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.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 6, 2010
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.
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.
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".
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