Miyerkules, Disyembre 26, 2012

Remember


1655 Taft Ave.,
Malate, Manila
December 13, 2012

I will write to you now as I please. I will speak to you as if it’s easy to know what’s going on here. I will fill my facebook with pictures. I will try to bring you here in my little life while you’re there.

We’ll both grow into functional OK adults. We will laugh at our previous silliness and whisper by virtual reality spaces gossip. We will coffee and lounge out as we talk. May be on paper or through delayed blogs.

I don’t want to lose you to time. You mature in snow, I blossom in flood.

We will do it together even if we’re apart. I will learn to take risks, and you will take your time out. We will socialize in circles we both initially thought impenetrable. We’ll change ourselves and rehash our routine, reconsider what we should do and restructure our dwindling reserves of time.

There will be many tasks we’ll undertake together but our core should they both change, will know each other. I will prattle in the bubble of my blood in my self-pitying blog. You will be a wonderful optimist, eventually to the marrow. You will become self-reliant in more ways and laugh under your lashes within your social circles.

People we meet may frustrate, inspire, bully, uplift. They will come. We won’t stay. We will walk together, hands apart as we always did and as we walk with each other’s words in our heads, we are together.

That little piece of you you can’t retrieve from me will speak to me of fun and what there is of a world still unexplored. I will tread on it with a carpet of compounded principles on my feet. You will re-echo my piteous self-imprecating situations and become grateful of whatever situation you are thrust in.

Somehow, I know, I have suffered for you. Such is my belief for suffering; that the cosmos has a finite quota of it and that others who have to carry it ease it off the backs of others who might otherwise be bearing them. That’s silly, unfounded and not at all logical but it placates me and allows me to carry on with gratefulness whatever comes my way.

Just the same, our separate laughter, time zone encapsulated, will find a point where they will reconnoiter.

Martes, Disyembre 25, 2012

I am Home


21December 2012


I arrived at our house the same day, December 19. Our room was messy as usual and inside it was musty and ammoniacal. My sense of smell usually is heightened at home.


Olfaction is not my prime sense but I had the idea that mine’s a bit more sensitive than others. Shouldn’t that fact make me able to live more in the present since olfaction is a sense of the present? Compared to seeing and hearing or tasting and feeling, we get vivid memories related to these senses, olfaction becomes the background sense. I remembered discussing with Gab when we met May Idy in Luneta that scheduled events generally are concerned about all the other senses other that olfaction. There are no museum exhibits at all that involve historical evidences related to smell like this is how Rizal’s urine smells like or this is the scent of Bonifacio’s morning breath. No one decides to hold smell fests or scent buffets. It’s as if olfaction as a sense cannot stand by itself. It is transitory and intrinsic. You cannot hold it out if it’s diffused like fart or keep it in bottles like perfume at will. If someone could, I’d have Shiela’s smell in a bottle and I would sniff it day by day.


Scents last not forever and they could not be preserved into photographs or audio records. Scents can only be a commodity in terms of perfumery. Even if scents are not that much profitable (I know how much profitable it is for Joel Cruz) as events of commodity like concerts or the theater, they are the usually unconscious markers of the present, the background where other senses take turns being protagonists. How would I not know, in my dreams I could not smell anything and my experience of reality becomes complete by it.


How would I not be convinced of the claws of poverty mingled with opulence in the streets if not for the smell of polluted air and the every now and then occasional whiff of a walking stranger’s perfume? Or the stink of cockroach, urine, spit and feces? What about my self-labeled peppery smell of vagrants who haven’t bathed for I don’t know how long? Because of odors I know I am there.  Know I am in a putrid pest infested place or fancy being in a dreamt of place with the more ideal scent of foreign air as has seeped into those balikbayan boxes through those imported, taped and named pasalubongs. Or that I am home amidst the bananas, pineapples, mangoes, rambutan, guavas and the madre de cacao? Is this gift of keen olfactory sense not conniving in making me go out of over speculating in my mind and into enjoying the sensual signals my senses could richly perceive?


I am with the people I care about most in this world. I am home. How I missed this child. She’s gotten fatter. I have gone thinner with worrying. The scale shows I’m only at 41kg now. No wonder the first remark I get from my college friends I met recently, even from my mother was that I had gone skinny, “Ampayat mo Steffi.” That was not a compliment or a criticism for me. But I kept wondering, is that all that is there to see in me? Or is my being skinny really already alarming?


I will not be able to manage Shiela on my own now. I’m sure, I’ll break like a twig if I try to lift her by myself. I have made myself less useful to my family by getting this light. I will gain weight before the start of next year. But I find it hard. I get full easily. My appetite has shrank, so did my stomach it seems. I am guessing my muscles are already wasting away, I get frequent back and arm aches even without any exertion. What is there with being skinny really? Is it that desirable? I am mentally deranged? Is it really deranged or to put it better, I am over thinking, using my mind fully I am able to disregard physiologic needs. I have been able to go on without eating except if the hunger becomes very pressing. So I got skinny.


Would girls of this generation really do anything to get thin? The price is high and I personally didn’t want to be this light, I am currently underweight. I just want to be under the BMI definition of normal. I was constantly in that category but the self-afflicted pressure of self-realization has disrupted my physiologic mechanics.


My definition of self is not yet intact and my concepts with which I conduct my life are still untested and unanalyzed. How would I know which to trust? Which to follow? Would I get an end to this questioning? I will wait. Being oneself is a journey. I know I will be surprised again by myself. May it be good surprises though.


With Sam at home, we, the three of us, talked on about what has beens and what has happened when we were away from each other. It was natural for us to mention what happened to us and most I could talk of at that point was how I’ve been so blessed with all that I’ve received. I did not speak to them of my distress about it.

Lunes, Disyembre 17, 2012

There Would Always Be Hidden Treasures


17 December 2012


I had gone to a very life-changing university. It broke me off to bits. After high school graduation, I was a happy kid. And everything held importance to me. I favored the good and the beautiful but I also embraced the ills and the ugly. I prided myself for having an open and tolerant mind. There was this quiet confidence that I am clever. But all that I thought I knew about myself was disproved or emphasized by UP.  Graduating in high school I thought, after four years, I will own the world. That, fighting spirit of nothing is impossible was intact. But after UP, I was left unsure of myself. If in high school I discovered my strengths, university life slapped me on the face with the enormity of my weaknesses and with the truth that I could not work alone unlike the Superman mentality of I-can-do-everything-on-my-own I fostered previously.

More than the hard-earned lesson of humility, what I love most about UP is the people I got to know. One of which is my dorm mate Mai. I haven’t heard much about her lately. She seemed to disappear to nowhere.

She’s reserved and quiet. Even in my most passive time, she will always be a level higher in passivity. Mai acts like a lady. She’s quiet and thoughtful. She’s more than meets the eye. I dislike it when people doubt her intellect. They’re wrong. Though she seems so shy, almost witless, she’s genius.

Mai is able to distill her ideas until they come out in the simplest and purest form without losing its impact level. She’s amazing. As an illustrator, she is able to come up with very heavy mundane ideas and make it come out light in her fantasy theme without losing the intellectual connotation of the idea. She knows how to make the morbid and depressing transform into magic. It becomes easier to absorb but potent still. Mai is really outstanding.

Such genius to me is a miracle. I met a genius like her in my small life! I am glad that though the world is very big, there are lots to explore and experience, I am restricted to experience not all of it; that though the world is a big world, I have my own small world. The intricacies of this world are not only existent, they are to be experienced and enjoyed. For that I am grateful that there other people exist to enjoy what the world offers that is not made available to me.

What I feel sad about is that Mai knows already what it is that she wants to be doing her entire life. Being the artist that she is, she wants to be a fashion designer. She wants to fill the earth with her vision of beauty or that’s what I think she wants, because she is not very vocal about it. Maybe that is what I want for her in which case I am still dismayed that she’s not doing it. She took up political science and is now working for a company doing administrative and clerical duties.

With genius as hers, she should be given lots of time to get inspired to create wonderful, original art that she can do so well. I want her to enjoy her genius, splashing on its puddle like a child. I don’t want her buried in a desk office before a computer reading on circulars and filing memoranda or whatever it is that she does now to earn a living because she can do so much better in a different field. It would be a waste for her if she would not go into her forte.

This is the part of life that I am a bit protesting against. I know I do not have rights to question how life manages to go on but really, do we have to work on making a living at the expense of losing our lives? Tragic. I hold out for Mai because I believe that somehow, we share the same vision. That is that we want to make the world beautiful. She has that power of creating beauty; I can only want to create beauty, I know I am not able to translate thoughts of beauty into reality the way Mai does. So I want in my heart for her to flourish, to grow where she is planted. And because I do not know yet what it is that I would love to do for the rest of my life, I am at pains because there she is, she knows what she wants and is exceptionally good at it (though she always discounts herself) but she’s caught in the need to make money. 

I am Not Asexual or Neuter Contrary to Popular Belief


17 December 2012


My friend Gab told me that she is worried that I would end up a spinster. I wouldn’t want that to happen. If destiny was something I could plead to, please hear me out, don’t let that be. But that doesn’t mean that I would grab on immediately the first man who proposes or shows interest in me. I cleared myself out to Gab, if I have to put myself down or to not be myself just so I can keep a man, I’d rather not have him. I would want someone who would love me for who I am not someone who would love me for who I can become according to his wants.


I am nervous as well about that. The only male person I knew had a crush on me was back in elementary, my classmate Kervin. In high school, well really, I didn’t give it priority and I also wasn’t into making myself physically tempting so I guess I didn’t have any admirers then. Even in college there was no one. I never had suitors or admirers. My sister Sam, she’s seven years younger than I am but she passed through this first. She already had an admirer.


Wow! From what she says, having an admirer made her feel more sure of herself. It was an assertion that she is beautiful and lovable. We keep on telling her that but she discounts it since she thinks we would always be telling her that because we are family.


But hey, not all families support completely their members, telling them that they are handsome or beautiful or that they are lovable. These vital points are usually not talked about in daily life among families. They are supposedly something to be assumed from actions and devotion. But my sister is young. And she wants these matters verbalized. She’s the type who needs verbal and physical stroking. When she asks you if you love her, you should answer her directly and not evade it or get irritated.


Why wouldn’t our mother get irritated, she’s given up her life in service to her family in all manners a person could that she has obliterated herself in the processes and still my sister wants to hear from her that she loves her.  I keep marveling at that. Where does she get the energy and the inspiration to will the welfare of her family to be good? Why isn’t she drained out? We as older children show appreciation and affection less now. But she manages such degree of self-sacrifice. Where does she get that pure sense of commitment? It does not wane or give out or get holidays. It is always there and it is very much uncompensated and unappreciated. On my own, I know I do not want too much attention but I demand appreciation in exchange for something I worked hard on. If I weren’t appreciated at all I would burn down and sabotage everything with resentment build-up. Hence brigada 7, my formal public apology to my fieldwork team mates for my misdemeanors and my vigilance against brewing resentment in Resentment Kill Off.


Having an admirer that continues to like you even when you purposely show your bad side and you know deep inside you that you are not at all that lovable asserts her. She is a very physical person. To Sam, when she asks for hugs, she is in dire need for them. When she wants to kiss or to be kissed, she really needs it, like air t breathe in. The action somehow settles out or formalizes the idea for her. When I was still in high school I always rejected her when she asks for these needs to be met because I did not need it that much so I did not understand what it means to her. But I understand her now. And I am very much proud with how she handles herself. Though she is vulnerable to admiration, she did not easily give in to her suitor. She was able to hold on to her priorities. I really admire her for that. She’s way stronger than I thought her to be. I am torn between being proud that she turned out so well and being sentimental because she’s no longer the little girl I used to take care of.

My little girl has now grown up into a very wonderful lady. And I am left out on that aspect, barely a novice, only someone on the sidelines - a spectator. Recently, when I get reactions from other people, usually casual strangers, assuming that I already have a boyfriend, I am elated. Wow, I actually look now like someone who is in a romantic relationship! So I feel encouraged that it is possible for me to not end up alone because people other than myself perceive that a male person would actually like me.

I do think that I am lovable, just not attractive. Those are different things. I also had this idea before that it is impossible for someone to dislike me. I was shattered when that was disproved. On that same field work, my group mate in brigada 7, foremost singled me out even without prior engagement with me. Those baseless assumptions must’ve worked out on me. I made it a self-fulfilling prophecy that we ended up not only sour but stale.

So now that I am 21, I am back to those questions again especially when I had a crush recently and I’ve strayed too far. I was already wondering in my mind how we would find time to have dates because he is a doctor and I am convinced doctors are busy people. I was wondering if I could keep up in that relationship. That’s way fast for me. I just met the person and talked to him for less than an hour about non-romantic things then that night I did not sleep until it was already morning thinking of him. It’s terribly not natural for me to treat a person that way. It bothers me. At this point, I am looking for myself somewhere inside and now this?

I was praying to the Lord to help me. I was alarmed. That instance is not categorized as temptation, there is nothing wrong at all in feeling love for others but I am not ready yet, I am afraid I’ll be acting foolishly. I pray that the Lord instruct me and guide me. My heart does not love Him completely yet and now someone happens to meet me at a certain day and it’s as if my heart leapt out of me to be his. He wasn’t even asking for my heart at all. I term that unfair. God loves me immensely, greater than all the love in the world combined is His love for me and I cannot yet love Him utterly then I just let another person get away with my heart at his mercy. No, I know I cannot let that be.

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you.
Psalm 32:8

I do not mean by that that I would have to love the Lord completely before I commit into loving another person romantically. If I were to do that, I might very well be dead and I have not yet learned to love the Lord enough. I know at that time, even when I do not love Him the way He deserved to from me, His grace would meet me and make my lacking love complete. Still, that would equate to my being a spinster. So I am not at all requiring myself to a creed of blessed singleness. I will learn to love the Lord as I am growing in love with another person. I just have to do something about this infatuation. Yes. That would be an extreme expression of my infatuation. It falls short of being considered love at first sight.

And as I’ve said the other time when I unexpectedly won the raffle (Breaking Custom), I am leaving some doors closed but unbolted and unlocked. Of course I am willing to welcome love. I am getting a bit impatient for it to arrive especially lately that I felt so alone but I would not rush it out. Love, like everything else has its time. (Also read, The Young One’s Vision of Love)

Linggo, Disyembre 16, 2012

Beauty Pageants


16 December 2012

There is something about beauty pageants that is intriguing for me. From my logical side, I realized that beauty pageants somehow present women as commodities, designed to out the other women off the competition and to garner most of audiences’ approval, much like the commercialization of women.


I can’t help but remember as well my childhood fascination for beauty pageants. I would be inspired to play act being each of the 12 candidates. I was trying out the Calendar Girl competition then on a noontime show. Then I would purposely cause one candidate to be the perfect one, standing out from the rest as the unanimous winner. I would even swathe myself with blankets as part of the costume and walk in tiptoes, as if in heels through our mattress. Such is the disparity between the fantasizing me from the cynical me. But how do I really see beauty pageants?


It is akin to displaying true people as superwomen, intact with grace and dignity under pressure. I already know now as an adult that it is difficult for a person under pressure to not appear so. In one of my application interviews, the research associate asked me how my previous job was. I said, “It was fun.” He told me my face doesn’t agree with my statement because my face says I was not having fun. I would fare bad in beauty pageants. My face reveals too much of my emotions than I can control. Sometimes I want to be like those anime heroes who though they are stressed appear cool. I know they manage that because they are in ink, not actual flesh and blood.


As a candidate, a woman would have to be in touch with her true self. She has to find her own beauty, seeing herself as beautiful first and exuding that acceptance of personal beauty towards all viewers. Then they are trained to be poised, of projection and proper posture. The rigors of thinking if you’ve done it right while assuaging the tumult of nerves and appearing otherwise is deadly. But those pageant contestants managed. They fix up and present themselves as a total package, usually projecting themselves as better than they actually are or as someone they want to be.


No wonder real women who are not into joining pageants run off from being a candidate. You pry yourself open for admiration at the risks of the cruel and vulgar scrutiny of the public. How you look, that is, you are expected to be a perfect Eve, flawless complexion, right amount of curves, captivating face. Everything in the candidate should be free from any attack of criticism physically. So they change how you look, straighten or curl out your hair, shave off completely or maybe outline your brows, cover up all your face with make-up until you do not look like yourself at all. Then they urge you to exercise so your body looks fantastic and depilate all of your hair in unwanted places. You show off all of yourself - not your real self, but your trained to win self to get the crown. And just like basketball where it is advised to give a ball for each player to stop the ruckus, why don’t they all just buy crowns for themselves to save them from all burdens? *Sigh* of course it doesn’t matter to them if they get a crown if they did not earn it together with merit.


I still admire women who vie for beauty titles. They really want to be proclaimed as the winner among all other contestants maybe because it would mean they could handle pressure and remain graceful and beautiful in appearance or simply because they can beat other beautiful women or they believe that they can measure up to the requirements of a beauty queen. No matter how much I speculate about how superficial or how self-fulfilling, demeaning or how the candidates become able to outdo or out limit themselves and develop, or farcical by not being themselves to win a title among other competitors, I will surely still be interested in watching women in casual wear, swimwear or evening gowns strutting through the stage and answering in a pinch any question hurled at them. Partly because I still can’t decide on whether it is moral or distorted and mainly because I remain in awe of how beautiful women really take efforts to be named the most beautiful by others, much like Snow White’s stepmother.

I No Longer Want to Be a Bonsai


16 December 2012


To recapture the child in me I have stifled because I was trying to become an adult and ended up being a not so OK one, I decided to do so so I would start to know what to want. I want to learn how to want again. I’ve repressed it so long, it became lost to me.

In consonance to this, I launched my personal self-awareness campaign which I entitled fearless. I started that new blog which you can check out as well. I will still continue to write for this blog about odds and ends but that new one would document more about me and my waging against my pointless fears since I have now learned that my stunted personal growth emerged from the stifling wires of those fears. I no longer want to be a bonsai.

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity,
but a spirit of power, love and self-discipline.
2 Timothy 1:7

Breaking Custom


14 December 2012

Last December 13, I was excited for my friend, Julliene’s pageant, Mr & Ms PLM Medicine 2012. I wore an orange and black spaghetti-strapped knee-length dress. I also put on lipstick and my hair was down. J But I am sooo thinking then, I forgot that I’d be joining the lantern parade.

 It happened to be a windy day and I was occupied with deciding whether I fix my hair or hold on to the skirt of my dress as I walked towards Lara hall to meet up with Micai. We even took pictures with Tala and Krezia before the Lara Christmas tree. Thanks Ate Susan!

I no longer minded if I was the odd one out in the lantern parade. CPH was in blue and there I was in my very apt attire before the faculty of CPH, most of whom I am familiar with through the two college major years.  I can’t help but wonder if in events like this I would ever feel that I belonged. I wanted to own the parade as well, not to watch it. And I silently regretted how I made myself desolate during college, channeling my odes to the swaying branches of a far tree that towers above different peoples’ heads, a crowd of distinction I am clamoring to be a part of.

I kept on, running with my sling bag on the left shoulder and blowing out the New Year horn prop as I duck for the CPH wave and hold onto the gold folded paper hat atop my now dry and willful hair. My feet are both squirmy and sweaty and muddy, slipping off the smooth surface of my ostentatious footwear. And it was my first day. I finally had my period after 2 months!

Micai and I scooted to Robinson’s by the bend for Yen’s event. I simply dusted off powder to my face. I no longer attempted to fix my hair. It will only become wily; looking like an autumn broom of collated bush if I comb it. It is not an option to tie it up, I will be exposed.  As Micai and I walked around waiting for a cab and I annoyingly kept pointing out that the Mini Cooper has rounded the entrance of Rob Manila about six times before it left, we talked. Honestly, I did most of the talking.  Micai makes me so at ease I no longer think before I speak. It’s as if I know I wouldn’t be judged by her. That’s how it is with family isn’t it? You inhale each other’s fart and give allowances to another’s annoying smell or irritating habits. But you stay by each other and keep together.

Then we were there! With Vivi and Sim! We were reunited and we were really excited. I barely gave attention to the new people I was introduced to - Harold and Pia, Yen’s sectionmates. We also saw Pauba and Tin Dueñas before we were allowed to enter the venue. It was much like an auditorium, but larger than CPH’s.

I must’ve bugged off Micai. I was so uncouth and noisy! I blew the lantern parade horn prop to cheer at Yen. I was impressed with how PLM Med held their event. Even if they opened up late, the event ran smoothly. The hosts were okay. But I can say the guy host appealed a better communicator for me because his face was filled with more expression, he was able to pull off his spiels even as he looked at the cue card as if he were in natural unscripted conversation and he was more adept in delivering ad lib. The lady was not bad but she could break off from the rigidity of the cue card if she took more frequent breaks to maintain eye contact. Micai said initially that she sounded like Nhet, I agreed and I insisted later that she resembles Christine Reyes because of her brows and nose line. She also has dimples but not as remarkable as Christine’s.

The theme was Philippine festivals. Some costumes were really too-costumey. Some were very creative and would pass as of quality. At first, it was so strange for me to see the Higantes festival representatives because they had a larger than them Higante maché on their backs that were dressed like them. But soon, because the lady was graceful and beaming in manner, I was converted into admiration for her and the giants on their back no longer discount them at all. Yen was a revelation. It was a bare all for her. Her figure is great! Her back is revealed and her legs too! With her costume so daring she might as well could’ve worn bikinis. Yen is hot! Though I sense she was so conscious, I was proud of her because she got past an initial fright of insecurity by actually baring herself like that. I am very happy for her, she’s grown into a stronger lady.

As the night commenced, I realized that beauty should be coupled with confidence. Yes physical beauty might be an advantage, but if you are not accepting of who you are, you would not be able to exude your impression of beauty to impact others. The projection of some candidates is so winsome you might be convinced that they are beautiful and you become curious to discover what you can’t see but they have that makes them act that way. Pageants are in a way a picture of commerce, how people sell themselves to others, conscious of the competition and not immune to pressure.

On the second take of the raffle draw, I was startled that I won a prize. Kimpat was the male host for the raffle segment. And he was stating my name over and over. I was unsure if it was me. Not that my name’s too common that there would be someone with the same name around but it is not so uncommon either - I have a namesake if you Google my name. After several repeats, I was sure no one was claiming the prize. I was somehow convinced that it was me. I walked the isle to the front. There the surprised Kimpat acknowledged my presence and I was still out of wits I only said thank you sa sponsors when I was asked to speak through the mic. I went off with the green loot bag on my right shoulder. I was surprised still.

It is amazing how life opens up doors for you when you’re not expecting it to do so because you’re just going your own way, opening doors of your liking. I’ve remembered the times when I desperately wanted to win during my BS PH years and I didn’t. Life is full of surprises it’s like you should always have plenty of backdoors for it to pass through to surprise you. Or you should at least be unlocking doors that are already there so it can enter through them. God is the Lord of Everything; this is his surprise for me.

 I was bewildered. I still can’t understand why it has to be me. Is it because I wore a dress and put my hair down? I now find the reason why people fall into the fallacy of associating favorable events with the activities that they did prior to the other. I am simply grateful I’ve got so much than I paid for. The ticket is actually at Php 50. I even asked Micai earlier if we had a chance to win, phrased this way: Hindi tayo kasali sa raffle na yun di ba?

I still am fascinated by people. Micai for one fascinates me. She’s so full of potential but something’s holding her back, I don’t know what that is. Her indecision also reminds me of myself. I am not alone. We are into different levels of uptightness because of our fears.

Gemmy soon joined us. Micai was very different with her than with me. I know I must’ve annoyed her. I really have no tact in asking. I ask straightforward questions every now and then. My tiresome questioning got tired retorts of politeness. I am being a pest. But I want to know her more. I aim that my questioning and prodding might cause her to break out of what’s holding her back. She’s full of sentimentality. She told me she was having second thoughts about meeting Yen now because she already has a different set of friends now, she’s having that selfishness of wanting the memories to be always fresh if they can’t find time to make new ones. But I don’t judge her for that. I also live by the same rule. Mine just goes more disastrous because I always believe that’s nothing’s changed; everything’s just like before between me and my friends even if we haven’t been in each other’s lives for so long. It leaves me more estranged when I simply want them back.


We also saw Angela, Arem, Em and Lelis. Lelis even travelled from Ortigas to Intramuros. And she’s into med at that! See, that’s how it is! Aya reminded me today about that. Yes, you have lots of responsibilities on your plate. But you are not all into being responsible. Give room for constructive distractions - a change of pace and view that enriches your being. These are distractions to keep you going. This is what Moi meant when she said she really needs to be part of a dance org because she needs something to keep her mind off her studies or else she would find herself lost in it.


That must be how it is with love as well. In romantic relationships, I have been advised through the lives of other people, that you should still leave room for yourself. It’s not only about you as partner. You should also grow as you the person - enjoying your hobbies, keeping with your friends, having time alone.  Our responsibilities should not keep us from our right to leisure. I better know that now. J


I am growing as a person. I will remove my restrictive shoes while I still can blossom out from the induced lotus feet psyche. My strong sense of self will emerge.  I will fight my battle of fear and know that as I win mine, I partially give others their freedom from fear as well.

I Know Now Why My Dad Bought me Ice Cream Everyday


14 December 2012


I really have to know myself better. This blogging thing is an exercise for my self-consciousness. I want to be more aware of myself of who I really am. Not mostly who other people want me to be but who I really am. The book I was reading, entitled Born to Win which I mentioned in Resentment Kill Off, discusses that people function from three ego states, the parent, adult and the child. My lack of wanting and stifled-ness which prevents individual growth stems from my lack of nurturing the child. It bursts then unprecedentedly through resentment, insecurity, lack of self-satisfaction, depression and boredom.

I may not have realized it before but during my college days, whenever I was stressed, I reverted back to what I loved doing best when I was a child. I wanted to color with crayons. I sketch and fill in spaces and color it. Then, I remember that I was always a contented child back then even if I was alone. I actually enjoyed being solitary but I do not cringe from attention (which I do now especially when I take pains with my appearance). I did not shirk away from growth then and as my favorite James Morrison sings, Once When I was Little, I could only see that the world would get better and that it could only show me good times.

I long for those days of ignorance and unspotted-ness from the plights of humanity. Back then I could only speak of hunger and poverty and depression and rifts and awkwardness and isolation and difficulty with expression and communicating from ideals that would always come primarily from second-hand data. I could say then like the male semi-finalists for Mr. PLM Medicine 2012 that money is something for buying things; that my life shouldn’t revolve around it or as succinctly as Mr. PLM Medicine said: money is something that you earn from doing what you love. That would be my adult version of the fairy tale – to be paid for doing something that I love. I envy those who are doing so. I only said that for the sake of expression but really, I want to attain that too and I am absolutely happy for them and I give them my prayers that they be at peace within. But, hey, I shouldn’t let the ills of the world get to me that I don’t give room for the good ones!

The content I received then was because I had time to myself, and I knew how I was going to spend it and when I wake up the next day, I was excited for the world, I was chanting with all of me, “Prepare world, I will come to you and you will be changed! “ Where has that gone now that I have free time in the world as an adult, supposedly at the prime of my life? I am only distressed that I had so much time in my hands, I no longer had pleasure in doing things I usually found enjoyable.

Where are the days when all I did for an entire day was fill a pad of paper with lines and strokes using crayons, with 3 square meals and most probably an ice cream each day? I weep now for the days when my dad didn’t tell me he loves me but he bought me ice cream each day when he fetched from school so I may understand when I am older that he loves me not for what I do but for who I am. I weep now for the me who was trampled on by life but wallowed in it, by rote doing things out of necessity, without dreams and with hope for anything only as something that would always be desired but would never be within reach. I weep with tears of lament for a child reared with love but left defenseless by it. I weep now and will weep until the moment I know all the tears I have wept for it will not be enough to compensate for the joy that would be mine forever.

For our light and momentary troubles
are achieving for us
an eternal glory
that far outweighs them all.
2Corinthians 4:17 (NIV)

12-12-12


14 December 2012


I am very much excited to write. If I were not tired and up late with few hours of sleep for consecutive days, I wouldn’t sleep last night without writing anything yet for this blog J

It all started on the 12th of December, the very momentous day of 12-12-12. I had my second level application interview with two doctors. In the morning, I almost came out late for the interview. I’m glad I was awake by past 8, almost 9am. Even if I practically have to cross the street to get there, that was enough time to make me panic. I had no preparations for the interview at all. So I really put my effort into looking presentable. And that is a big deal for me. I rarely put effort into how I look. But for the sake of employment, I did. With each tiktok closer to 10am, this thought was pounding on my head: This is the make or break moment. Sell yourself out girly, maybe they would buy you.

Taking effort to make myself presentable for the public eye wasn’t at all my creed, it makes me so self-conscious that I inevitably start comparing myself to the people around me then end up feeling bad because I’m bashing myself with insecurities. I was at pains for that interview. Looking good was already tough, how about the conversation part? Even models who chance on go-sees do not simply go there to show off their physical beauty, how much more an academic-like job would demand?

I was intensely aware of my wanting to look good, even appealing if at all. I’m becoming paranoid. 6 minutes before the interview, I was still on the street. Wah! What a nice way to make them remember you by, being the late interviewee. Ugh. Make that the late – dead-for-employment-in-this-office applicant. All in big bold red letters, flashing in my mind better than any ad could have any impact on me.

A minute before 10 am, without any breakfast at all, make that 20 hours after my last food intake, please note, food intake, not meal. It could only mean a snack. That would be a 4-cracker biscuit. So I no longer know where to blame my stomach’s revolt to, those butterflies for nervousness or the physiologic demand for something to burn. There I was, ushered into the air-conditioned employee room, and I was smiling at the research assistant, April is her name, who was my official agent for the day. The SMS I received the day before told me I was to look for her for the interview. I no longer was hesitant nowadays to immediately enter through a closed door without any sign of permission from its occupants after knocking if the door happened to be a door to an office. I realized that that extreme politeness would not be helpful. It will not show me as meek as I want to radiate but as faint-hearted. I may be faint-hearted but I refuse to be so any longer. Yay! One step forward to assertion! I am not doormat-passive anymore! One po-int there (The way Dagul always says it in Goin’ Bulilit, po-int)J

But my nervousness for the day’s interviews was already lower compared to my first application interview. For the first one, I babbled on and on, a bit incoherently I sound to myself, saying more than I was supposed to say and using more words than necessary. I was no longer thinking the way I trained myself too.

 During my high school years, I talked anything in mind. What I think, I say. Then I realized that made me very much susceptible to criticism and mistakes. I was being so transparent that I have nothing to protect myself with anymore. That’s when I implemented the new think before you speak rule. So I shut my mouth and kept all thoughts to myself and to my journal. I still can’t keep it in, really, got to get them out somehow.  But, I must’ve taken it way too far that after sometime, I rarely have any opinions at all about anything. I have given up on appraising something or having to say anything about matters simply because I believed I had no right to do so since I do not know everything about it to be qualified to say anything about anything. That was one way I killed myself but I’m not growing it back up; I am starting anew!

I have restricted my naturalness to suit my set personal criteria to become the ideal self I want to be. It had gone wrong. I ended up worse than who I was before those impositions. Being overly conscious and on guard is draining for me. I no longer want to be liked or love for someone I want to become but for who I really am. I was in a way maybe jinxing others to not like me because I was not myself. I became too timid, passive and reserved – mostly an avoider. I go to school during college as late as late can be and I’m always the first one out after classes.

I’m getting to shape again! There is freedom. I must really be a Libran – I have gone to my ends of the spectrum - from the non-conformist to the overt conservative. I will strike equilibrium in time. I am hopeful.

Then on the second interview I had in my entire life which I mentioned in so, I am not photogenic, (if it would be on a person-to-person basis, this would be my 4th interview. In my first interview, it was a combo application interview: the head research assistant first. She is my friend and we had talked many times before. Then they demanded from me an on-the-spot application letter. I made an entire page. I must be so nervous I was able to add a joke in that letter. Blah with the formality. On the second screening, the research associate discussed with me. I had this interview by September and I believe that his demand to describe myself which I haven’t been able to answer directly and ended up to him fishing, “How would your friends describe you?” really was important for me to push on with self-realization. All that I told him would be that my friends, I was thinking then Ling and Cze, would tell anyone I was talkative. Would they actually say that? I still am not sure. I must’ve used up too many words, he didn’t dare to ask more qualities. And finally, the team leader, whom I ignorantly addressed in my application letter as an MD because she’s a doctor only to discover belatedly as earned from a PhD, told me I was hired. ) That time, I was so quiet. I averted my eyes, and only answered with a nod or a no or a yes. It was very curt and cut-off. Maybe the employer was in dire need and he had no other applicants to choose from so I was given the interview time. Tugsh! Have I just pulled my leg? I am unconsciously denigrating myself again. But no worries, I am excited to tell you why J

This second application interview, the team leader screened me off first before requiring his associates to meet up with me hence my interview on 12-12-12. The first of the two doctors who interviewed me that day (All those who interviewed me for this employment position are doctors, medical doctors. All male. *Cringe*I am again threatened. I prefer to have women as my bosses. But no matter, I will adapt. I will no longer keep myself to those unreasonable limits.) spent about 45 minutes with me.

I was more conscious of my nails then. They’re red! Gab and I painted them Sunday. (I avoided having painted nails. At home during breaks, I painted my nails everyday with a new color. But before I was to travel for school for the start of the sem, I acetone them off. I must be experiencing location related dissociation. Nail polish itself makes me too self-conscious what more if they’re RED! I agreed with Gab then because I actually liked the hue and I did not wipe them off because for me it signifies my breaking out of my being so uptight. ) I am comfortable with my hands on the cool marble table even if they’re sweaty and creating steam outlines. The doctor was looking at my nails! Maybe because I was looking at it that he also directed his attention there. What would he think about me because of my nails? Funny how occurrences all seem like a novel already when I retell them. But in real life, all the dread I felt then at that moment from my red nails or for anything else that made me feel so was happening with various duration. The distress from the nails was short-lived because I became busy really thinking about the answers to the questions and in communicating per se. On the side, I was thinking if the strain I felt showed in my face during all the interviews I had, including that moment. I wish I could see myself as I was having my interview.

I was nervous. But not as much as with the team leader where I barely spoke up. This time I was actually having a conversation, even if not that much coherent as I usually do. Nothing wrong there, we’ve just met. Somehow, after the interview, I remembered I read that supposedly, after being ushered in for the interview or even before I leave, I was to shake hands with the interviewer. The first doctor, the team leader, didn’t bother with that. And I was petrified to initiate. Then, when I was already waiting for the 2nd research associate-doctor-interviewer of the day and was bidding April bye- I’m-off-to-the-lobby-to-wait, the doctor remembered it. How could he? I can’t take that time back now.

The palm was up-turned and open in the all-too easy to recognize, unmistakable gesture of an invitation to shake hands. I was staring at it but I simply pulled my hand out to shake with that hand. I sensed he first pulled away to make me feel less inconvenienced. He knows I’m tensed. My hand was so cold. It was out of my mind that I have cold hands until I felt his hand was way warmer than mine but not as warm as I expected a man’s hand to be (My dad is always hot, that would be as hot as I could get when I’m running a fever; no wonder, he’s sweaty. But I’m sweaty too! That’s unfair!).

I can’t even remember if the notion of being invited to shake hands registered in my brain. It was instinctive and though I was still the passive, timid person I would want to whisk away by degrees, I surprised myself that I reached out the hand as if it was the most natural thing to do. The casualness with which I bade myself out of the room to April was knocked-off by the truth that my hands are cold and the interviewee knows it. I can do nothing about it.

By this time, I was no longer hungry. I sat on the lobby bench and took out my newly bought box of 8 crayons. I was making out the lobby in the back page of my diary. On the part where my part-time employers decided to write when we were in a pinch and they needed paper. I allowed them to carry off my sacred journal. I know that they wouldn’t bother reading it. I wrote there in cursive. 

Running the tip of the crayon through the ink permeated paper, I was calm. I was no longer nervous that I would want to throw up (not as much as I did when I was with the team leader). I just knew I was nervous.

I had small talk with the lobby guard. I told him I was coloring off (I was sketching) because my hands are cold. Colder than the way it is now as I type. Well, if I’m getting hired they’ll know sooner that it’s natural for my hands to get clammy. My hands get cold easily. Not only when I am nervous does it get cold. When I stay in a cold place long enough, they mimic the coolness of the surroundings or maybe they absorb the coldness of the environment. That idea always made me wonder if I was cold-blooded. Aren’t mammals warm blooded? What could be wrong with me that the cold catches up on me easily? I also get cold all over fast. It just starts off with the hands.

When the last interviewer for the year passed by the lobby, I had a hint that it was him. I slipped on one by one each color to the box in single file. Then decided to write instead. It would be awkward to be interviewed by someone with you as the applicant who first saw you holding crayons and contentedly doodling with it. At the least he will think I’m juvenile, worse I’m nuts. I just can figure out what he might think of but I kept it anyway before April even called me back to the ‘battery room’ as I termed the executive director’s office which was where I had the past two interviews. With a feeling of familiarity, I was audacious to jest April, “for a time there I was thinking if I had to get my name changed into a month in the calendar” since the recent employed female research assistants of the team are named June Rose and April. They are the only ones I’ve met yet. Then I was close to the end with my professional look of carefully curled up hair to frame the face before tying it up in the back now gone because my hair is wet and I want it to dry already.

This next interview was shorter. But intense. I had back-up for the impetus of self-definition: “How do you see yourself 20 years from now?” what I thought at that question was my grade 5 self, preparing a composition of how I was going to be a lawyer or a journalist. I was that bold then. But it became too bold for my taste. Why?

I was usually the first choice candidate of my teachers back then in high school for extemporaneous speech contests outside the school. No more eliminations required. By default, I was the school’s representative. But the first one I had, it was televised even in the local network, I was a blabbering fool, not getting to the point of my speech and going overtime because whoever was in charge of signaling times-up forgot to give his warning that I kept on and on. I won 2nd place – equivalent to a non-satisfactory silver medal and a badge of see-this-fool award from dignitaries of the city’s rotary club before the mocking of people who were bored enough to tune their sets to the local channel. The next one was for the division schools press conference. I lost again, 2nd place. Each time I was thinking, what could be wrong? I was giving my best but it wasn’t for 1st place. Are my competitors really better? Of course I haven’t seen myself talking on the platform before the audience. Why won’t I win first? And funny but I always lost to male contestants. Is it because I don’t have a modulated voice? It wasn’t hard for me to come up with the hypothesis of societal male prejudice. (I would have to deal with that as well. I am already giving too much hints!) That must’ve played a part in my decision that in college, I will be different. I must be speaking too much; I have to think first before I speak. I had that different I wanted to try and it is non-satisfactory.

Back to the moment, I told the doctor without any dilly-dallying that I can’t see myself yet. The vision was hazy but it showed that I would be settled in doing what I really want to be doing for the rest of my life. Right now I just don’t know what it is yet because I’m simply exploring. Without any more questions because I told him I already had my fill of it from his interview predecessors, we left the very cold battery room. And I had no handshake from him to my relief.

Miyerkules, Disyembre 12, 2012

Blessed are the Poor for they Enlarge their Imagination


11 December 2012

Haven’t given much thought to the Phantom of the Opera except that it has been a very long-staying and still earning play through generations. That was enough to incense me to investigate what there really is in it.

As you’ve known from the past entries, I could not afford to view the actual play when it was performed in Manila. But nevertheless, I make amends. The benefit of being short of budget would be to have a very expansive imagination. My sister even attests to this, indulging in her fulfilling self-fantasies that subdues her from her too easily agitated bouts of fused temper. Even isolation has caused this much, filling oneself with images of what there could be or of what could happen as practiced by role-playing and a one-person game play. With a copy of the libretto, it wasn’t difficult to imagine at all how the play went on. There’s material to start on.

With a little experience with viewing plays, I found room to improvise with the backdrop and their faces; how Carlotta was and acted and the new owners Fermin and Andre. I deduce Reyer as the musical director and Giry would be the theater caretaker/manager. Since I know not much about the personas needed to run theaters, I conveniently assumed Buquet to be the backdrop/stage effects runner. He would be in charge of the lights, curtains, and other effects to make the scenes a human orchestrated deception of truth portrayal based on ideas.

As Carlotta starts singing in her self-important manner (no wonder she was referred later on as prima donna), from behind, partly in shadows, the phantom looms in his dark ensemble, with a full-face white mask only open at the eye slits and much like Dracula was always shown, covering himself with his black cape as a bat sheaths itself with a pair of membranous wings. The alarm which Lefevre addressed Carlotta with sets the mist of terror associated with the phantom combined with the answer from the startled Buquet as he replied that he was not paying attention and that if ever anyone was there, it must be a ghost. The phantom makes his presence known by an unscripted movement in the stage involving the backdrop and its accessory effects.

Lefevre apparently sold his theater without disclosing the dilemma involving the phantom. Piangi acts more like a loyal puppy to Carlotta, building up in her her misplaced air of conceit. Then after Piangi and Carlotta’s walkout and the message of taxation demanded by the phantom who lost them their star, Lefevre and Andre are welcomed with having to pay back tickets. The phantom is very much comfortable in the place, appearing as he liked, demanding his rights. Even the chance of getting an audience with the theater manager was easy for him. It was as if Giry was also instructed by the phantom to suggest that Christine take Carlotta’s place to save them from having to deal with payoffs.

The power in Christine is her vulnerability. Her susceptibility allowed her access to the lonesome phantom. He in turn used her to express his genius unharnessed for she proved pliant to him not only on the matter of being trained but also for support as she had placed him in a pedestal as the fulfillment of his father’s words to her, which she deemed her inheritance.  Then she sang there, proving her worth to relieve Carlotta, a bit hesitant in countenance at first until she finally owned it without the easy fall into the self-consciousness of delivery but into a falling into role, detaching the persona from the Christine she is. Sung with sincerity and self-forgetfulness, as if all that there was was the emotion of pleading for attention though for her part she was still not into their being separated. It was lovely and poignant as the lyrics suggest of simple remembrance in place for the dying embers of love.

With the setting of a theater within a theater, Raoul from the audience’s seat would remember his childhood friend.

I am trying to decide where to place the famed chandelier. At the prologue, the auction remark from Raoul was that it was exactly as Christine described it. That meant the chandelier must be exclusive for the phantom and his guest in his private holding area.

Where it was entitled Angel of Music, the phantom would be shown in the dark, his mask glinting white as he whispers his line with Christine hearing his voice in her head as Meg talks to her. That would be in the backstage where the two discuss. It is a blur to Christine if the praise she heard from the phantom was from her head or if she really heard it. Her affinity to the phantom enables her to sense him around making her turn cold. It might be paranoia but it might be true too. We don’t know the maze the phantom has created throughout the theater. He is capable of doing so with his salary or maybe he did it himself for his convenience and partly to pass time with both wood-work and indulging in voyeurism. He would always be there, unseen but seeing everything and being everywhere. Then Meg comforts Christine for a while before focus is placed on the men as introduction for Raoul’s meeting up on the Little Lotte Act with Christine. Then he retires offstage to give Christine time by herself to get dressed.

Left alone again, the phantom speaks to Christine in The Mirror. There Christine convinces the phantom to show himself but the phantom answers that Christine’s face in the mirror already reflects how he looks like. Then the shift is to Christine’s frightened reflection as she looks at the mirror.

It will not be shown but subtly alluded to that he has set contraptions from upstage to his place beneath. Even Christine’s descent will not be featured. And as Music of the Night is performed by the phantom, along the lines, he will look behind him and usher Christine into his lair where his chandelier hangs as he croons Christine into submission to his genius music.

In the short exchange between Buquet and Giry in the Magic Lasso, it was Buquet again who revealed something about the mysterious phantom. Aside from his hideous appearance behind his mask, Buquet also relates how the phantom could deftly make a kill as he desires while Giry reprimands Buquet for his knowing too much and speaking of it, advising him to be on guard at all times, “Keep your hand at the level of your eye.” I envision Buquet as a comic relief, motioning exaggeratedly in horror how dangerous and deformed the phantom is. I also cannot keep out of mind how the phantom directly corresponds with Giry but not with anyone else. It must be Giry who helps the phantom cover up his tracks so he could reside in the theater and demand pay by sending out his mail and relaying his messages aside from maybe tipping him off on those who have seen him.

Back to Christine and the phantom, Christine speaks of her dream about a man in a boat on the lake. It would appear to her from her strange but existing connivance and frequent exposure to the phantom which she, in its eeriness, no longer distinguishes dreams from actual happenings when it involves the phantom. At first the phantom condemns her in fear that her peeping might lead to her being reviled of him until later he relaxes and speaks of his soft inner yearnings for love. He is shown to ease off the mask from his face but before he takes it off, the lights dim off to darkness. Or instead of darkness in the stage, a camera might focus on the chandelier overhead.

The act Notes take place in the theater office where Firmin holds the paper with the report about Carlotta’s walkout in the front page, motioning to Andre who later on reads from the mail on the desk. Firmin then takes the next letter, being now on top, which they both discuss on after determining it as coming from opera ghost. Enters Raoul looking for Christine and Carlotta coming in after with Piangi tailing. They fuss about another threatening letter which Carlotta suspected to come from the owners but actually was from the phantom.

It is all mashed-up since it seems the phantom spoils plays or rehearsals before demanding anything but Carlotta never actually admitted that the phantom exists even if it must be the phantom who serves as both playwright and composer of the score, earning him his salary. It’s as if the existence of the phantom must be kept secret. Giry enters to inform them of Christine’s return but keeps secret where she stays. This is again suspicious. Giry must have known Raoul’s attentions to Christine would only bring disaster so they keep him off her. He and Meg successfully prevent Raoul from seeing Christine. It was clear in the ensuing dialogue that Giry advocates for the phantom as Andre and Firmin both comically pleads with Carlotta and her echo Piangi to stay. As they appeal to Carlotta, Raoul keeps thinking of Christine, asking what could be the outcome of the rambling together with Meg and Giry before another person, a delivery guy or mailman arrives with something for Christine.

Raoul makes up in his mind to reject the phantom’s demands after piecing up that the angel of music which forbids Christine to meet him is the same as the phantom of the opera who demands favor upon Christine. The three, Fermin, Andre and Carlotta, continue to suspect Raoul was behind the letters for his acquaintance with and apparent affectations for Christine.

The next act shows that Carlotta did give in to the entreaties, and was acting on as part of all other demands from the phantom being denied. As the phantom speaks to Meg about the occupation of his box, Christine immediately sees him and speaks out loud to Carlotta’s dismay. The phantom speaks from nowhere and causes Carlotta to croak through her lines after her sharp retort at Christine. Curtain was drawn down and damage was contained by Fermin and Andre as the cast move backstage with Carlotta rushing out, probably to see a physician. Raoul then approaches Christine as the audience start passing to the exit.

Christine brings Raoul out of the stage and down into the mayhem of the audience area, into a secluded spot where Christine attests that the phantom of the opera is real as Raoul continues to voice his opinion of the phantom as nothing but a fable that has gotten too much into Christine’s mind. On the duet, Christine assents to Raoul’s observation that the phantom has gotten into her mind which though she agrees to, does not dissolve her resolve that the phantom exists. By the end of Raoul, I've Been There..., it was revealed that even there, the phantom has eyes and ears. Then the lovers sing of their promises and their love with the enraged and disillusioned phantom as witness.

Masquerade is one of my more favored songs other than Christine’s first song and the phantom’s Stronger than You Dream It. Masquerade is so vivid, it came to me as Dumbo’s drunken dream of elephants did. As if there was a black screen before me with the images they speak of appearing before it, each line producing a single image repeating itself over and over again in tiles with invisible borders across the dark space.

Paper faces on parade; white paper cut-outs of the famed masks of the theater - the sad and the happy.

Hiding one’s face behind two hands as a mascot earth with black arms and legs and white 4 fingered hands (much like the appendages were all borrowed from Mickey Mouse. Please don’t sue me Disney for the unregistered citation. Even that one about Dumbo) pass by without noticing the hidden one.

Then there again to those paper faces now replete with singular color with each one being of a different hue from the other. Each face turns around to see another colored paper face behind.

From each square tile, randomly emerges as in a slot machine, in different colors, all that were described next: kings, queens, mauve, fools, etc. All of the faces later ride a carousel with their permanent expressions intact even as the carousel starts running as if in a marathon.

This was followed by a single image as described. Later the word true, being squeezed before the screen by an unseen force on the familiar black background now reads as false as it returns to shape. A curled lip, synchronous swirling of gown edges, again in tiled arrangement, was flashed out by ace of hearts and clown faces later shown to be gulped out of view by numerous colored paper faces, probably the same ones in the carousel. Afterwards, with the images gone, the paper faces lie on their backs and the background turns to white and a different sound from that of the previous manic one prevails.

Again, in tiled formation, come grinning yellow masks replaced by spinning red ones and beige ones in thick granny’s spectacles. A succession proceeded: masks with burning eyes, turning heads which all stop, with the middlemost mask looking out round at the other masks which now surround him in a circle, smiling. These masks then develop red shadows and start breathing brown. Then the shadows jest the masks who laugh in turn while the shadows smirk. All this disappeared and there were leering satyrs followed by peering eyes.

A singular dark paper mask runs on across the dark background, remaining barely perceptible to the right as if hiding then keeps still. At this, the entire background flips from different directions and the once dark screen is now in different colors as each flipped into a paper face of unique color.

Afterwards, the merriment is shown to be in the theater’s office where everyone is hushed by the chilling but modulate manly voice which never fails to be menacing of the phantom singing Why So Silent.

As a change of scene, Raoul catches up on Meg with Madame Giry's Tale/The Fairground. His being an architect then is to account for the contraptions underneath the opera, his personal voyeurism labyrinth. From there it was safe for him to view the world and human relations.

Next was shown Christine taking a cab in Journey to the Cemetery followed by her song for her father before his grave Wishing You were Somehow Here Again. Then bursts in the inauspicious Wandering Child from the phantom followed by the Swordfight as they were followed by Raoul nevertheless.

In the office again happens We Have All Been Blind with the Phantom’s voice booming from afar but it was unknown if he was within earshot or if he ever heard what was plotted against him.

In the midst of Don Juan, Piangi for the title role falls dead and the phantom whispers to Passarino.

The Point of no Return occurs in the phantom’s private hiding, with the chandelier precariously hanging overhead. The next scene proves Giry’s connivance to the phantom duly out of fear of his madness than anything else. Overhearing the pursuer’s voices in Down Once More/Track Down This Murderer, at first the phantom strikes a deal with Christine for Raoul’s life, as Raoul had gone into the right path of the labyrinth that led to them, to manipulate her into submission but decides against it after seeing Christine’s anguish finally, directing their escape.

As the angry mob and marching feet grow closer in sound, the chandelier remains the focus. Then it falls from where it hangs down, crashing loudly and later beneath it is shown the damaged white mask.

That’s how I imagined it. The play’s script remains true. For people remain feeling unloved by their appearances, later transform themselves into something abominable as they wallow in their ugliness which caused their isolation.

All the phantom wanted was love. He only knew of it from a distance since he no longer had any hold in having his needs met if not for mercy or by violence. He was piteous. I cannot blame him from becoming what he became.

The exposition of the story was fast, simply of 7,602 words. With that number of words they were able to tell a story of an orphan girl who loved her father and was sheltered by someone else allowing who she referred to as Angel of Music to dominate her. The phantom who was the angel of music, taught her and found her a vessel of his genius until she became the only firm and hopeful relations he had. With that set-up, it was not impossible for the phantom to accord Christine with love. And with his influence upon her, of course it was only natural that he would use it to manipulate her. Christine also had no one else to depend on other than her angel of music who became so much of who she is. In the end it could be surmised that this bond between Christine and the phantom was lasting as Raoul, who could safely be deduced as her husband then, even bought in an auction lot 666, an apt designation, the chandelier of the forlorn and outcast phantom of the opera.

Lunes, Disyembre 10, 2012

Finding the Miser


10 December 2012


The human mind and its precepts are amazing. The brain itself anatomically speaks of the complexity of humans. I cannot blame myself for having twisted ideals into monstrous forms; the mind itself is convoluted and crammed in a small space.

Yes, the logic of living within meager expenses is practical and helpful. But having poverty as a mindset, an off-shoot that grew out unchecked, is wrong. It fertilizes the idea that one would never have enough. It would lead to a false state of contentment wherein one could be content with what one has, appreciating it only to have longings within one’s heart for something perceived as better but could never be attained. That type of satisfaction does not guarantee not wanting anything else than what one has.

The limits set on by economic status are large in scope. I never thought it was that encompassing if not for actual experience. I knew that it is influential but the settling of that fact wasn’t as effective as that which was learned in reality. One would have to shape ones’ entire life according to it and somehow dictated by it. I would’ve refuted that. I would’ve worked to not let finances get in my way of life but I didn’t; I was consumed and lived in the tenets of financial deprivation. I was Cinderella’s step sisters, cutting off heel and toe to make the shoe fit.

If not for a robot necklace, it would be lost to me that I was way deep into that muck of poverty ascribing and self-asserted loss of self-esteem, freedom and power.

Yesterday, Gab and I were busy checking out accessories. We were looking for a long necklace with a simple, statement pendant. I was looking out for her. It was she who wanted one. I ended up wanting one for myself as well. Then we were out of Robinson’s Place Manila. By the sidewalk on P.Gil, I was instantly into this necklace with a metal robot with sparkly eyes and slightly movable arms and legs. I bought it though it wasn’t a necessity. It costs Php 50. I bought it at once because I knew I wanted it. But with that in my hand, I thought I was giving Gab bad feelings. It was she who was looking out for a necklace but I got one that interested her for myself. I felt that she felt cheated because she wanted to have it but I ended up owning it. I was deep in thought if I would give it to her or keep it to myself. So I was quiet and surely I appeared distraught. I lied to her and said that I don’t know if I should have the item for myself. She even offered to buy it out for me. I kept on thinking that she was having it hard because I got it. Then she kept on warding me off the bad feeling I have, not knowing that the actual trigger of it was my guilt for getting the item for myself even if my friend wanted it. She thought my qualms were about having to spend for myself. Then she expounded that I was like that. That I was pinching on my peso coins tightly and hate parting with them. That’s when it struck me. I am a first-degree miser.

She pressed on by saying that I should reward myself sometimes and that well, what I’m losing is just money; I can always earn it back. In my mind I added, but the joy that comes with being able to treat oneself cannot always present itself so take the opportunity when it comes. You shouldn’t wait for other people to treat you well before you get to experience those wonderful things.

I rarely treated myself out to any luxury or extravagance. I felt awkward with it. the constraints on spending I have set also stifled my social skills and adeptness I become uncomfortable with attention especially when I start sensing that I’m already receiving too much of it. I rather I be given the same as everyone else. But I demand appreciation for what I have done. Resentments begin from my perception of my unnoticed long-suffering. I have denied myself too much and taken on responsibilities that were likely unfavorable for anyone. So I became older than my time.

That brings me back to what my parents always said when they were always letting us have the choice parts in food. They always denied themselves from those because they already had their fill, that’s what they said. What a beautiful reply! Us, the children wouldn’t feel bothered that we were removing from our parents their opportunity to enjoy that food.

What I did on my own was to deny myself everything not necessary and consider everything else luxuries, much like a puritan. Even in working, I am like that, doing things that have to be accomplished or fixing on everything that doesn’t appear right for me. So I grow resentful when I am unappreciated for doing things that I did because it was right even if I didn’t want to do it. I was always of the idea that I am already on the edge for my martyrdom and one little push would cause my patience to erupt into seething anger. I expected others to not only commend me for working but to work as well as I do because I set an example for them. I always end up sensing I was downplayed and cheated so I resent those people who work with me who do not level up their efforts. How would I fare with that in real professional, office-based life? That would be a catastrophe.

A double learning experience that was. I realized the uptight me that was functioning every time which I was unaware of. It opened my eyes to what I was doing to myself by that self-imposed delayed gratification. I was brewing discontent and envy and false condemnation on everyone by prejudice. It disrupted my wonder and amazement for all things, my open-mindedness for experience , any relationship with new people and my excitement for life in general. I was living as if I had experienced life twice over and not found any amount of joy in it. I am not in retirement age yet to be of that thinking. I am no old person who waits for life to be taken away. No! I am making myself senile and decrepit before my time. That embittered manner of thought is the mindset of the old. I choose to be like the old people who aged gracefully; always filled with zeal for what tomorrow may bring and what they may create and give out to the world for each moment.