Guitar

My fingertips are sore. Each time I touch anything, I feel a tinge of pain. It's as if the skin in the tips of my fingers have been hypersensitized to pick up every minute texture it encounters.

And I like it.

I like the thought that I am suffering in pain for arts' sake. Whatever the hell that means. You see, my dear ladies and gentlemen, I've decided to embark on the journey of learning how to play the guitar.

Let me be the first to admit to you that - although my mother named me after the patron saint of music, St. Cecilia, in the hopes that I grow up to be a musical prodigy - I have never displayed any significant musical inclination whatsoever.

When I was little, my mother made me take piano lessons during one summer, but I only attended a few weeks and then stopped because I wanted to go with my parents to their vacation trip. I never picked up where I left off.

But music is not an alien thing to me. In fact, being such a universal concept, I don't think it can be alien to anybody at all. In my maternal side of the family, there are those who can sing or play instruments. My grandfather, who died long before I was born, was a musician. According to older relatives, he played a wide variety of instruments, but was most known for his saxophone solos.

Now, I'm wondering why I didn't get some of those genetic traits. Lolo didn't have any formal musical education, he just knew how to make music instantly - like magic. It seems so unfair that I have to refer to a book on how a 'C' sound is made. Or how many upwards and downwards strums I should make to have the correct rhythm. Or which strings to pluck.

I sometimes feel like an impostor trying to learn something that ought to be natural. Just sometimes. The other times, I just feel so damn good that I'm finally doing something I've always wanted to try out. I've had soooo many to-do list or want-to-do-list that were buried in forgetfulness.

Buying my first guitar this week was awkward, to say the least. My sister Mae and I originally wanted to go to Opon or Lapu-lapu because these parts of Cebu is practically synonymous to well-made guitars. But we ended up just mall-hopping since we were both chicken about riding the wrong jeepney or bus and getting lost in these areas which are unfamiliar to us. And since we have no expertise in the matter, we were asking the wrong questions ("Does this one come in any other color except green?", "Don't you have one with that one's body color, but this one's pick guard?") One would think we were buying shoes and not a guitar.

The guitar I got is dark brown/maroon. Its weight is lighter than most of the other ones I checked out. I peeled off the repulsively-designed pick guard that it had. It looks pretty sleeker now.

Enough of that.

So now, my fingertips are sore and my roommates are getting deaf with my practice.

Life's good.

Playing Hooky

I never wanted to go in the first place. I would just like to put that on record. But you know how these things go. First, you have a firm refusal. Then, you think about just staying for an hour or two. And the next thing you know, you've spent the night and missed one seatwork, one oral recitation, one report discussion, and two chapter quizzes.

Such is life, my friends.

Of course, there are people to blame (and just to be consistent on the washing-my-hands-off-guilt, I'm not including myself in this list). I blame Jansen for inviting us to use his free overnight stay at the Waterfront Hotel. I blame my sister Mae for convincing me that I could just bring my notes and study there. I also partially blame my friends Ryan and Abad because they agreed to meet Mae at the hotel and I wanted to see them, too, because it's been a while since we last talked.

So I went. I rationalized that I could bring my notes and a change of clothes. The next day was, after all, a wash day in school and I didn't have to wear my uniform (my college uniform deserves a separate blog entry just for itself. I'm potentially entitling it with: "May I take your order, Sir?". Intriguing? Hardly. More like repulsive.)

Anyway, so we checked in at the hotel around four or five o'clock. It was a nice and spacious room and it had a nice view of the city from the seventh floor. The minute we got there, Mae started inspecting the food in the mini-bar while Ryan immediately ran a hot bath in the tub. Me? I zoned in on one thing and one thing alone - the cable TV.

After months of putting up with local television in the boarding house, I, at last, have more than 60 channels right at the tip of my fingertips. HBO. Cinemax. Discovery. Nickelodeon. Cartoon Network. Disney Channel! And loads more! It's almost too much for my heart to handle. Almost. ;)

Ryan had a training exam that night and was studying his four-inch thick black binder. I call it "The Book of Shadows" because Mae has one exactly like it. She has already passed her exam a few weeks back and was helping Ryan review. Both of them are under the same account of the call center company they work for (they're tech support engineers). The exam is very crucial as failing it could mean dismissal.

While they were talking about DSL modems, DNS servers, POP, and other TLA's (Three Letter Acronyms), I was occupying myself with an episode of The Simpsons. It's the one where Lisa pretends to be a college student. Notice how the atmosphere of studying around me did not encourage me to open my own SAD notes.

"Ano pala ang klase mo bukas na kailangang mong pag-aralan?"

"SAD ako bukas."

"You're sad? Why?"

"Huh?"

"Bakit ka naman sad?"

"Ngyek. Systems Analysis and Design ang exam ko bukas."

Abad came over around eight o'clock that evening. She brought us McDonald's cheeseburger meals with upsized Sprite and fries. Food + friends + a private room = nonstop chatting and laughter. It was kind of a bummer than Ryan had to leave for his exam by nine. We all wished him good luck before he left. The tricky part about wishing Ryan well is that I have to remind myself not to say, "God bless" which is what I usually say to somebody in this kind of situation. Since he has issues on that, we all do the "Good luck", "Break a leg", "You can do it" routine with him.

Anyway, when Ryan left, Abad and I watched a rerun of Men In Black II. Mae was already sleeping. After the movie, we watched the premiere episode of the farewell season of Sex and the City. I like comedy series. But I like cartoons better. My mother always reminds me of my age whenever I watch animation. I don't get why. Abad doesn't get that same "You're too old for cartoons" shtick. Her parents are not around and her grandma pretty much lets her do what she wants. Abad's favorite cartoon is the skunk. You know, the French romantic skunk who once chased a painted cat all over. That skunk. She wishes that there was a video compilation of all the skunk's looney tunes episodes. Are my friends something or what?

Abad left at around midnight. I dozed off with the television on. I woke up at around 6.30 am. Mae, Jansen, and his wife, Mariechu were already sitting on the table and making plans for breakfast. At that point, I was still debating with myself whether I could afford not to go to school. Let's see. What are the things that I will be missing if I don't show up? Ten points in Flowcharting, thirty in SAD, fifteen in Komunikasyon, twenty in File Org, thirty in ISO - makes roughly over a hundred points.

The hell with it.

Spontaneity, people, is not worrying about the outcome of your spur-of-the-moment decisions. It is the essence of being alive snatched up from the controls of everyday responsibility. It is the child inside each one of us, struggling to break free from the clutches of superficial importance. Nurture that child, people. Let it grow without restrictions. Freely. Peacefully.

So, after the hearty breakfast at the cafe in the hotel lobby, we went to the Duty Free shop and bought a few items. It was kind of weird because everything was price-tagged in dollars but we pay the cashier in pesos. I know I should feel some sort of outrage brought about by a sense of nationalism. I'm just not sure which.

Anyway, I went home late that afternoon. It was oven-hot in our dorm room. And our television reception would only get decently clear when the antenna is 24.4 degrees from the floor, directly pointing to the orbit of Jupiter, and I'm holding it with one hand on the tip of my nose. No more cool airconditioned air and 60+ cable channels.

Welcome back to the real world, kid.

Tutoring

Early last month, my college dean asked me to tutor her niece in Math for the UPCAT (that's University of the Philippines College Admissions Test, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the acronym). Now, this seems like an ordinary circumstance except for the fact that it reeks of irony.

Undeniable, blatant, potent irony.

The former-UP-student-who-failed-Math-N-times is asked to tutor Math for the UP entrance exams. What's wrong with this picture? But the dean (who was also my adviser in UP before she was pirated by the private institute) seemed pretty confident that I could handle high school Math. My Calculus failures didn't seem to matter that much in the situation, so I agreed to tutor.

Besides, I did pass the UPCAT. With scores high enough to admit me to UP Manila for the BS Physical Therapy program and to UP Diliman for the BS Computer Engineering program - both of which are quota courses, if I may not-so-humbly add. (ahem! LOL)

Cyrielle's an amusing kid. Before we started, I thought I'd have a hard time with her because of her private Catholic school upbringing and her privileged life (and all the other implications of those things). I thought that she'd be this stuck-up, bratty, rich kid who was a pain in the neck. But she's not. She's basically just a funny and bubbly girl. Her aunt would constantly remind her to sit properly and not just slump down on the chair. Skirts. Thank heavens I'm not in high school anymore.

Anyway, she seemed pretty eager to learn which made it easier for me. I was afraid that I would have to force myself into someone who had no interest in what I have to share. And she's not slow at all. Just a little careless, especially with integer operations. ("Negative five plus negative three is equal to ... uhm, negative two?" Awright.)

Cy calls me "Ate Cecil", out of respect. I am, after all, a good couple of years her senior. What I like most about tutoring her is having a sense of responsibility. I'm the youngest in the family and didn't have that many chances to be the one to give advice on something I have previous experience in. So this was a change of role for me. When we're done solving algebra and trigo problems, Cy would ask me about UP and other things that might be useful to her. I share with her practical things that can't be learned through academics.

Don't spend too much time on a single item. Skip the long ones and just come back to them if you have time left. If you are absolutely clueless on a question, don't answer it at all; the UPCAT is a right-minus-wrong exam. Pace yourself; estimate the longest possible time you can spend on one number. Get enough rest the night before. Eat chocolates. Bring your favorite small object -- like a brightly-colored eraser or a shiny paperweight; the exam is five hours long, it would be relaxing to look at something cheerful and familiar every once in a while instead of black and white paper all throughout the whole duration.

The last advice was actually given to me by a distant cousin back when I was about to take the Pisay exams. He's an alumnus of the prestigious high school and eventually finished two courses in college with honors. Come to think of it, he became a little crazy for a while because of his mental exertions so I'm not so sure that I should've given his advice to someone else. Hmm.

One of the things I've learned through this tutoring experience is that teaching is not a joke. I took it seriously. I always prepared my materials whenever we have a session. I read and studied everything in advance, although it's like I was just reviewing my high school Math. I made sure I had alternate solutions so I can pick one which can be understood more easily. I didn't take it lightly because I knew that whatever I say will be accepted as truth and that anything that I'm unsure of will be confusing more to whoever listens to me. If I was not able to show up for a session, I text Cy in advance so she won't wait for me and I tell her my reason and apologize if it was any inconvenience for her. And I'm never late. Never.

If only some of my own instructors have the same ethics. Some of them just, frankly speaking, suck.

It's a tough responsibility, but also one that is fulfilling. After a long and bloody solution that leads to a simple and correct answer, Cy would grin widely and say, "That's so amazing!" And I find that so cool, because I feel that I'm somehow instrumental in her appreciation of the subject.

On the day of her UPCAT exam, we met for an hour, but we didn't discuss about Math. We just talked about her plans, and her state of nerves. She was so relaxed that morning while I was the one who was filled with tension. I couldn't stop worrying about her the whole afternoon while she took the exam and wondered how she was doing. Later that night, she texted me. "Ate Cecil, thanks for all the help. Most probably I'm going to pass and it's because of you, really. Take care and God bless. Thanks for your prayers. =)"

I was so touched that she thought about thanking me when the real work's actually on her end. I was just so relieved that her exam went well and I really wish that she indeed passed it. I sure as hell didn't have that same confidence after I took the UPCAT. I never really expected that I would pass it. And to think that I have the co-ed advantage.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about the co-ed advantage. One of the things that Cy asked me was if the examinees were arranged by school. I told her no; that they would be arranged by the examination slip numbers.

"So there will be boys in the same room taking the exam?"

"Huh?" I didn't get the question. Of course, there will be boys taking the exam, too.

"I mean, students from other schools will be taking the exam with us. Some of them will be boys, right?"

Omigod. I forgot she has always been an exclusive all-girls Catholic school student.

"Yeah, Cy, there'll be boys around. I know you're not used to that, but just don't get distracted."

There'll be plenty of time for that when you're in college. Loads of time. Even loads more of distractions.

Growing up, getting down

When I was younger -- pre-school, I think -- there were a lot of times when my mother would be away for periods of time on business. She ran her own small scale supplies trade and had a lot of things to attend to. Most of the time, she was in the city transacting deals.

Like most kids, I hated being away from my mother. I would wail and yell whenever she travels. She'd bring us treats every time she came back and it would make me forgive her for leaving us at home. But I never forgot how bad I felt when she went away. It's an empty feeling.

Back then, I thought of giving her one end of a thread when she has to go somewhere far and then I'd hold the other end. Somehow, in my child's head, it was important to me that I have something to hold on to that was connected to my mother. It felt like she's just with me and the thread was evidence that I was not left alone.

I'm trying to remember at which point in my life I graduated from that phase. But I can't. I wish I could remember the exact moment when I realized: that the thread idea was stupid; that I didn't mind being left behind anymore; that I don't get everything I want; that life works in a certain way and that I don't have control over it some of the time, most of the time, all of the time.

I want to find out when I grew up. And if it was worth it.

Maybe there comes a time in a person's life when growing up seems like a downer. Maybe the person is in a depressingly contemplative stage. Maybe the person thinks if the transition point from childhood to adulthood is defined, one can find closure and move on to a better future.

Maybe I'm just wishful thinking.

Being a child is the time when a spool of thread is endless. Being a grown-up is the time when a spool of thread is just something stored in the bottom drawer.

Curbside Reflections

I take a twenty-minute jeepney ride every day on my way to school. There's an old abandoned house that I pass by which I always notice. Its walls are spray-painted with graffiti and its windows are boarded up with planks of wood. Apart from the dilapidated appearance of the house, what catches my notice about is the old man whom I usually see sitting on the floor of the front porch.

The old man is a scavenger. He has long, unruly hair and his skin is covered with dirt and grease. His clothes are tattered and his feet are bare. He could've been any other homeless person on the street except for one thing. I always see him -- sitting on that porch with sheets of paper on his knees and a pile of pens on his side -- writing.

He chooses to write. I bet a lot of people would disapprove of a tramp who spends his whole day writing and not doing anything constructive. But what if writing is all he wants to do? Shouldn't he be given credit for just going after what makes him happy and complete?

Maybe in his realm of reality, nothing is as important as being able to put his thoughts into paper. Nothing else. Not food, not shelter, not clothes. Absolutely nothing else. How many of us sane people display that intense passion? Maybe sanity is just a scapegoat for cowardice. That convention is not normalcy but just the politically correct label for taking the easy way out.

Because if you love something, there should be no question in your heart nor your mind. You just take the leap. You just sit right down with your pen and paper, unmindful of your personal state and the rush of people passing by and judging you.

I envy him as hell.