"Polytony"

It's Monday morning. And I'm home, surfing the net, uploading pictures, updating my dormant blog, reading Smoke and Mirrors of Neil Gaiman while my ailing computer tries to catch up with every mouseclick, alt+tab, and other keystroke.

I am on leave from work. For one week. One whole week. No work. No coding. No program comments. No technical investigations. No Eclipse, no Oracle, no EDC, not even Jabber. Ok, maybe I'll miss Jabber. Or specifically, the people whom I jab with. I've gotten used to greeting everyone good morning in Jabber.

The plan is to just break the monotony. Of course, that was not the official reason in my leave application. But I'm sure my team leads (Yes, that is supposed to be plural) would understand, even if I stated it that way. I've been working for over two years with no real vacation yet. I have no particular plans to travel this week. Besides, I feel it wouldn't really be fun without my travel buddies. And travel usually requires another vacation for rest. Me, I'm just going to stay at home. Catch up on my reading, my writing, my movie-watching. Catch my breath. Catch up with myself.

I was up at 5.30 this morning. But unlike other mornings, I was not in a hurry. Took a bath, read a couple of pages from one of the books I brought home. My Mama and I took a leisurely walk. We were in the quest of the best pancit palabok within a two-subdivision radius. We found it in a carinderia-slash-garage of Aling Fe. Best of all, only ten pesos! What a deal! :)

Walking back home, we passed by a roadside vegetable stand. While my Mama puttered around the cabbages, tomatoes, and what-have-you, I took pictures of the veggies. These are the same pictures I uploaded as an album in Multiply. I ended up lugging almost five kilos worth of vegetation. I just wanted fresh air, I got more than I bargained for - arm workout.

There's so much things I want to do this week. Meet up with old friends. Go finally see my dentist. Watch sunrises and sunsets. Take long walks by myself. Dusks. I don't know. It feels like I have this week to like my life and myself again. Reassure myself that I'm ok.

I'm thinking of it as a reboot. And I've just hit Ctrl+Alt+Del. (Aargh, I guess my vocabulary hasn't caught up with the whole concept yet.)

Matches and Gasoline

And so here comes that day again. Freaking Feb 14. And before anyone would accuse me of being this bitter, unattached, and scorned female, let me just put up my defenses for a minute, ok?

I most certainly am not a bitter person, ladies and gentlemen. Although, I am the the perfect candidate - since, after all, I am single, already in my mid-twenties, and I do basically distrust guys. I'm not bitter. I'm mostly... uhm - I'm looking for an erudite word here, but the term "annoyed" keeps on volunteering itself for usage.

So, let's settle with that. I am annoyed.

I guess this is the point where I pose the rhetorical question, "Why?" (Oh, how I hate being predictable.) So why am I annoyed at this supposedly love-filled time of the year? Where everywhere you look, you find roses, chocolates, greeting cards, and any other commercially lucrative product that can be stamped with a "Happy Valentines". Thanks to those enterprising companies who found a way to cash in on the gullible sheep mentality of the human race, the idea of love is now a commodity. No different from the season's latest fashion or technology's latest innovation. Price tagged, bought, tied with a bow, and sent. Signed, sealed, delivered, it's yours. Now, I'm not a socialist. I'm all for capitalism. I just don't like the idea of love being cheapened somewhat by all this circus.

And there's that nagging pressure of having love in my own life during this time of year. I get these concerns on my single status from those I interact with. Am I more single on Feb 14 than any other day of the year? Why do I get more question on why am I single? Why haven't I found the right one? Why do I distrust guys?

See? This is why I am annoyed. I don't have the patience to repeatedly explain that I happen to like being single, that I am not actively looking for anyone to mess up my life - oh, sorry - to be in my life, and I distrust guys - especially charming ones - because most of time, they just end up being dense, shallow, narcissistic jerks.

Interesting. My passionate ranting has caused me to see red all over. Finally, I have something in common with this heaven-forsaken occasion.

Happy Valentine's Day, people. For whatever that greeting's worth, coming from me.

--

The entry title is from a song by the band Live - the title and exact lyrics of which escape me at the moment. Something like, "It's amazing what we can do with love. With some matches and gasoline - do with love". If any of you happen to know the song, please do let me know. Thanks.

Indecisions

What is it about being at this point in our lives -- mid-twenties, I guess -- that renders us conflicted with decisions. Switching careers. Migrating abroad. Settling down.

Seems that there are too many crossroads to ponder and choose from. It's more tangible at this age. I am explicitly aware that whatever I decide now, will definitely make a lasting impact long term in my life. And I'm overwhelmed, frankly.

Who, what, where do I want to be?

Is it too pathetic to admit that I haven't figured it out just yet? I have my desires. I don't have a gameplan.

I spend ten to fifteen hours a day, six days a week in front of a computer. Not exactly unhappy, but incapable of finding time to find myself. I've always made that as an excuse. If I had the all the time in the world for discernment, would I finally get it?

Sad thought if I don't. But I need not worry, apparently, since I do not even have the time to blog sensibly - I won't have enough time to get all depressed.

The status quo works out so perfectly.

Crow is now (offline, offline)

A teammate of mine recently resigned from work to transfer to the "other" company. In the office, we jokingly refer to his new company as the "Happy Place", deliberately changing what the actual acronym stands for. You do the math. (I feel like it's bad form to mention the name outright.) One of the reasons he's transferring is that he wanted to be nearer his girlfriend.

Our sendoff brunch for Patrick was a bittersweet affair. I can't believe I just described something as a "bittersweet affair". I haven't written in a long while and I'm resorting to cliches. Pathetic. Anyway. It's been more than a year that we have all been working together in our project and we are known as one of the closest teams in the company. So it isn't really overboard to say that it was somewhat a big deal that one of us is leaving. But it turned out to be a lighthearted, cool affair. We laughed while recounting funny moments we shared. The screwups we did. The time we generated that fake urgent email addressed to our team leader for her congratulatory promotion surprise party.

It's tradition to send a farewell email addressed to all the employees when someone resigns. Usually, general thank yous and goodbyes to the company as a whole. In Patrick's case, however, early on his last day, he mentioned that he wanted everyone to know the real people behind each of us, his teammates.

I was the only other person left in our block when Patrick logged out for the last time. He came by my workstation and we hugged. I told him I wasn't going to mushy since we'd still see each other around. Of course, he said, and finally left.

And then his farewell email popped in my inbox. It was a long email. He had a paragraph for each one of us in the team, mentioning our trademark characteristics and quoting our patented lines ("Are you mocking me?" - Karl; "O, ha? Sabong panlaba!" - Virg). It was hilarious. He thanked us for the sendoff, for the gifts, for the card we made him with all our pictures. He said that no matter where he goes, he will always look for the feeling of being part of our team. Aaww. That was so sweet. It was so touching without being sappy. In his email, he answered the question I asked him that he was unable to answer early that morning. What his best moment was. He wrote that it was that time not long ago that he finally got to see me frazzled.

The next day, a lot of our officemates came up to our team to joke about the Patrick's farewell email. One of them asked me whether one of the things Patrick said was true. I told her laughingly that he was just probably misled.

Patrick thanked me for being a good person. And that because of me, he is inspired sometimes to be a good person himself. Just inspire and only sometimes ("hehehe").

That was sooo Patrick.

Someone's Turning Eight Today

I'm fond of kids. Not in the i-want-one-of-my-own way nor in the way the witch in Hansel and Gretel likes kids. Naah, not like that. I like kids because they're fun to look at. Except when they're throwing tantrums and making their parents transform into... well, not-so-parentlike people.

But in general, they're so amusing. There was one kid, for instance, who was so sleepy she wouldn't wake up even while her mother was rubbing her cheeks. They were about to get off the shuttle already and the mother was starting to get flustered since she was also lugging grocery bags. The daughter was so oblivious to her surroundings. The heck with everything, she's sleeping. Good for her. (Not-so-good for the mom, though.)

I was on an elevator with two brothers, probably eight and ten years old. They were with their mom, but she was too busy with her PDA. The boys were pretending that their dad was invisible and that whenever the elevator door closes and opens, they would guess whether their dad just came in or just went out. Cool kids.

There's actually a kid right now beside me in this internet cafe workstation who's poking me with a new unopened toothbrush. I've been waving at him and saying hello, but so far, the only response I get is a pair of wide eyes. Unblinking too, if I might add.

I was walking earlier today when I saw a middle-aged lady carrying a box of cake with a number eight candle taped on top of the box. I like kids so much that they amuse me even if I don't actually see them. I could just imagine the look on the kid's face when the lady comes home and sticks that candle in the middle of the cake and lights it. Priceless.

Wherever you are, happy birthday, kid. Have a great life.

The Fspecs Weekend

The security guard at the mall's entrance greeted me with the standard "good afternoon, ma'am" and gestured as usual that I was to open my bag for inspection. Sure. Wasn't bringing any explosives at the time. I found out, though, that I brought my fspecs with me. Not that it came as a surprise. I did place them in the bag myself. But at that particular moment when I saw them, it was so... unexpected. I was overwhelmed by how geeky it was to have a thick bundle of fspecs in one's bag while going inside the mall on a Saturday afternoon.

And, oh, of course, I've singlehandedly ostracized readers not from my field. Fspecs - or functional specifications - are what I'm being paid to do. Well, partly. It's not all I do, anyhow. They're blueprints, if you will, of the software systems we build. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to take them out of the office and I'm not even sure if I'll even have time to read them over the weekend. I'm sure though, that it's not... hmm, healthy. It's almost a disservice to one's self to read fspecs over the weekend - gosh, the weekend - instead of watching DVDs, catching up on sleep, getting fresh air, strolling in the park, saving endangered species, reenacting the opening scene of The Sound of Music ("... the hills are alive..."), taking a trip around the world, working for world peace...

Oh-kay.

I think I brought the freaking fspecs with me because my deadline's on thursday and I still have no idea what each button click is supposed to do. And being the obsessive-compulsive geek that I am, just the mere thought that I have the documents in my near proximity somewhat settles my nagging, stressed out mind.

Have a nice weekend, everyone. If I can't have it, I'm wishing it for you, at least.

Fifteen Years Later

I'm meeting my gradeschool bestfriend next month. It's been almost a year since I started work here in Manila but we've never had the chance to see each other yet. I guess we were too busy. But also partly because I am a little hesitant. For a whole lot of reasons.

First of all, I haven't seen her since we were in the fifth grade. Ten years old. I mean, that's a whole lot of time. Where do we start to catch up? Too many things have happened. How do you rank the most relevant ones? Did anything relevant happen, in the first place?

I am overwhelmed by the idea of being confronted with who I was and who I've become. I think that seeing someone so close to me from my past would force me to evaluate my life. A crash course on My Life 101. What happened, what changed. Did I become who I wanted to be when I was ten? I don't exactly remember what I wanted to be when I was a kid. I wasn't consistent, that's why. At one point, I wanted to be a doctor (Or I think it was just my mother who wanted me to become one). I don't remember wanting to spend six days a week in front of a computer, but that's what I ended up doing now.

I'm not worried that my life would pale in comparison to my friends. Because I like my life, despite the occassional annoyances. I've been through so many screwups in the past that I feel like I'm fairly equipped to face whatever's ahead.

I think my ten-year-old self wouldn't be too disappointed how I turned out to be.

Bird-Lover

Don't you think it's amazing how little our very own parents know about us, but where it essentially counts, they're the best people who understands us thoroughly in and out?

I'm not making a sweeping generalization. But most parents really don't keep the same close connection with their children when they hit adolescence. I think they get fixated on their kids' childhood when they still had a hold on what they think or do. I suspect that my mother still thinks that my penmanship remains cartoony with large loops (It is most certainly not like that anymore, I'd like to inform you all.). Or my dad still thinks that I am deathly afraid of walking alone in the streets. He never forgot the time I ran back home when he asked me to buy suha all by myself for the first time (I was around ten.).

What are things about you that your own parents don't know about? I bet there's a whole lot. I once wrote a short story about my friend, Ryan, based on something he told his mother. (I hope he doesn't mind me mentioning this here.) He said that she would never understand him because she doesn't even know what books he reads. Some people will think that knowing the books is not a big deal. But it is. It's just a matter of realizing that certain books can change someone's outlook in life.

My writing is something my family doesn't know about, or just know superficially. But this matter is something that deserves its own different story. Its own different novel, for crying out loud. I have so many unresolved issues with this, which I hope I'd get over someday. I'll keep you posted.

Anyway, I was trying to get to my point (and I do have one, despite the deceptive aimless meandering) that sometimes it doesn't matter that much if your parents don't know anymore what music you listen to, or who your new friends are, or what your views on suicide and religion are.

There's this cosmic energy, if you will, that binds us with our parents that never fails to inform them the essentials of our own beings. Our happiness, our sadness, our anger, our frustrations, our peace of mind. They're our personal resident psychics in this world and lifetime, that even without solicited consultation, they will be able to point out how you are and more importantly, who you are.

How did this epiphany hit me? It was New Year's Eve, I think, when I was reading an old children's encyclopedia off my aunt's bookshelves. The whole two-inch thick volume was all about the evolution and appreciation of visual art written as an instructional material to children and young teens. It has always been an absorbing read ever since I was a kid and I invariably browsed through it each time we came over their house. I didn't notice that my mother was keenly observing me until she interrupted my reading. She had this pensive look on her face.

She told me in our family's patented hodge-podge English-Tagalog-Visayan mode of communication, which I'm going to simplify here for readability: "Bom, you have a pure spirit. You don't know any midpoints or in-betweens. When you're happy, you heartily laugh out loud. But when you're angry, you're not afraid to show it, too. When you read, you get so absorbed in it. Just like in everything else you do, the world around you ceases to matter."

And of course, that merited the most graceful response from me: a snort.

That's what's amazing about it. She could sum me up into something so simple that it's almost right. Who else but one's own mother can cut through delusional complexities of one's self and just trim it down to the most rudimentary things? How did she come up with these things, anyway? To think that these profound insightful assessment came from the same person who not so long ago sharply turned to me in mid-conversation and in a shocked voice asked me, "You're allergic to alcohol?! How did you even know you are?" (Another different story, people. And no, she wasn't referring to ethyl or isopropyl alcohol.)

Alas, I am not the deep, multifaceted, angsty, misunderstood individual I thought I was all along. Apparently, according to my own mother, I'm pure of spirit. Whatever that means.

Pedestrians

It was the afternoon of December 24. Christmas Eve. She and her mother were doing last-minute grocery shopping in one of the convenience stores downtown. Items that were forgotten. A few cans of cream and pineapples. As expected, the place was packed. People busily moving along the aisles. Long queues at the cashier.

Finally, after paying at the counter, they emerge out of the air-conditioned store and into the loud and crowded street. Traffic was uncommonly heavy as ambulant vendors placed their goods way beyond the sidewalk, encroaching their display space into the narrow street itself. Nobody seemed to mind. The throngs of passersby were thankful that they could buy their fruits without even going inside the market. The tricycle drivers - those who braved the slow outflow of the route - also didn't mind the traffic, as they were a lot of passengers to pick up, anyway. Even the traffic enforcers themselves didn't mind. After all, it was Christmas Eve.

Her mother paused at the curb and looked wistfully around the festive chaos all around. She then gave out an audible sigh and shook her head.

"What's wrong?" She asked her mother.

Without responding, her mother took her by the hand as they stepped down the curb to cross the street. Halfway, they both paused mid-street to let a tricycle pass by. "I just remembered your uncle, that's all." Her mother dismissingly said.

The daughter nodded and reassuringly held her mother's hand tightly. They both continued crossing until they reached the opposite side. Wiping something from her eyes, she quietly told her daughter, "I just realized it's the first Christmas without my brother."

Up ahead, a vendor was hollering that her apples were only ten pesos apiece.

Snapshots of memories

Magic show at Folk Arts Theater. Tickets from a scalper. M/V Filipina Princess. Plates of pineapple slices. A deep gash from the sharp exposed edge of the iron roof. No crying out of pain. Bags full of fresh fish and vegetables during weekends. The infamous pork stew recipe. Endless cups of coffee during the day - no table sugar, just a tablet of artificial sweetener. The small red car. Early Sunday masses. Immaculate and crisply ironed clothes.

To Uncle Gary. Or Kong as we - his nieces and nephews - affectionately call him, we will miss you.

And I'm sorry I don't know how to write a eulogy.

Walking Home

I found myself yesterday night, getting off the jeepney, still a full block away from the apartment. I had to drop by the small grocery store to buy some stuff - in this case, canned corned beef and tuna, a couple of eggs, a bag of corn chips, and a bottle of liniment. My brother left for Manila early that morning and I had to prepare dinner on my own. Of course, my mom always reminds me that canned goods are "unhealthy". But what the heck.

While walking home, there was this kid who was ahead of me. About two or three years old. One can tell that the skill of walking is still new to him and I kept on worrying whether he'd trip any time because of his quick but uncoordinated feet movement. His mom was walking alongside him, not really paying much attention to her son.

That was one of those rare moments when you're already tired, your defenses are down, it's almost half past nine pm, and the walk home was something you didn't have to concentrate on. Suddenly, probably realizing that there was somebody behind him, the kid turned his head to look at me, while his puppet-like feet movement still staggered on. I smiled at him, gave him a little wave, and mouthed "Hello."

He looked back at me with unchanging expression. He raised his hand to his mother's and walked on. A few meters away, they turned to the corner. I, on the other hand, walked farther on. I climbed the three floors of our building, reached my door, opened it with my key. I switched on the television.

At last, a different voice in the silence.

Oh, brother...

For the past three weeks, our apartment has been at the mercy of our - my brother's and mine - housekeeping skills or lack thereof. We've been asked to take charge of everything until my parents and sister get back.

Now, my Kuya and I get along pretty well. Even back in high school, I'd prefer to watch tv in his room than in Mae's because she gets upset if I crease her bedspread or get crumbs on the floor. In my Kuya's case - well, anything goes.

Without our Mom there to remind us to keep things as immaculately clean as possible, we tend to forget about doing chores like sweeping and mopping the floor, doing and folding laundry, or keeping the kitchen utensils in order.

An advantage of getting along with your siblings is that you agree about what to do, what not to do, what to put off for later, and what not to let our parents know. I bet my mom would have disapproved if she saw us throwing Fuji apples back and forth just to see who's the better catcher. We also get to watch basketball games on tv without switching channels (we're the only family members who want to watch them from start to end).

It also helps that we have similar interests. We analyze my plates for my computer-aided design class and both solve for trigo functions at one am in the morning. We take turns reading the Bible (It's a good thing that the Bible has two markers because I read the Old Testament, and he reads the New). We also take turns with my guitar - he practices while I'm still learning to play.

I am not sure from where we got this, but I notice that we each have our own odd behavior. Once, while watching tv, out of the blue, my Kuya dared me to do at least two clean push-ups and sixteen sit-ups (and boy, how my muscles ached the next morning). He experimented cooking rice toppings and it turned out to be sooo bad that we had to throw everything and had to fry hotdogs instead for lunch. And aside from her borderline neat-freak tendencies, I bet if my sister was left behind with us, she'd also have her share of eccentricities. She has been known to do impromptu interpretative dances while singing off key.

They're coming home in a few days. We already planned to make the place squeaky clean by the time they get back. I just hope that my mom doesn't do another one of her last minute decisions wherein nobody's aware when she's arriving. She's notorious for her indecisions. The long-standing joke is that if she says she'll be at the pier in the morning, fetch her from the airport at night.

I guess I do know where we get the quirks from, after all.

Remember your polygons?

I don't know what's up with my section in Computer Graphics class. I have been ceaselessly teased about knowing my polygons.

Our instructor was enumerating the names of the polygons in the order of increasing number of sides. Triangle, square, pentagon, hexagon, heptagon... you know. And when he got to the polygon with eleven sides, he got stumped and was really trying hard to rake over his memory. I could empathize with that situation since I get so bothered when I forget something. I can't sleep until I text everyone I know if they remember the name of the other guy who hosted Digital Tour, for example. (It was Chunchi Soler, by the way).

Anyway, I spoke up and told him that it was the "undecagon". So everyone turned to look at me and gave me high fives, pats in the back, and hollers. Major classroom disturbance to the nth level.

I'm now known as the "Undecagon girl". Geez.

Heroism

"Why is there a Rizal subject in every course?"

I was standing alone in the hallway when I heard the professor inside the adjacent classroom asked the question in a loud voice. None of his students spoke up, probably stumped.

"Because it's required by the freaking law," I muttered lowly to myself.

The professor broke his classroom's silence inside. "Because in the 1960's, Senator Laurel principally authored a bill stating that all college students have to finish a 3-unit Rizal course as a requirement for graduation."

Damn, I'm good.

"Who among you here are willing to die for your country? Raise your right hand."

I grinned at the question. I was alone and was not feeling self-conscious in reacting to what I was hearing. This could be interesting, I thought.

Silence again from the students. No one was stirring, I could sense.

"No one? No one at all?" There was amusement in the way the professor asked his class. "I would've exempted from the finals those who raised their hands. You know why? Because you don't need to attend my class if you're ready to die for your country. You don't need to learn about Rizal's life. Because you have already imbibed Rizal's values."

Interesting. I spent the rest of the time wating for my next class thinking about what the Rizal professor said.

Would I be willing to die for my country? I don't know. Maybe I would be, but then again, maybe not. I just don't know.

Even if I knew that I would get finals exemption if I raised my hand, I still probably wouldn't have. It feels wrong to pretend to be sure when you doubt yourself.

Readings

After a very long reprieve, at last, I've had the chance to read during the semester break. I didn't have time to read when there was classes. Well, that's not entirely true. I did have idle hours when I could have read something. (When I refer to the term "reading", I mean leisure reading. Not textbooks or any other compulsory school materials. It's inevitable that I read those.) I didn't read during the sem because I feel guilty knowing that I should be spending my hours studying.

Anyway, I finally finished 1984 by George Orwell. I started it about a year-and-a-half ago, but the whole idea of negative utopia got me all depressed and the book took a low priority in my list. Now that I've finished it, I find it very interesting. It still got me depressed, but in a good way - if such a thing is possible. At least, it got me thinking about certaing things. There are a lot of underlying concepts in the story, but the idea of living without privacy was the one that affected me most. Other people like to have an audience or like to always have someone beside them. But for a person like me who sometimes (most of the time) prefer to be alone, I couldn't imagine living in a world where telescreens monitor my every movement. That would be sheer nightmare.

Let me digress. I used to think that preference of solitude was something abnormal. Blame it on all those years when my mother would constantly egg me to "mingle" with the other kids ("What's wrong with you? Don't you want to have more friends? Get out of your shell!"). But after reading the essay of Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas ("Searess and Voyager: Some Notes on the Art of Writing"), I view solitude differently now. I now take pride that I am capable of being with myself. Torrevillas said that if one cannot be alone with one's thoughts, one shouldn't be a writer. I console myself that even if I'm lightyears away from becoming the writer that I want to be, at least, I have that one thing right. To those of you (fellow "wannabe warriors of writing") who are interested to read the whole essay, drop me a message and I'll email the whole thing to you.

After 1984 (corny Lia wants to insert "...is 1985". Ha. ha. ha.), I tackled the thick sheaf of short story printouts that Ryan lent me two years ago. They're mostly short stories in English written by Filipino authors but there were also two about Holden Caulfield written by J.D. Salinger whom Rye and I both admire ("We're not worthy! We're not worthy!"). It was a varied collection of stories. Some are about Filipino life in the US; some about coming of age; and some about young love. My favorite one is "Dead Stars" by Paz Benitez Marquez which, according to the footnote below it, was the short story that gave birth to modern Philippine writing in English. It was amazingly elegant. Poignant. Damn, I wish I could write like that.

I'm also reading the Bible again. I started to read it a couple years back. I wish I could say that I'm reading the Bible because I'm religious. That wouldn't be entirely truthful. Well, I'm a reader. I think that justifies it. I'm more drawn to the Old Testament, though. Don't get me wrong, I like the stories of Jesus in the New Testament gospels, too, but I get hooked on the saga of the Israelites. It has tremendous drama, deceitful ploys, personal betrayals, struggle for power, and God's immense love towards His wayward children. I like the stories of King David and his descendants. I also think the prophet Elijah is really cool. I like the way the Bible mentions the smallest details and how it mentions each person's name and whose child he was and which tribe he belonged in. The Bible is one thorough book. I also found out that one of my nephews was named after the father of King Saul, Kish, and one of the tribal heads of Israel, Jerahmeel. (For a long time, I thought that the kid's name was Kish Jerahmel. It's the Visayan accent. But that's a different story.)

A part of me feels that I'm reading the Bible the "wrong" way. I mean, would it be sacrilege if I say that I read it as I would read any other prose? I sometimes feel that I should be taking it more seriously; that I should be more reflective; or light candles or something. I heard some people even pray before reading the Word of God. Hmm, maybe I am reading it the wrong way.

I just hope there wouldn't be any lightning bolts or dreaded skin diseases involved in the whole repercussion of my actions.

"Now you see it, now you..."

I think my existence is slowly being erased by some unknown power. One by one, this sinister force is swallowing my things into the vortex of oblivion and I am so certain, that eventually, it will come after me. It's just a matter of time.

I am so not freaking kidding.

You can't blame me for the display of this degree of paranoia. I lost my wristwatch, my WWJD bracelet, the pair of earrings that my mother bought for me last Christmas (I hope she never asks me about them), my notebook journal, and my mobile phone charger - all in a span of one week. Now, I dare you to tell me that I'm overreacting.

I always place the watch, bracelet, and earrings on top of the table after taking them off when I come home. Then, just a few days ago, they were all gone (I could imagine Justin Timberlake crooning, "Gooone... Gooone!"). I ransacked the whole room but couldn't find them. They're very inexpensive things. I'm not so sure about the earrings, though (I have no plans of asking my mother their exact worth. I enjoy being alive, thank you very much.). Besides, it's not the cost that matters. I need that brandless watch of mine because my obsessive compulsive disorder requires me to check the time every three minutes on my way to school; I also feel naked without that WWJD bracelet since I've had it for sooo long; and lastly, my mother will kill me if she finds out I lost something she gave me as a present. Again, it's not the cost that matters. My life matters a whole lot more.

My journal is probably my ninth or tenth since I started college. I always, always, always keep my present journal under my bed mattress. I wanted to write something yesterday (some plot draft for a potential short story) and so I tried to reach for it, but it wasn't there anymore. It wasn't anywhere in the room. I even tried to look for it in the box where we keep old textbooks, notebooks, photocopied materials, class cards, exam papers, old demons, and other resilient memories. Not there.

I was already bothered by these disappearances but imagine my utter disbelief earlier this evening when I found out that my cellphone charger was missing, too. It was beside my brother's and my sister's chargers. Theirs are still quietly sitting on the shelf and mine's the only one which has gone AWOL. It's beyond weird. It's mega-weird.

No, I don't think it was a burglar. Who would want my stuff? Why not take something valuable? My computer and all our mobile phones were just sitting there. Or if that was too cumbersome for the culprit, why not my sister's accessories, for crying out loud. She sure as hell spends way more on trinkets than I do. And what kind of pervert would want to take my journal? You see, folks, my journals are like rough sketches, if you will. There are outlines of ideas, but no definite form. More bluntly (and less dramatically), I think I'm the only one who can understand my penmanship in my journal. And my stupid charger is faulty that's why I usually use my sister's. So I don't know what's up with that.

The first time it happened, I was willing to dismiss it as another one of my absentmindedness. The next time, I was going to consider that a playful entity was doing tricks on me. But now, it's something bigger. A dark force, methodically wiping me out from the face of the universe. But It has not considered one thing: I am now aware of It's plan. I have the edge, my friends. The advantage. The upper hand.

Any good suggestions for a hiding place for my favorite books?

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.