room for squares

2011 Wishlist Part 1: (Or A Lez Guide to Boring Fashion)

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 18:48:00 +0000

It's been three years (I think) since I last made one of these, but today I figured I needed something to look forward to--hence, a very materialistic wishlist.

This isn't necessarily a Christmas wishlist, and certainly not a list of things I expect/hope other people would give me. (Unless you, dear reader, happen to be a very generous soul--then by all means, make me happy!) Nope, this is more of a list of the things I want to save up for, mostly to remind myself that I need money--thus I need a job; thus I need to graduate already; thus I seriously need to stop slacking off. I took yet another unmotivated schoolwork-day off for this, so I hope it works.

This post's OST: Nickelback - Rockstar

Clothes; Accessories; Unspeakable Vanity

Halfway into making this list, I realized that 80% of the things I wanted were for my wardrobe. When (and how) did I go from hopelessly drab to cluelessly vain?

Shoes

As of late I have exactly three shoes: my much-loved, extremely fragile Oxfords (for corporate and pumoporma lang affairs), my slightly oversized 40th anniversary reissue Gola Harriers (which I don't wear often because of their bulk), and my classic white leather Keds Champions (which has finally succumbed to my abuse and now has a hole along the side). I guess it's not too much to want another pair or two?

I'm obviously a Keds die-hard fan. This pair of Oiled Keds Champions comes in gray or brown.
Both are awesome but I prefer the former. I haven't seen one in stores, but I'm crossing my fingers.

Vans Era Two-Tone, in either blue and gray, or black and gray.
I think I'm done with white sneakers in the meantime.

Can't have too many Oxfords, I guess? My old pair will retire
in about half a year, so I better get ready with new ones.
Also, I need other leather shoes to match my work clothes. Boots will work too.

A pair of Sanuk June Bugs would come in handy during my lazier days.

Less bulk than sneakers, and not slippers. (I'm not a great fan of slippers since my

feet had an unfortunate run-in with a crude, disgusting jeepney driver and his spitball.)

Clothes

I need to upgrade my clothes from too-lazy-to-get-dressed college mode to a more corporate look. My mom's had the foresight to stock up on some shirts and pants, but they're still limited. Plus, all this stress eating has been putting pressure on the seams of my unfortunate slacks--months ago during my internship, I split a seam right as I had just arrived at the office (that was at around 8 a..m., and I usually left at 7 p.m.).

Which is why I need new, better-fitting trousers. I've already donated the smaller ones to my sister;
plus I don't like flared pants. I may be long-legged but I'm certainly not tall.

I might have this slightly unhealthy obsession with vests.
It's just that they look good on me, most of the time. Also, cardigans!
And awesome blazers like that Topshop Kate Moss one (Tegan-style).

More plain white button-downs! Mother dearest buys mostly pastel-colored,

patterned ones--which I love, but it makes color-coordination a chore.

I need enough plain whites for those days when I'm too

sleepy/tired/migrained to give a damn about colors.

Accessories

Gone are the days when scrunchies passed for accessories to me. I never figured why people would spend for accessories--until now.

I'm starting a tie collection--with the first being a solid black tie
I bought for my yearbook creative shot.

Now I'm constantly on the hunt for skinny ties, preferably with geometric designs.
Also, check out these ties of the ~~future~~ present from Knot Theory.

For the love of all things preppy and gay, I might as well try bow ties while I'm at it, right?

I've been out of the loop with belts (horrible pun intended), because my trusty military-style

webbed belt has been the only one holding my jeans up for years. It might be time to reacquaint myself with leather belts.

Speaking of leather...I have this thing for leather cuffs too--

slim, simple ones for my hopelessly skinny wrists. Sure beats bangles, for me at least.

Skinny wrists means skinny watch straps as well. That's partly why I've been wearing a Timex Kids velcro-strapped one for two years. While it's glow-in-the-dark display is adorable,

I miss the classic Swatch timepieces I used to sport as a kid.

Pictured:

Blue Rebel (for everyday awesomeness);

Black Ceramic (to stare at during boring formal dinners).

Bags and Wallet(s)

Bags are tricky business for definitely-not-femme lesbians like me. Handbags are seriously awkward, and purses are just silly-looking on me. So while all my clothes are from the women's section (because I'm thin, I have absolutely no budget for a tailor at the moment, and my mother shops for me anyway), I don't think buying men's bags should be much of a problem.

Of course, where would we lezzies be without our trusty sling bags?

I have all sorts--my favorites are a small rainbow-on-white one, and a

slightly girly brown and purple one from Sherpani.*

I'm looking for leather or another durable canvass messenger bag (for all my messenger needs?)

Hold-alls would be great for those overnight/ vacation/

I-just-have-too-much-stuff-today occasions.This is currently so trendy among

the metro gay guys I see during my daily commute. Ha ha!

The other two bags are actually search results for women's bags.

But when I searched for totes...the results were so girly I couldn't stand it.

So here's a simple, no-nonsense men's tote bag for you (or me, one of these days).

I need a new wallet, and I need it to be cool. So it's got to be this

awesome environment-friendly Dynomighty wallet! It feels like paper but it's quite tough, actually.

You can get it from Punchdrunk Panda's online store (you can get me one too, please?).

That concludes the first part of my wishlist. It's turned out to be a guide to boring, play-it-safe sb lesbian (lol labels) fashion. Sorry, but that's just how I roll. Some days I just feel like a gay man in a woman's body (who's somehow attracted to girls). Genderfuck is the new black. Ha ha.

Stick around for part two (it won't be about my obsession with gray, black, and brown-colored clothes, I swear).

*Which someone I know mistook for Cose. I'm all for inexpensive, quality stuff (I have Hawk Bag backpacks that have lasted for years, y'know), but excuse me? I was just so annoyed because he's even more of a fashion victim than I am, but acts like it's his God-given gay ability to be fashionable. Sometimes we have to learn it, bro.

Wistful

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 16:37:00 +0000

Where did they go, those sunrises two years ago, when everything was easy to write and my emotions weren't so complex and unreachable at the same time? Here I go again at a frightening crossroad, with so much uncertainty and pressure, and nearly not enough sleep (often because of the workload; at times of my own volition).

It's yet another rollercoaster year of fun, excitement, fear, self-doubt, sadness, and utter, inexplicable happiness and contentment. In other words, it's life, or a particularly heightened phase of it. But among the many emotions, in this moment--and in many others, when I happen to catch myself--I am wistful.

Contradictory as it is, I've found myself most wistful at the happiest, calmest times. I yearn for things as they happen to me, because every time I can't help but remind myself: in a minute, or an hour, or the blink of an eye--this moment, this experience, and this unexpected swell of emotions will pass and I will never be able to have it again.

Around seven years ago, I was fascinated with cherry blossoms, blooming and falling in a matter of days. Until now this fearful fascination with change and ephemerality has stayed with me. Everything ends; everything passes.

So, often I shy away from any form of trying to capture the moment. Unwritten posts, pictures not taken, words left unsaid. Best left that way, for fear of not being able to do it justice. Instead I opt to keep them in my head, much like series episodes to be replayed when I feel the need.

Other times though, I think I ought to tell those stories--even just to myself--because the time will surely come when I will forget. Perhaps I'll start. While words and pictures may not suffice, they'll help, at least.

Perhaps, things aren't so easily lost after all.

Damien Rice - Cannonball

Vicarious

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 16:42:00 +0000

I'm tired of a life lived through your stories. I'm weary of the details of a good time or an annoying day where I'm always a spectator and never a character; the only reason they matter is because you matter.

You know I love you, but telling me all about a life spent with others shouldn't be all there is to spending your life with me.

Seeker

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 18:19:00 +0000

Somewhere between a summer of new passions and old frustrations; between the thrill of an internship and the lazy first days which will mark my final year in college; between rainy days and John Mayer songs; between rare moments of clarity and my usual pseudo-profound stream of thought—somewhere, the stories I would have told got lost.

I was parked for three hours at a dentist's waiting room while my sister got her braces readjusted. During the wait I reread (for the nth time) Luis Katigbak's insightful first book, Happy Endings (which you guys should totally read). Afterwards, I wondered where my stories went.

And for the first time, I wondered if I would ever find them.

Yes, we (who claim to be) writers can be such bitches about writer's block and our never-ending insecurities about not being good enough, or about not having anything to write about, or not being able to do justice to what would have been the perfect subject. Or maybe that's just me.

That's the difficulty of treating literature like a romantic relationship, I guess. There's too much of an emotional involvement. Sometimes I think I can just call it off, and work on my other (unfortunately nonexistent) talents. But no matter how crappy my work gets, I can't not write.

At the other end of the spectrum, I think about writing for a living. I almost tried—I got accepted for a writing internship at an awesome company, but I didn't confirm my slot. Mostly that was because I was waiting for my dream company (which did not turn out well), and partly it was because I was afraid. To be fair, the company knew what they had coming. I was asked to bring some writing samples (and one or two, I picked out from this blog). I guess they kind of liked it, or found it free of glaring errors at the very least. But I chickened out, because—as with everything else in my life—I'm afraid of not living up to some self-imposed, insecurity-born standard.

(I did end up in an equally awesome company where I had a productive and fulfilling internship experience, but that's a completely different blog post.)

So I guess in reality, this is partly about me and writing, and partly about me and the fears that I have yet to conquer. Well I'd better conquer them fast because I have no room to be afraid. There's quite some responsibility resting on my shoulders this year: an org to dedicate my time to, and a long list of people—with me at the top—who are expecting me to finish that gosh-darned thesis, no matter what it fcking takes, man. Then we'll graduate happily ever after—or at least I'll be happy for no longer than a month. I'm giving myself that much time to take a break, and then I'll find a job.

But that's all future talk. I'll tell you all about those bridges when I get there. Because I sure as hell will keep writing. After all, if literature is a romantic relationship with words, then maybe if I stop trying so hard, the stories themselves will find me.

[That cute little girl in the photo is Yana, my two year-old cousin.]

Woosh

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Mon, 30 May 2011 15:54:00 +0000

I was looking through my old multiply blog, and look what I found:

The moon is a fascinating object.
The romantic, the mysterious, the unreachable.
But why does everybody adore it so much,
when it's just a 'chipped rock living on borrowed light'?(Gonzales, Sunset Hair)
Why do poets and fools gaze in wonder at the light of dead stars
and still make their wishes,
when they know well enough that there's nothing to grant it?

Maybe that's why we love the unreachable--we set our hopes impossibly high,
so that when they don't come true we can always say "I knew it was impossible."

No harm done.

But inside we know, for that tiniest moment in between the skepticism...

we closed our eyes and wished
the way a kid does--
right before he blows out
his birthday candle.

Wooosh.

Sentimental shit from my 18 year-old self. I have to admit, though--that it's still accurate for me. Three years, and maybe things haven't changed so much. (Maybe they should.)

Intermission: Make-Over

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 15:58:00 +0000

So after a year or two (or more, I don't really remember), my beloved blog has got a new layout! I was very hesitant to let go of the old one, because of all the meticulous work I've done to tweak it, but I feel like it's time to try something new. Plus, it might make me want to blog more. Ha ha.

Oh my, I'm too bored. Someone give me an internship please, I have 200 hours to complete before classes start in June (sigh).

Losing My Religion: Can't God and Gay Go Together?

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 17:27:00 +0000

DISCLAIMER:

If you are a: (1) devout Catholic, (2) fan of the CBCP, (3) homophobe,

and someone who is easily offended by beliefs different from your own,

then please don't read this. I don't mean to insult anyone, but I do have opinions and I try to be honest about them.

I spent eleven of my twenty years in a Catholic school. My parents have been members of a religious socio-civic organization since I was two, and as a kid I often got dragged along to prayer meetings and seminars because there was no one to babysit us at home. My dad is a very good and generous man, and he's deeply religious too--aside from serving in their community, he's also a lay minister at our parish.

I can just imagine what a dismay it is for them to have a daughter who, aside from being very vocal against the CBCP's latest stands (the infamous McDo fries commercial and of course, the RH Bill), also happens to be a lesbian. (Well, my mom knows at least; my dad might have his hunches but telling him now would be too much, I think.)

Lately the debates over dinner have been more frequent, and I've been growing reticent about going to mass, for the sole reason that priests tend to sneak propaganda into their homilies because of the whole RH Bill thing. Thus, my parents now consider me quite sacrilegious. My dad, the closest thing we have to a Katoliko cerrado, is worried and frustrated. My mom, though not as religious as my dad is, still believes that we should follow Church teachings, mostly because they mean well anyway, and also because she wants to avert scandals and issues--you know, the usual Pinoy attitude of saving face.

But I never begrudge them that. I know they're worried for my well-being and my salvation, and that's awfully sweet. With the way families are lately, I know my parents are gems. Still, I can't force myself to just agree with them, even out of love.

Being young and idealistic and quite stupid, can't let my precious principles go too easily. Let me make things clear from here on: I believe in God, and I always will. I forgot to mention that I was also an active member of a youth ministry for more than three years. I served, I went places, and I met a lot of good people. But after high school, I quit. I've been invited, cajoled, and forced ever since, but I can't go back. I can't be in such a service half-heartedly. Out of the three years in that organization however, I took away two important things.

The first one was during my initiation, or camp as they call it. There was a part where you could God for two of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. I chose wisdom and faith. Well, the wisdom part is taking its time, but I know for sure that He gave me the faith I asked for. I've never doubted the presence of a God, or even His intentions. I just know, for myself, that He (or She) exists, and loves me. This is all so cheesy and uncharacteristic of me, but it's the way I see it.

The second was a letter given to me by one of my leaders. She wrote that if I ever found myself out of the community, she believes that God still calls me to serve in different, ordinary ways. I appreciated it then, because it was different from the zealousness that I often saw in my other co-members. And now, 5 or 6 years later, I appreciate it even more, because it's that kind of understanding I've always wanted to receive.

So you know, I'm not atheist, or anti-Christ, or even anti-religion. As I've mentioned before, I respect and understand people who, like my dad, have become better persons through it. I admire priests and members of the CBCP who are sincere and well-meaning in their service. But I cannot, and will not follow the Church blindly, or keep my mouth shut when their actions turn questionable. My parents often call me proud and arrogant because of this. I admit that I am, especially in speaking. (See, one big problem of mine is that I'm an arrogant jerk about the things I feel very strongly against. For the past years, I've been working--and failing spectacularly--at being less of it.)

Take, for example, one tiny fact that I and the Church cannot agree on--I'm gay, and they think I should either remain celibate for the rest of my life, or be damned (Sodom and Gomorrah style) for carrying on a romantic relationship with another woman.

I probably should apologize to my parents and the nuns running the school I grew up in, because I can't accept that as a fact. I don't understand how love--even with someone of the same sex--could be wrong.

You see, I never chose to be a homosexual. I've been having crushes on girls since I was seven (you know, since I first started having crushes on anyone) and for most of my grade school and high school life I considered it as either a phase, or an inevitable side-effect of growing up in an all-girls environment. But college came, I went to a co-ed university, and God knows I tried. I tried having crushes on guys, but geez, it's such a challenge for me to stay romantically interested for more than ten minutes (plus the fact that the only real guy crush I had was gay, as I later on discovered).

As proud as I am of my sexuality, I've questioned it so many times, simply because going against beliefs and norms that you grew up learning is so difficult. I guess that's why I'm so against this culture where the Catholic Church becomes an authority over legislation and the media. They have such power; everyone believes when they judge people by the Word of God--as interpreted by humans. And it hurts. It confuses and hurts people like me when they influence everyone around us to call us immoral and unnatural.

Because really, how can they be so sure? If their motives are holy, are those really worth all the people who hate themselves for not being straight, all the parents who disown their gay children, and all the people turn away from God, because they think God hates them for being gay?

Being gay hasn't made me throw my life away. I've always tried to be a better person to and for my girlfriend. Also, being with the person I love and being with people who accept me for who I am has done nothing but make me feel the love of that great and merciful God they always tell us about. Being gay doesn't harm people, but being judgmental does.

But I may well be wrong. All I'm sure of is that we're all not sure, and that we're all just trying our best to do what's right--whatever that really is. I also know that the Catholic Church will not change its stand anytime soon. I'm just hoping that we would all be guided to go beyond blind faith, and try to reflect and learn more before we claim any belief as truly our own.

"If we're on a path to God, that's one thing--but is there only one path to God? Isn't God everywhere and everything?"

-Loving Annabelle

[Photo credit.]

The Limit Does Not Exist

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 17:44:00 +0000

We've traveled nearly everywhere, it seems--failing at hunting down PUVs and taking cabs instead. We've walked so many steps in the baking heat--I, in shoes too stylish for comfort (failing at vanity, as I often do)--always in danger of slipping on a foot bridge step. I've come so far to find myself parked on a mall bench for three hours, rereading a book which makes my head spin. I've come to be with you, yet I find myself alone (again, naturally--or so the song goes).

I've come so far, waited so long, and felt so alone--to look into your eyes as we talk; to have my hand held on a bus ride, and my face stroked affectionately as we walked along mall stores. All this to feel a happiness so small, yet so full. One that I haven't felt in months, and certainly not from anyone else.

Sometimes I'm afraid to discover just how much I can do for you.

Love is such a boundless thing.

Comforts

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 19:02:00 +0000

Sometimes you just have to step back, and step away from the details that are eating you up, to look at the big picture. That's when you see things clearly, and you get to think as the closest to being rational you could ever get (still not close enough though).

The thing is, often the big picture--and the decisions that need to made after seeing it--can be pretty painful to realize.

Still, it's you life, and it's your call. You choose your own happiness, and likewise choose the personal misery pit you will wallow in.

The only comfort is knowing that there's no rush to this decision.

And that you can always choose to curl up in the comfort of things you've gotten so used to, instead of facing the proverbially harsh winds of change.

(Often, being brazen is not being brave. Sometimes it takes a lot more courage to be what others see as a coward--if it means that at least one person is spared the damage.)

No one will ever need to know that you almost changed your mind.

Questionable Intentions

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 20:58:00 +0000

I never meant to write today, but there’s always something about you that compels me—to write, and do various other things I’d never thought I even wanted to.

I never meant to read, but there’s something about a sappy movie at five in the morning that compelled me to.

I never meant to know, but I now that I do, well I guess I don’t mean to know how I feel about it.

Because really, I never meant to feel anything about it. (It’s the movie, I suppose. I unfortunately am a hopeless romantic.)

And if there’s one intention that I at least got to keep, it’s that

I never meant to tell, and I never did.

Musings of an Aspiring Yuppie Junkie

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 08:39:00 +0000

I'm sitting in SM Megamall's McDonald's, (still) reading Miguel Syjuco. A scalding cup of awfully bland 25-peso coffee and the remains of a Chicken Fillet McSavers meal (one of the current ulam ng bayans) litter the table, along with a brown envelope containing an unpassed resume and two of SMC's annual financial reports.

The day had not gone too well. We made a slight slip-up with our interview. Unfortunately, in the field I study-and one day aspire to work for-no mistake is too small. I'm slowly starting to get caught up in the culture of being obsessed with perfection-the breeding ground of yuppie junkies desperately craving a single nod of approval from their superiors. Not that I'm complaining, nor bashing the corporate world. I want to be a part of it. As soon as I possibly can.

It's just that I'm worried I'm not doing enough. I keep messing up, particularly in this PR course, which happens to be one of my favorites. Each mistake leaves me a little more crushed and dejected, yet at the same time psyched to have another go; to do better-to get it perfectly done-the next time.

Is it the corporate world, or am I just losing my marbles over the sleepless nights and this bout of flu I've been delaying for weeks? I don't know. All I know is that I worry about this unaccomplished to do list in front of me in a manner akin to compulsion, even when I have done all there is that can be done for the day. I am going crazy.

* * *

By quarter past twelve I'm walking around the huge shopping complex, towards the restrooms tucked away in the corner of a long hallway. Even in my low-heeled black leather oxfords, I silently curse malls for not placing restrooms on ground floors. Why do they even do that anyway? After making sure I still pass off as a human being, I head to the MRT station, and arrive thirty minutes early for a rendezvous at Guadalupe station, so I have to wait on the plastic benches. The station guard glances several times in my direction, probably cautious that the book I'm reading might actually be a clever innovation in the IED industry.

* * *

I'm in the Ayala shopping complex this time, browsing for bags before I catch a jeepney home, fifteen minutes away. I need to get a new bag to match my business outfits for internship interviews. As usual, all the sling bags I like are in the men's department. I dislike shoulder bags; they make me feel like I'm going to the market with a bayong. Plus, I hate that women's bags all have to be shiny and complicated, each new model with more pleats than last season's designs. Nevertheless, I'll probably never hear the end of my mother's disapproving spiel if I buy a man's bag. And I don't have the money anyway-I'm flat broke at the moment.

Instead I head home, marveling at how much the area has changed since my childhood. Our family used to spend almost all our weekends here-racing virtual cars in Glorietta's Timezone; feeding the birds at Greenbelt Park; shopping for shoes at The Landmark (before Trinoma was ever recognized as a word); and (in my case) taking voice lessons at Yamaha in Parksquare.

Now I don't see Ayala as just a recreational spot. I look beyond the malls and see the towering buildings of my prospective employers. I think about the walk-ins I have yet to make; the interviews I hope I get; and how long it will take me to make it as a professional.

Ambitions, ambitions. I can only hope I'm up to scratch.

* * *

At home, I decide to write about my day yet again. Lately, I've been feeling an inclination to tell stories-winding, boring ones perhaps, but stories all the same, written in words I thought I had lost. I get ready to gripe about the failures of the day when an unregistered number appears on my phone. It's my dream OJT company, asking if I'm available for an interview tomorrow afternoon.

Suddenly the world seems to take on a different spin. I've been sitting all day thinking about the mutuality of disappointments between me and the universe (it lets me down, I let it down too; on and on we go). But a simple break like this one makes me wonder if I'm the only one letting myself down by allowing my insecurities to swallow me whole. Call me shallow or even bipolar, but the fact that the universe is still handing me opportunities is what it took to make me actually feel good.

As usual, (when I'm able to) I end my musings on a positive note. And today, I sure can. If, just like me, you're tired and worn down, look around and you'll find a bright side that will help you do the same.

A Valentine Post-mortem

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 18:54:00 +0000

VALENTINE'S DAY 2011--It's Monday, a fact which slides my mood from indifferent to ever so slightly dejected. Couples are walking past us hand in hand, the girls cradling bouquets of roses, and--in some cases--stuffed animals. I scoff at the latter--twenty-something couples who still regularly give each other stuffed animals are just odd. We're walking in the midday heat to the nearby Robinson's, where in a few minutes we will try, and subsequently fail, at trying to interview random students for a documentary on good government. That's as romantic as this day will get for me, apparently.

* * *

I sit through a class which I don't really want to be in, all the time willing my eyes to stay open (and even when I succeed, I think I still fall asleep while staring blankly at my socks). At the end of the class, a classmate gets the university actors' guild to surprise serenade his girlfriend. I troop out of class and end up singing Aegis songs and Zsa Zsa Padilla's Hiram with my friend Grace at the Oblation garden. We both crave for a karaoke night out, which unfortunately doesn't materialize at the moment.

* * *

I'm squeezed in on a jeepney that looks like a tetanus trap, between the sweaty, mean-looking kind of men who would make you pretty apprehensive of being held up. Thankfully, my judgmental sense is mistaken, and they turn out to be harmless. Five minutes in, I bring out my new and cherished copy of Miguel Syjuco's Ilustrado. My sister--a high school senior--bought it for me yesterday. I had accompanied her to Greenbelt to take pictures for her visual arts elective, and we dropped by the nearby Powerbooks. I was browsing the General Fiction aisle, when the stacked copies caught my eye. I'd been wanting to buy it for weeks, but lacked the money to do so. She insisted on buying me one. Today I gave her a pack of giant marshmallows (her favorite). It might seem unfair, but that's how we work--I give her time which I actually shouldn't have the leisure of spending; she gives me money for books which we both doubt she'll ever want to read. Sweetest thing anyone has done for me this week.

* * *

Second ride on the way home. I'm squinting in the corner of a red-lit jeep, still stubbornly reading my book. It takes a while to read this one--I'm not a huge fan of vocabulary words learned past the sixth grade--but I like it a lot. Across me, a woman carefully holds two long-stemmed roses slightly wedged in her shoulder bag. The perpetual traffic jam drags the evening on.

Ilustrado makes me think of how much I actually love Manila, despite the traffic, the trash, and the trash talking we Pinoys often describe it with. Earlier during the afternoon heat wave, I commented: "If I would ever leave the Philippines, it probably wouldn't be because of the political situation, or the economy--it would be because of the weather." While reading though, I think I still I wouldn't leave. Or if I would have to, I'd miss it terribly.

From time to time, I get completely lost in my book, only to look up and remember where I actually am; it's hard not to be reminded with the rumble of a dozen jeepney and tricycle engines, and the pungent smell of fish wafting from the Pasay City Market. I look down again, my eyes straining to make out the relatively tiny text; my mind straining to be distracted from the thirty minutes that still remain on my ride (should've been just ten minutes, but that's Metro Manila for you). Distraction has always been my cure for disappointment.

* * *

Valentine's Day has always been a curious day for me. I see it as a day of expectations--as Grace said, guys are expected to spend for girls, and girls are expected to appreciate whatever their boyfriends give (and that translates to all relationships). This is the one day--even more than Christmas, or their birthdays--that people all over the world feel entitled to some form of affection.

My relationship with the universe has been pretty similar these few days. I've been a having a good yet very stressful time. I do (school)work I enjoy; I'm getting along okay with my parents; and my love life is good too. But somehow I'm not as contented as I am some days. There's a tinge of disappointment at the back of my throat. I feel entitled to something else--something more; something grand.

I don't know why, but these days I feel like the universe forgot to give me flowers on Valentine's Day, like an otherwise loving significant other who let me down this one tiny time. But I'm pretty sure we'll patch things up soon. After all, it's been so good to me.

*Photo credit

***

Also, you guys should sign this petition! Spread the love to the LGBT community by supporting the Anti-Discrimination Act of 2010 (House Bill 1483) Click and sign!

Interlude

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 18:24:00 +0000

There's so much on my mind, that I have to either sleep it off, or blog it off. And, like most times, I can't come up with anything coherent, hence this news bulletin.

First off, I just got back from a mini-vacation in Baguio. A little more on that later. I seem to have misplaced the short entry I typed in the hotel room.

Second--being the vain person I am--I've started a 365 Project for 2011. It's actually gone on for the last month, and I'm proud to have kept it going. I hope it'll last the year. For the mundane details of my life in pictures, visit my 365 Project on Tumblr.

Third, I am currently on a job hunt. I'll be doing my internship this summer, and so far none of the companies I've sent resumes to seem to notice me. Well this is frustrating. But I have to keep trying. I'm planning on doing walk-ins tomorrow, but look who's still awake. I hope I still have the energy to purposefully wander around the Makati CBD later today.

Fourth, I would like to thank firewomyn for honoring me with the first LABIA (Lesbian and A Blogger International Award)--probably the steamiest-sounding blog award I've been acquainted with. Just another proof of how surprising and fun blogging can get. I really hope this catches on, since it's, well...catchy. Keep it up!

I miss blogging. All this school and org work is sapping the creativity and coherence out of me, but hopefully I can do some serious writing after the stress tides over.

The Truth, At Last

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 08:51:00 +0000

I came out to my mom today. My head's still reeling, so I can't really say much about it. It just found its way into the conversation, I forget how. The coming out part was pretty natural, just like any old conversation over lunch. We also had a 3-hour debate concerning norms, gender equality, religion, personal opinion--really, my head's throbbing. We're always like that, but it's only now that I appreciate where I got my debating skills.

For the most part, she was okay with it--except for the God's orginal design angle. As I expected, she had an idea already, and my confirmation was all she needed. Although, I told her about the possibility of me being bi, and she thinks that sexual orientation is a choice, so she's probably holding on the 5% chance that I'll find a guy to marry one day. Knowing my mom, I told her not to expect any husband from me--kids, maybe, but then she can't wrap her head around the idea of a homosexual couple raising kids, so...

She doesn't like the idea of promoting gender equality, and she thinks that changing culture is both impossible and superfluous. That's where the debate was centered on. In the end, she just told me to be prepared for the consequences of my choices in life--since, you know, she believes while I can't choose to be straight, I can choose to marry a man if I wanted a family; thus she feels I'm just being adamant on this whole lesbianism thing.

Still, I don't know, it's nice that she finally, finally knows. There's still my dad, who'll probably have a fit when he finds out. My mom will probably tell him, and it'll take a day of explaining or something. But right now I'm just glad that I've told my mom. She's not ecstatic over it, but she accepts it, at least, and that's great news for me. It feels like a sigh of relief after holding my breath for so long.

The Janus Tributes 3: Resolutions

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 17:32:00 +0000

Christmas and New Year's were pretty quiet this year, and I wasn't in the usual mood for wishlists, presents and year-ender posts. I did have awesome fun with my friends before the break, but the holidays are a time for family--and honestly, I love my folks but they're really boring. (They read this blog, by the way. Awkward questions, plus I am generally so dead. I hope they forget the url. If you haven't, well hello there parents. Please stop reading.)

Anyway, the main reason for not having a year-ender was that 2010 lacked the usual craziness and chaos that I usually go through. While I'm very grateful for such a stable and peaceful year, those two adjectives barely make for any interesting stories. The last year was great for meeting and keeping friends, but not much for telling tales. I did gain a lot--knowledge; wisdom; friends; weight; and increased alcoholic tolerance (either that, or better control over my drinking) among other things. But I can't rid myself of the feeling that I could've done more. I could've been more.

Thus, I've decided to make resolutions this year. It's been a while since I've made any lists, but here we go.

Dear Rz,

This 2011, never ever forget to:

MAKE A LOT OF RESOLUTIONS. And by resolutions, I mean short-term goals; concrete things to work for.
TAKE CHARGE. Of your life; of your relationships; of your work. Don't leave things to chance--or worse--to someone else. You know you can do it, so why don't you?
GO FOR IT. [Ehem, OJT, ehem] I'm tired of your easy come, easy go, laid-back attitude. You have to push yourself this year. It's time to get up and get the things you really want. It will get tiring, and you'll feel perfectly like crap, but if you keep giving a little extra, it will all be worth it. On a related note,
GET WHAT YOU WANT. If what you're getting isn't what you want, dump it and find something better. C'mon self, give yourself a treat. Don't settle for second best.
KEEP YOUR FRIENDS. You know how bad you are at this. But you have awesome people in your life and you can't afford to lose them, so lose the hermit habit instead. Reach out, let them in, and be good to them, always.
MAKE BAD DECISIONS (sometimes). I don't mean the life-ruining, relationship-wrecking type of bad. I mean the type which makes for funny stories later on. Don't be so uptight. Stable is best left to ICU patients and couples trying to start a family, and you're neither. Now is the best time to live for yourself, before you spend your whole life on responsibilities. "The things we regret most are not what we did but what we didn't do."
LIVE HEALTHIER. Okay, blogging this at one in the morning is a bad start. But please sleep earlier when you can, and learn how to wake up before 8 a.m. again. Lessen the cough-and-colds count this year. Last year was too much.
DO SOMETHING ABOUT THOSE FLABS. It's a bit rich to talk about flabs when you're such a skinny bitch, but they don't look good on you. So hit me with some sit-ups this year. I'm not talking six-pack abs overnight, but if your stomach and love handles get any fluffier, you'll be mistaken for a pregnant woman with your otherwise thin frame.

Just look at this letter from time to time; keep your word, and you'll do fine. This will be your year. Make it worth recalling when December rolls around.

Love,

Yourself

Reelizations: On Movies That Define Me

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 07:51:00 +0000

One look into my laptop's movie folder and my collection of less-than-legal DVDs will tell you that I'm nothing of a film buff. I do like watching movies; I regard them as one of my favorite leisure activities. Often though, I find that I'm not willing to part with the time and money involved in watching films. As a result, I'm more of an HBO viewer, or else I tend to watch movies on the basis of my friends' recommendations and coercions. This passively affectionate relationship I have with movies makes it difficult for me to name particular ones that define me, so I've decided to do it by categories.

Except for one, that is. I might as well start with the exception. I've recently watched Lisa Cholodenko's The Kids Are All Right, and it struck me mostly because lesbian couple movies are rare. Also, it reminded me of me and my girlfriend, with a slight twist. While I'm (quite obviously) the soft butch one with the Ellen Degerenes clothing preferences, she's the more accomplished and slightly workaholic one. And while I’m pretty self-directed (unlike Julianne Moore’s character), I’m the one who got delayed because of shifting; besides, seeing my girlfriend’s diligence can make anyone feel like a slacker. She’d cancel or turn down some dates or meet-ups for the sake of her thesis or org activities. Admittedly, it’s caused endless issues between us, but we work it out and we’re otherwise very happy—which is why we’ve lasted this long. (In fact, every time I tell people we’ve been together on and off for seven years, I’m greeted with either respectful awe or slight alarm, depending on how fearful of homosexuality and/or commitment they happen to be.) I’m too young to think about settling down and having a big old lesbian family like the one they have on the film (minus the cheating and all), but I hope that when both the time and person for it comes around, my family and other people dear to me would be accepting, or respectful at the very least.

Next up are chick flicks/love stories, which would tell you that I am a sap. Yes, there’s just no use in denying the fact. Love Actually is one of my current favorites, particularly the subplot about the best man (Mark) who is secretly in love with his best friend’s bride. He surprises her on Christmas and tells her how he feels, even when he knows there’s nothing else that can be done about it. I guess the hopeless romantic in me can relate. Among many others, I liked 500 Days of Summer, a non-love story; Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a love story where each character tries very hard, and yet fails, to not be in love with the other; and Forgetting Sarah Marshall, which I rather liked, despite unnecessary displays of Jason Segel’s…err…private parts. In hindsight, I seem to like bittersweet love stories, which I guess makes me an “emo” sap. Actually, it makes sense, seeing how I like to watch chick flicks whenever I’m depressed. Sometimes I just like to shut myself in my room, surrounded by comfort food, lamenting over the fact that—unlike most of the movie characters—I would probably die loveless and alone.

Last on my list are reality-bending movies such as The Truman Show. I only ever saw it once, as a kid, but the concept of creating an entire environment—an entire life—for a person really stuck. Then there’s Inception, the mind-bending film which also happened to be the first one I watched in a movie theater all by myself. I’m enchanted with the idea of subtly altering people’s perceptions. One of my ultimate dreams used to be to change the world—but with the jadedness that comes with growing up, I’ve settled for changing at least one person’s life, or even just a couple of people’s minds. Also, I love these types of films because they distract me completely, and take me away from the overwhelming monotony of everyday.

After all, isn’t that why we watch movies in the first place? Escapism is a tricky thing, though. At the end of the day, all the films we watch and remember are reality-benders. Truly, we choose movies to take us away. But then, I think it’s about time we choose how much of them we take in, too.

[This was an assigned essay for my Audio-Visual Communication class.]

Skinny Bitch: On The Narrower End of Weight Issues

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 19:02:00 +0000

Ever since the age of ten, when I discovered the amount of time and money that one could save from not eating proper meals, I started growing thin. I grew thinner and thinner until I earned (along with unbearable amounts of ulcer-ish pain) the envy of my diet-crazy friends, and the concern of nurses and doctors whenever they reminded me of my woefully below average body mass index. I started eating properly again, but I just couldn't gain the weight anymore. Well, not until recently. I'm glad to report that my BMI just (barely) made it to normal levels, and all I need to do is maintain the weight.

Still, that's work for me. Yes, I am an effortlessly skinny bitch. To most, it may seem like a blessing. That's probably because you haven't experienced being underweight. It only ever comes in handy when:

You're involved in those team-building activities where group members need to carry or lift their team mates. I usually get passed around like half a sack of potatoes.
You're a trained ballet dancer. I was forced into ballet by my high school PE program, and it was one of the most awkward and embarrassing moments of my young life. Needless to say, I am not—and will never be—a trained ballet dancer.
Your carpool gets very crowded and sitting on each others' laps becomes a necessity. This is rather unfortunate for the person you have to sit on—in my case, my sister who's four years younger. Ha ha.
You're in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model. Sadly, not only did I use to have the weight of half a potato sack, I also happen to share its level of fashion knowledge.

On the other hand, here are some challenges I've encountered as a skinny bitch:

There's a reason it's called underweight. Just like being overweight and being obese, being underweight is medically not normal.
You can't donate blood. The last time I tried, I came up short by half a kilo, I think. And it's something I've always wanted to do, too.
You're something of a weakling. Especially since my arms seem to gain no fat nor muscle, I could never lift things. Those carry-your-team-over-the-web activities? I proved pretty useless once I got to the other side because I couldn't lift my other team mates.
You get trapped outside with a signal #4 storm. Seriously, I've tried. I happened to be walking on a slanted surface during a really windy storm. I could feel my balance being affected. I imagine it would have made for a really bad Mary Poppins knock-off.
You're not even tall and you get mistaken for a kid. Which always, always happens to me. Either that or people mistake me for a prepubescent boy, which isn't comforting either. Damn it people! Do I have to wear my birth certificate on a chain around my neck?

But really, this is all for fun. To normal-weighing people who go crazy about dieting (especially by unhealthy means), please don't stone me to death. And please, stop trying to be those starved skeletons you see on the Internet.

Weight is just a number. Whether you have a little too much, or too less of it, should not run nor ruin your life. If you're really trying to gain or lose some pounds, you should do it for yourself, and not for those critical significant others, relatives, neighbors, or friends.

And if you happen to be a self-imposed weight critic, please do the world a favor and STFU. You know what everyone hates more than a skinny bitch? A nosy one, I'm sure.

Soul Peddler

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 16:28:00 +0000

I just got into an argument of sorts with my parents over their org's subtly hegemonic policies.

As leaders and role models, they are under ever-so-subtly implied pressure to convince us to join the youth counterpart of their organization.

The thing is, I particularly dislike that org's culture. Believe me, I'm not being judgmental. I have tried being in it for majority of my high school life, and eventually I decided to quit because I just couldn't believe in its whole point anymore, despite trying.

I did explain this to them, in my usual argumentative manner. My dad, of course, for all his traditional (but might I say, well-meaning) ways, just couldn't get why I want to turn down an invitation from such "good company". On the other hand, I'm glad my mom understands. But, as we both agreed, I can't argue with their leaders, or be rude to anyone, so for the sake of saving face:

ME AND MY PRINCIPLES = 0; SUBTLY HEGEMONIC ORG = 1.

See, this is what I hate about such groups. This is what I dislike about religion (or my particular religion, for that matter). This is what I loathe about freaking traditional society. They feign democracy and free will--yet they can psychologically bully you into conformity.

As far as things go, I'm very tolerant. But I never tolerate offenses against the innocent, or against any person's dignity. I believe in doing good. I don't see the point of wars, or all sorts of discrimination. I even believe in rules and laws, to a certain extent.

The one thing I can't stand is people who cannot seem to grasp the concept of respect. I respect religious people who are truly faithful, and who use their faith to become a better person. I respect people who think very differently from me, even if at first their thinking might strike me as incredulous. But I hate when their good intentions turn into persecution and self-righteousness. All I ever ask, is for these people to stop shoving their beliefs and ideas down my throat, in the hope that some day I will digest it and even crave for it.

[Thank you for your concern, but if I go to hell, then it's my choice and my responsibility. And personally, I believe that the God I know is a lot less harsh than you are.]

Photo Credit.

I know, I'm twenty and I'm naively idealistic. I know at some point I'll have to sell my soul. But, as my professor so aptly pointed out:

If you're going to sell your soul, first make sure you know how to buy it back. (Sir Chong Ardivilla, 2010)

I hope to never forget this idealistic concept of respect as I grow old. (I promise I won't force people to be as tolerant. You can't force it on anyone anyway, if they don't want to learn.)

If this is how things are over a small matter, then oh dear, coming out will be horrifying. I may have to postpone it for another 10 years.

Bad Decisions

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 11:03:00 +0000

A week or two ago I watched this one episode of How I Met Your Mother, where Ted, one of the lead characters, has to tear down an architectural landmark (The Arcadian) to make way for a new building he was designing. He was pretty reluctant; at first he thought it was about the building. But then he realized it was really all about a girl who was protesting against his project. His friends then recalled the silliest things he'd done, all for the sake of dating particular girls.

I just love that show (you should watch it, it's awesome). And—not for the first time—I found myself being able to relate to Ted. Embarrassing as it is, I have to admit I may have, on occasion, gone totally out of my way for a girl I liked.

There's this incident from almost ten years ago that I remember vividly. I was in fifth grade, and I had developed a crush on this girl, who upon meeting me, apparently decided that she hated my guts. She teased me relentlessly, until one day she decided to stop; at that moment I realized that I liked her. Now, I don't know what that says about me, but (*cough* masochist *cough*) I guess I was pretty much a hopeless (and clueless) romantic at the age of ten.

So anyway, we were friends already, and there was a fair of sorts in school—with mini-rides, inflatable houses, and all that. I was with a couple of friends when she and a couple of her friends went up to us, joking around and asking to be treated.

And, before I knew it, I had my wallet in my hand. I wasn't a rich kid, so I handed her the remaining 50 pesos in my wallet. I got a sweet smile and a peck on the cheek, and I guess that made my day back then, despite the fact that I had no money left for the rest of the day. Later on she went on to be the first girl to officially break my heart, when she started dating a close friend of mine. Tss, kids those days.

Here I am, ten years later: about five inches taller, with a better haircut and better fitting clothes, but almost exactly the same attitude when it comes to my love life. I may not be tripping over myself in the haste of doing irrational things for every single girl I happen to like, but I can't say I've quit the habit entirely.

Over the years, in the name of dating, or simply liking someone, I have:

embarrassed myself multiple times by trying to pull off something I normally wouldn't even want to try;
been dragged into awkward events and situations wherein I knew practically nobody else;
taken impractically diverted routes home for the sake of being able to commute with aforementioned someone;
stayed up amazingly late, or woken up amazingly early to talk to said someone (depending on whether she's a midnight or morning person);
regularly attended classes which I wasn't enrolled in;
waited for hours, hoping to casually bump into said someone during her free time;
gotten lost multiple times, trying to find/buy things as gifts;
learned to play the guitar to impress aforementioned someone;
totally overhauled my wardrobe (yippee for me);
played nice (actually, I really am nice), even when it felt like torture;
tried/am trying to change my attitude toward things (yeah, that's mostly for the better though);
and some other things which are too specific and/or dramatic to disclose here.

They might sound like totally normal things to do. I guess that's because at some point, we've all done irrational—or, at the very least, uncharacteristic—things for the sake of love, or the faintest illusion of it. If you haven't...well, hang on, you'll find your match.

Does loving or liking make us foolish, or does it make us brave?

Hands down, I'd have to agree that it drives us to make some really awful decisions sometimes. But still, unless you'll end up getting seriously hurt physically or psychologically (or something horrible like that), I'd say go for it.

After all, bad decisions make for good stories. Or so they tell me, anyway.

Counting Years

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 18:27:00 +0000

If you ever read my older, mushier posts, you'd know about my ex-ex. We keep getting back together that my friends all tease me about not being single since I was thirteen, and thus being terribly out of the dating/flirting game. But we can't help it. We're just so much better at being together.

She's the most awesome person I know. And she's such a big part of the person I've slowly morphed into for the past years. She helped me grow up (haha) by growing with me.

I try not to write about her, because--for all my love of words--I still know I could never do her justice. I'd either come up too short, or too mushy that my insides might melt--like how they feel even just as I'm trying. [See what I mean? B, if you're reading this, it's honestly the reason why I don't write about you much.]

Considering we first got together on her 13th birthday, it has now been 7 years of on and off bliss (for the most part), and incredible comfort and contentment (all the time). We've stopped trying to count because we couldn't agree on what years to include.

But if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that I've been in love with just one person for the past 7 years. Definitely no contest about that one.

Taken some years ago.
Okay, I look like a dog here. But never mind that.

*I'm sorry for the mush. It's my girlfriend's birthday, I hope you understand.

Runaway

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 06:11:00 +0000

One evening, a few weeks ago, I sat caught in the middle of a traffic jam and the pouring rain. One of the (many) things that usually piss me off is riding jeepneys on rainy days. The windows are all draped with thick plastic and the general lack of air and space triggers my slight claustrophobia.

Luckily I was in one of the seats at the very end of the jeep. Staring out at Taft Avenue, I noticed a pedicab driver, singing at the top of his lungs as he pedaled by, completely drenched in the rain. He whooped as he swerved and passed under the torrent cascading from one of the LRT station roofs.

It's crazy to admit, but admired the pedicab driver--or rather, I admired the freedom he exuded. The image of me, crammed inside a jeepney for fear of getting wet in the rain, was one that I felt defined my life in general. I'm confined by rules, by things I've been led to believe I should be doing.

Click for source.

Lately I've been catching myself thinking about living more. I've grown tired of my rules and my duties, of always doing the right thing even when it makes me miserable. I want to do crazy things--dance in the rain (Gene Kelly style), stay out late, go on vacation, ~~pretend to~~ be a rock star, go on a road trip, or talk to total strangers. Or something, anything out of the ordinary.

It's the way I've been raised, and it grew on me, I guess. I've always had to be responsible--for myself, and for people around me. I've always been wary of letting people down, that I sometimes find myself in situations I'd rather be out of.

I have this fear that I'll be stuck in the routine my whole life. I know the responsibilities will just continue to pile up, and I want to get away--even just for a while--before I have to deal with them again. For once in my uptight life, I want to run away and come back, just to feel that I've changed somehow.

But for now I just have to make the best of what I've got, find small ways of escaping the ordinary. And someday I'll find the means, and or the courage, and maybe a buddy who'll go crazy with me.

Chiaroscuro

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 19:55:00 +0000

Let me tell you about my clothing choices. Oh, no, I'm not going to pretend to be fashion-savvy. Trust me, I couldn't put a fashionable outfit together, even if my life depended on it.

It's just that the other day, I was wearing black, which I almost never do. As of my last tally, my closet contains exactly one black and two dark blue shirts, and about one shirt for each other color. The rest of my tops are white. I don't know when this started, but after four years in college, the white shirts have slowly piled up.

I really prefer white shirts, mostly because the weather is baking like an oven most of the time, and I, unfortunately, tend to sweat profusely and easily.So white clothes keep me cool and comfortable, while also keeping me from perpetually looking like I just came from a jog.

Click for source.

However, I've been thinking about how there's a lot more to my clothing choice than just comfort. I realized that I actually suit my shirt colors to my mood—and based on that, I'm pretty bipolar, I guess.

Most of the time I'm white; I'm bright. I catch the light, reflecting it, reaching out. This is me in my happiest, most hyper moods. I go out on impromptu drinking sessions, I dance around, and act like a kid with ADHD. This is me in my most sociable, most engaged moments. I laugh at anything and try everything, just for the heck of it. I breathe the air and sunshine in, like a silly sunflower in bloom (and mind you, the concept of me as a sunflower is silly in itself).

But other times, I'm black; I'm dark. I absorb the light, curling up, cowering in corners, shutting out. I refuse to talk to people, spending whole days shut up in my room, watching movies and reading.This is me in my most detached, apathetic moments. I watch anything—to distract me, because I think about everything—especially the unnecessary stressors. The air feels trapped and I feel too tired, too heavy to move.

Lately I've been alternating between dark and light shirt colors; dark and light perspectives. Too many things going on, and I'm losing focus. As colors signify moods and emotions, I'm pretty much overloading on the whole spectrum every day.

Most days I come home tired and drained, and fall asleep feeling defeated. I wake up the next day hoping for the best; for the nearest I can get to a clean slate. Then the day comes at me again and before I notice, I'm stuck in the cycle.

But it's fine, I guess. I'll find a way around it, I always do.

We are all are light and dark, in our own ways. We all have the potential for goodness and positivity, yet we are at the same time inevitably flawed.

The thing about black and white is that they both are overloaded with the whole spectrum. One simply chooses to reflect it, seeing it as an opportunity to exude brightness, while the other keeps everything in, trapping the light.

Having choices is freaking difficult. And as we've all heard at some point, our life depends on what we choose make of our circumstances. No wonder life is such a pain in the ass. We'll just have to deal with it, then. If we make enough good choices, maybe we'll even turn into prisms and achieve states of rainbow-shitting happiness (very similar to Maslow's concept of self-actualization, except this has hints of substance abuse).

[Okay, I think I just pushed the analogy off the cliff. Don't mind that last bit. Just stay happy, folks.]

Torre Lorenzo

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 07:28:00 +0000

September 1, 2010

I'm in Torre Lorenzo, with a sudden amount of free time. I was supposed to be on an all-morning date, but something came up. Three hours to kill, and nothing to do. I'd brought no laptop, no books—not even paper, save for my psychology reviewers. So I'm living out the ultimate writer's cliche—scribbling on coffee shop napkins, and basically trying look artsy fartsy.

I'm just kiddding about that last part. I look nothing like an artsy fartsy, mysterious writer—if anything, I look sleep deprived and too small to be a college senior. Anyway, what was going to talk about? Oh yeah, Starbucks Torre Lorenzo.

I figured I've never done a blog about places before, and if we're talking about favorites than this definitely tops the list. I know, Hollywood and the endless stream of rich kids have made coffee shops overrated. But Sb Torre and I go a long way back.

I first became acquainted with the place in high school. I grew up in a school in Vito Cruz, and Starbucks was my usual source of treats for my girlfriend, or of payments for lost bets. Don't get me wrong—I'm no rich kid, though. I still see this as overpriced coffee. (Side note: actually, my wallet /was/ actually considerably thicker back then—now I seem to be stuck in a financial crisis all the time).

I remember this one time, I was with some of our high school faculty members. I'd developed an unlikely friendship with one of my teachers, and I remember how good it felt to be able to talk and laugh with those teachers without being the target of petty gossip. I haven't talked to that particular friend in a while, and Starbucks always reminds me of how much fun we used to have. A love of coffee was one of the things we had in common, and one of the things we immediately agreed on—even though she'd always, always disagree with me, just for the sake of disagreement. Despite the eleven-year age gap, she treated me more or less like an adult, a real friend whom she could trust with real issues and problems. I actually kind of miss her.

Torre Lorenzo also played host to various rendezvous with various friends, even with my college friends. We would take the jeepney ride from Faura to Vito Cruz. Starbucks Rob just doesn't have the same feel—it's always full of foreigners and their "exotic" dates. Dates and meet-ups with my girlfriend also end up here when we run out of ideas, or time, since it's nearby. Aside from the usual dearth of seats, Torre never fails.

But what I love most about this place is the time I get to spend here by myself. During moments like this one, when I 'm bored, I go here. People-watching is always fun. I'd sit at the long tables fronting Taft or Vito Cruz, and watch passerby. I'd think up stories for them. I'd never actually written down any, I just suck at finishing stories. But really, it makes for a relaxing time-killer.

Also, whenever I feel frustrated, I turn to coffee instead of alcohol. It's harder on the pocket, but I'm sure my liver will thank me for it later on. And besides, drinking alone makes me even more depressed. Alone time here just makes me relaxed, then sleepy after a while.

October 17, 2009

Another flashback, to almost a year ago. I'd planned a surpise which had miserably failed. I was worn out from all the relationship stress and I didn't know what else to do. I hung out here for around three hours, until I felt better. I wrote, I read, I texted my friends. That, for me, was the defining moment of my coffee-fueled relationship with this place. Okay, weird. Maybe it's just the coffee—it actually makes me sleepy.

And then there's this last thing about the place—they never get my name right. They've generated more nicknames for me than all my friends and relatives ever have. I've been dubbed RG, RJ, AG, Arjie, Arci, and Liza, among others.

That is, except for today. They finally got my name right. Well, granted that the barista asked me about the spelling, it's still a first. I think my favorite coffee shop is starting to like me back.

Horror Vacui

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 17:08:00 +0000

I've never been afraid of empty spaces. In fact, you know how much I detest crowds and cramped spaces, almost to the point of claustrophobia. There's a certain unpleasantness in having to compete for space and having to get stuck with people I don't know—especially with relationships.

I've always thought of myself as a lone wolf. I manage best on my own. Friends are great, but the freedom of making decisions for myself and not having to depend on anyone appeals to me. In the last couple of years I've managed to train myself in the art of self-sufficience. I've gone from clingy to detached. Don't ask me how or why, but something changed.

Lately, however, I'm starting to become afraid again. Those careless, costly mistakes are taking their toll. I'm running the risk of losing you—and despite my best efforts, I'm absolutely terrified.

You see, you are an exception. To others I'm calm and collected. I laugh and I'm silly, and I care deeply for my friends, but even my closest friends only go so deep. It's gotten to the point where there's an automatic barrier that they can't simply cross. I'm also the best quitter there is—when something annoys or disinterests me, I walk away. I avoid, I resist, and I hide. But you I can never hide from.

With you I'm rash, impractical, emotional; totally irrational. I'm child-like—both when I try too hard to be cute, and when I forget that I'm not supposed to be too vulnerable. I don't know if that's the worst of me, but it's the part of me that drops my defenses. I guess it's also what allows me to feel most contented and at peace when I'm with you.

But with what I've been doing, I've been shutting you out. I apologize for being selfish and stupid and uncaring. It's far less than what you deserve.

It's amazing how you put up with me for the last seven years, when every now and then I have to pull a major overhaul of my attitudes. But here I go again. Someday soon, I'll make it up to you and all that patience will pay off.

I'll make sure of that. Because there are some things I can't afford to lose.

It seems, that the only space I'm afraid to leave empty is the one I've reserved exclusively for you.

image source

Growing Pains

noreply@blogger.com (rz fortajada) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 05:22:00 +0000

I know it's pretty late to blog about Inception or my birthday. Nevertheless this is a blog sort of about my birthday and it starts with me watching Inception.

I actually watched the movie a couple of weeks before my birthday. It was the first movie I ever watched by myself, and it was an awesome first time, I must say. I loved how intelligent the whole thing was. However, it didn't blow my mind as much, because I didn't think of the many interpretations of the plot when I watched it. Aside from the kick-ass zero-gravity fight scenes, what really struck me about the film was that it showed how easily we could lose track of reality.

The slightly depressing part is, I think I'm getting too grounded in it. This is where my birthday comes in. You see, I turned twenty barely a week ago. And while I don't want to be Peter Pan, I'm a teeny bit worried that I might be getting too caught up with the mundane things in my life.

Actually, people never believe me when I tell them my age. I'm already used to being mistaken for either a boy, or a fourteen year-old (and on one hilarious instance, I was mistaken for both). I have no problems with acting like a kid either—you know, playing computer games when I'm supposed to be studying for exams, not cleaning my room, that kind of stuff.

But the thing is, I'm afraid I may have forgotten how to dream. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a detective, a ninja, and a magician. Later on I wanted to be a lawyer. Then I started reading the Harry Potter series and I wanted to be J.K. Rowling.

During my last year in high school, I seriously considered a degree in Humanities or Creative Writing. After doubting my writing prowess and having countless mini-debates with my mom, I decided to let it go. I personally settled for a degree in Computer Science, because it was a "serious, real" career—and the salary isn't so bad either.

And then you probably know the rest—I shifted out and landed in OrCom, which I think is an awesome course. It's where I want to be. Now my concept of dreaming is lusting over a job as an account manager for an advertising firm. I'd earn enough and buy my parents a house, buy myself a car, and then get my own place. I want a kid or two (but unless I start gaining romantic interest in guys then I'd probably have to save up for a costly, husband-less procedure, or for adoption). So far off, I know. It probably shows maturity, and having goals is a good thing. But where'd my other dreams go?

Sure, I'm gonna grow up. Who says I can't be awesome at it?

I know stability is a good thing, but I can't help but want to shake things up a bit. I just turned twenty, and now, more than anything, is the time to live life before my responsibilities start catching up with me. I mean, my mom's constantly on my neck about graduating ('cause I got delayed). I already have a family to support, and future hospital bills to worry about. So don't blame me for wanting to be young and reckless and stupid. I just want to be alive.

(Yes, I know that was incredibly cheesy and cliche.)

I guess the first un-adult thing I should do is to stop thinking too much and start doing (fun) things instead. So I'm gonna go now,and I'm gonna have fun. So should you.