.  Otherwise, their forces are already exhausted; it's time to move on and look for new things, new significant coincidences, and maybe, step beyond and rise from the collective consciousness, and have your own thing manifested.  By yourself.

Therefore, despite the influence of the universe, it takes your own free will to get out of the illusion that we are all victims of time.

Few things that ran in my head when I got lost in the mountain

Note: This was published back in 23 March 2008 via Facebook's Slates.

I couldn't help but gloat since I managed to reach Mt. Pulag's peak --- alright, I admit, we did not take the killer trail, in fact, the nice lady at the DENR, during our pre-climb orientation, told us that the easy trail is actually called the "executive trail".  Ouch.  And yes, I have to admit, the trail was not so hard as I had climbed harder yet lower mountains before, but the challenge was as we ascended, the air got thinner and I had trouble breathing in the first half-hour of the climb (and mind you, the executive trail lasts at least 4 hours with some steep slopes).

Post-Mt Pulag I went to Sagada and "conquered" certain hard feats --- the long trek to the Big or Bomodok Falls, "getting lost" in the Echo Valley, the Lumiang-Sumaguing cave-connection spelunking, which would last almost 5 hours of drops and small holes and freezing water... Although these seem hard, the biggest challenge I probably encountered was when I "tried" to climb Mt. Kiltepan, just outside town, alone and with merely an obscure Sagada map in my hand and a couple of sentences' worth of instruction from Lonely Planet: Philippines.  To make the long story short, I got lost, almost swam in the mud, and did not make it to the top.  In consolation, I kept thinking, But you already made it to the top of Pulag, dude.  See?  Consolation.

1) There will always be dogs - surprisingly, in the sleepy town of Sagada where some locals still maintain a conservative way of life, their dogs run wildly around which made me think these animals can contest the night lives of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears.  And yes, even if you make it to the bottom of the mountain, one of them will suddenly appear out of nowhere and howl its head out.  I love dogs, but woof.

2) Mountains have an infinite number of trails - trust me, when you want to get to the top, there are tons of means to do it.  Trails are made for the purpose of making sure that people are guided throughout the trek; however, when you climb an unregulated mountain like Kiltepan, at one turn you'll be faced with four trails forking to different directions.  Which will definitely lead to another fork of at least four possibilities.  Remember this mathematical theory that when you fold a piece of paper seven times you'll be able to reach the heavens from earth?  Exponential, man.  On this unguided trek I went to heaven and back, and paid hell a brief visit to have tea with Satan.  Interesting dude, that Satan guy.

3) Even though the sun is shining, think of the weather the day before - in most months, though this may seem odd during the summer, Sagada enjoys a nice sunny weather (but cool temperatures at around 20degC or lower) and thunderstorms in the afternoon.  Hence, when I trekked on Mt. Kiltepan, the mountain was generally muddy.  Trails were slippery, grasses cover potential holes, erosion was deceiving.   Mountains are like this --- they don't easily move on, and they will always have traces of the past, especially the day before.

4) The universe may conspire you to turn around and go back - I can be pretty stubborn, and even though I knew that I was already lost I pushed ahead.  I slipped on muddy trails, had to turn around at least a dozen times since I seemed to be always on a trail heading to a cliff, and then I stubbed my toe.  The toe was the last straw.  I looked at my poor feet, toes with fading and chipped nail polish, and decided I didn't want to end up with a fourth of a big toe nail AGAIN.

5) Last but not the least... if you see tire tracks crossing your trail, THINK - it was a surprise for me to see tire tracks crossing the muddy trail.  Tire tracks?  I trekked through a thinning pine forest, how could a car get up here?  Our of curiosity, I followed the tire tracks, and then it led me to a clearing with piles chopped wood.  And then the clearing forked four ways --- all of them were roads.  BLOODY ROADS!  After I suffered all those MINUTES finding my way up to the peak, I suddenly come across THESE, which, obviously, shows that ONE CAN BLOODY GO UP MT. KILTEPAN USING A BLOODY CAR!!!  I thought that vehicles could only climb up to a certain jump-off point (not this high) but apparently, the peak is only abut around 10 minutes by car and 15 minutes on foot on an easy trail.  Bloody unfair.  I would have easily gone up but I did not know which ROAD to follow --- and I did not want to end up in BLOODY BONTOC or encounter a Tony Soprano scene involving a trunk of a car, a shovel and a dead body. 

And that's it folks.  When you're alone in a mountain, lost and trying to find your way, it's hard to ignore the voices in your head, certain scenes from a movie, and reason having a heated debate with your (lack of) sensibilities.  But hey, I may not have successfully climbed Mt. Kiltepan, I still made it to the peak of Mt. Pulag.  Hah.

Prepping for a Trip

NOTE: I wrote this back in 12 March 2008 via Facebook's Slates.

Although the idea of going on a trip excites me, I kinda look at the prospect of packing with a wary eye.  I am not so bad with packing, I have to admit, but there is always the challenge of knowing what to bring, identifying the essentials, and accepting the fact that some things are unnecessary.  There is also the issue of load.  And as a girl, there's the issue of clothing.

At the moment I am prepping for a long trip that suddenly manifested out of nowhere.  Okay, so fine, I received a message from Les last week, asking me if I woud be interested to climb Mt. Pulag.  I asked our friend Chin to come.  At that time I was pretty sick, and Chin just arrived from Holland, and admitted she's anything from fit to climb the 2nd highest mountain in the country.  I conceded and thought it would be stupid of me to climb since that I'd been sick practically the entire month of February.  But then Chin changed her mind, I got better, I said yes, and now we're off. 

I am in charge buying the food groceries (and cooking, I suppose), and now I need to come up with a shopping list for 8 people for three full meals.  The challenge is that we leave Friday night, but we only get to eat the first meal Saturday night.  I am worried about spoiling the food, though I have an idea how to get around it.  I am worried about the sausage for Sunday afternoon.  I am worried about my bag which is not exactly the biggest one in the market.  I am worried that in addition to packing for Mt. Pulag, I am going to be off to Sagada and maybe Bontoc afterwards, for a week.  Alone.  Chin and I had planned to go, and Les could not join us because he had to teach his class Monday (which is, surprisingly, our group leader is his student in an Engineering Science class, and they have class this Monday.  Haha!).  Suddenly Chin couldn't go.  And I can't CAN'T go. 

I guess what I am partly afraid of is that it's been a while since I last travelled alone.  I think it was Singapore-Vietnam in April 2006.  Two years ago!  Two years ago I was crazy.  I am not sure if I am less crazy now due to age and time, or I am crazier because I seem to find myself doing a lot of crazy decisions in the past months.  And I have been crazy, in an age of supposed un-innocence. But what the hell.

I am going to do it!

Notes from a Coffeeshop

Note: I wrote this essay via the Facebook application Slate.  Published March 2008.

Current state: coffeeshop, tapping on my Macbook, taking a break from work, enjoying free wireless Internet and free parking in this little corner in Bonifacio High Street.  I also happen to  be sitting by the window, away from the small-ish crowd of young urban professionals, most likely in a brainstorming session, a couple of tables away from a couple dressed post-work, tapping their respective laptops, discussing strategies or stuff couples usually talk about which, of course, I have no any idea of.  Anyways, as I did a bit of work a few minutes ago, I noticed a lot of people passing by the window staring at me.  Granted, I am not in my best made-up self as I probably looked like I just dragged myself out of bed just in time for my morning coffee and net surfing (at 1030PM), I thought that the curiosity is probably due to the usual urban stereotypes.  Maybe I have turned into one of those urban figures a lot of people are wondering about: having the freedom to do the coffeeshop thing in the evening, laptop, coffee, the works.  I probably fit in one of those mythical figures who  get things written and published (sort of). When you really think about it, from the point of view of any stranger I can pass as one of them young professional urbanites who have presentations to prepare and reports to analyze and board meetings to attend (which Liz and I responded to with "EW" back in college). But then I am not.

The funny thing is I had imagined --- say wanted --- my life to be like this.  If 20-something comes in a combo, I'd choose this coffeeshop-laptop-urbanite lifestyle bit.  In addition to this, I am not just like any of those urban people; this weekend, I am climbing the second highest peak in the Philippines.  Second!  Highest!  Peak!  I have climbed mountains before, but I don't think any of them belongs to the Top Ten Highest Peaks in the PI.  And now I am shooting for second.  I am AMBITIOUS, baby!

I also went surfing just a couple of weeks ago, I have been partying left, right and center, and the other night I saw Incubus.  Next week I head off to Sagada for several days of vacay-contemplations-whatever, and come April I am going the start The Major Trip (backpacking throughout --- okay, not the entire --- Philippines).  There are so many things to do it's like I am holding this mythical pen checking off the must-dos-before-I-die, and I am rushing and packing my time with things in order to make the list longer.

So what are these must-dos?  Too long (and it comes with a lot of, ahem, issues).  But here's the thing.  I have decided to STOP ROLLING MY EYES AT EVERYTHING.  For instance --- my aunt, who works for an NGO, told us that their organization sponsored some delegates from Nepal a couple of years ago.  And so they brought them to the Manila Bay --- and I was like, "The Manila Bay?  It's dirty, it stinks, sometimes it's dangerous, and if it weren't for the sunset and the sea, there's nothing there".  It was an utter roll-the-eyes moment.  But then the Nepalese were ecstatic!  They had never seen the sea before!  They were happy to see one of the best sunsets ever  --- despite the fact it is "just" in Manila Bay.  See, I can just imagine when I go to Nepal and see a yak or something I'll probably screech in delight whilst the Nepalese will probably roll their eyes.  See?  I want to go back to that moment when I tasted my first snow in Berlin and when I saw my first windmill and miniature horse  in the Netherlands.  It's that moment of firsts.  Okay, so if you liked it too much there will be seconds and thirds, but STILL.  It's like "50 First Dates" (which explains why I also recommend to the entire male population to see it).  It's about being in-love with life and not having enough of the same thing.

But anyway, I shall stop as the clock is ticking and I am done having this conversation in my head --- and I just realized that the inspiration of this entry is the sight of the guy (the other half of the couple a few tables away) who made me realize if there's another version of me, he'd be my type since he looked like The Typical Ad Man (creative, urban, probably goes scuba diving thrice a year) but then, THIS is not that version.  And frankly, I have no idea why such a realization would lead to such entry.  Hahaha.  Must get back to work.  Over and out, and off to the mountains!