Sitting Pretty in Cebu City

Still Just A Rat In A Cage

2014-09-08T16:26:00.000+08:00

The view from my apartment's living room

So it's been a while. Good to see you again. I lost my job. It was a temporary thing. I never meant to stay there for very long. But it still stings. I've since gotten a year older since I last saw you. A lot has happened. And a lot more still has not. And so I'm doing a lot of staring out of windows these days. Oh, and job hunting. And wondering where exactly I went wrong in my life.

And time has made me less of an optimist. But after bad times as after good times, as economists like to say, there is always a regression to the mean - and that's okay.

The Catalysis of An Ending

2013-08-08T07:19:00.001+08:00

What does it say about me that I choose to remain in an emotionally unfulfilling relationship?

Inverse Proxemics

2013-03-18T13:41:00.000+08:00

If I am of no comfort to you, if my presence provides no solace - what purpose do I serve?

Why am I here?

Painting from here

2012-04-10T12:57:00.001+08:00

I've missed my wittle bloggie blog. Sorry, I haven't had much to write about recently. My banal existence has offered very little that qualifies as fodder for a blog, but when has that stopped anyone from 'writing'? This past weekend I met up with some great people and that was the highlight of my week. We all met up down in the Tampa Bay area to go to the beach and just hang out. If you've been reading my posts regularly and are at all perceptive, you may have noticed that I had become rather lonely and bored in this little hick town. Which is why I'm overjoyed that I've reconnected with some old friends from Cebu. People whom I've hung out with fleetingly in the past, I've gotten to know a little better here and now; and I have to say I like what I see. Being something of a loner, I never used to really care much about friends. That sounds rather harsh, I know; don't get me wrong - there are a handful of people I would risk serious bodily harm for, but in the past I had always felt like people were expendable, like I didn't have to have them in my life. But these ones I think I'll keep. I hope so, anyway.

Khalil Gibran said "In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds it's morning and is refreshed." And I feel quite refreshed.

*On another note, all you emo bloggers (ohh, you know who you are).I know the post about lovers was supposed to be up around Valentine's, but... Tee-hee, I'm so sorree. I've been so terrible. So. There's this silly little story I started when I was still in Cebu, will post soon. Need to finish writing it as the first draft was rather Anais Nin- inspired and I don't know if I'm ready to show that to people. Blah, blah. I PROMISE I'll catch up soon.

**On yet another note, I'm battling a bad case of the hives right now. Seriously - generalized urticaria. I suspect a St. Pete Pale Ale is the culprit. Whatever. Thank goodness for prescription-strength antihistamines.

Square Peg Round Hole

2012-03-28T12:06:00.000+08:00

The secret lives of the simple-hearted

The hopeful hearts of the undeparted

Death, taxes; square peg, round hole

Neither of us able

To fathom the other's soul.

to be continued...

Ears

2012-02-12T14:42:00.000+08:00

High And Dry by shaffah

Your ears
My dears

Do more

Than hear

They hold

Your earrings, too.

Why, they keep your hair out of your sick;

That's commendable enough.

But perhaps

More kindly,

When you've fallen

Rather blindly

And you lie

And you sigh

And you wonder oh, god why

You've been left

High and dry

(Again)

Your ears,

The dears

Will always be kind

As to hold for you

Your tears.

image from here

Lazy Madness

2012-02-10T11:25:00.000+08:00

These little earthquakes -

Crash, clatter, shatter, bang.

Denials, betrayals

What is the truth?

The truth is you shake me.

Where is it, hmm?

In the details? In the missing?

In the weakness of the willing?

Or in the waiting

In the places it's shared

Or those moments it's spared?

In the intangible?
In what you feel but don't say?
In the wild, the ephemeral?
Or the solemn and staid?

All is true.

Love is...here.

Madness, too.

image from here

Spiral Prince

Citibuoy

Sampaloc Toc

Manila Bitch

The Orange Wit

Bibliophilia

2012-02-07T17:22:00.000+08:00

Hello, Bibliophile. I've started a book blog called Sitting Pretty With a Book. Yes, I realize I'm not very creative with blog names. Anyway, I have yet to actually start talking about a book, but will soon! Would love your opinions on anything you might have read as well. Maybe we could start an online book club?! A girl can dream.

Quiet

2012-02-03T14:47:00.002+08:00

In the quietest hours before dawn

I feel the familiar ache at the core of me.

And I marvel

At how a hollow can feel so heavy.

I thought emptiness was weightless?

Wandering Star by POLIÇA

Hands

2012-02-01T20:11:00.006+08:00

We were to write about a happy childhood memory... this is mine.

July, 1994

"If you don't hurry up, I'm leaving you at home."

I hear the scratch and jingle of keys being swiped off the counter and the thick plop! plop! of rubber soles hitting the hallway floor - shoes about to be slipped on.

My bare knees press into the cold kitchen tile leaving the faint imprint of a grout line in my skin. I was about ready to climb inside the damned kitchen cabinet; I was in a panic. I know that was no idle threat. She would leave me if she had to. I feel around in the dark until my hand comes upon what I was looking for. I wrap my little fingers around it's smooth contours delicately, feeling the coolness dissipate as the warmth from my hands infuse it. With the front of my denim jumper I wipe the thin film of dust that has accumulated since the time I had saved it for a day like today. This afternoon was going to be great. I slip it into the little leather backpack my brother gave me for Christmas where it rests safe and snug against the red plaid lining. It looks comfortable amongst my other things - my folded extra shirt that I brought in case I get sweaty and I need to change; it's the one with the picture of a pair of sunglasses on it in glitter paint. I've also got my copies of The Babysitter's Club Book #10 Logan Likes Mary Ann! and my Calvin & Hobbes Lazy Sunday Book. I had saved my lunch money for weeks to order it from the monthly Scholastic Book Club catalogs they pass out at school. I love the mornings when I walk into the classroom to find my new books on my desk! It's one of the best feelings in the world, I think. Also in the bag are my arcade ticket stubs bound together with a rubber band. I'm collecting them until I can trade them in for a bigger prize. There's a set of color pens that I saw in the glass case at the mall but I need 300 tickets to get it. I only have about 50. Oh, well. I'll just have to play more games at the arcade to get more. I always get high scores with the bowling game, that one's my favorite. I'll go tomorrow maybe, Mama lets me stay there to play while she goes grocery shopping at the store next door.

Right now my stomach is a bundle of giddy knots, alternately tightening and loosening. We are going out. The endless possibilities are swimming about in my head. Who would I see? What would I do? What would I have to write about when I got home? I settle the straps of my bag over my shoulders and look around for my sneakers. I briefly consider going out in my rollerblades, but I know Mama won't let me. And besides, it would hardly be suitable for what I intend to do later. I look up to see my brother walk past. Clack, clack - the familiar sound of rackets moving against each other in his giant tennis bag.

"Hey Katrinka, could you carry this for me? "

I take the handle of the water-filled Coleman from him with a sigh and follow him out the door. He's always making me carry stuff, you'd think he didn't have hands of his own. It kinda makes me want a kid brother, I'd make him carry the stupid thermos, it's heavy, you know. I wear my shoes like slippers cause I didn't have time to put them on properly and I hope Mama doesn't see. She just bought them for me and she's always saying I break all my things too soon.

Thwack! goes the aluminum screen door against the frame.

"Your face is peeling." I said to my sun-burnt big brother.

"Yeah? You've got a booger hanging out of your nose." he replied.

"Shut up." was my clever retort. I lift my chin and flare my nostrils at my reflection in the car window. There is no booger.

"Don't tell your brother to shut up." my mom says absentmindedly as she opens the car door.

We pile into the gray station wagon we've had since I was two. My brother and I sit in the backseat because Mama says the front seat is dangerous. If we get into an accident I'll fly through the windshield and die, she says. In our rooms, she doesn't let us put our beds near the window 'cause if there's an earthquake and the windows break, we'll wake up with glass shards in our skin. Or in our eyeballs. And I'm not allowed to wear spaghetti straps or dresses with openings in the back or paint my nails with polish because they're slutty and sluts end up pregnant and disgraced. I don't quite understand the connection, but I know that's how it goes in her mind.

I would have liked to sit in the front to look straight out the windshield and see what the adults see during car rides, but the back isn't so bad. Brian and I play the thumb wrestling game and sometimes he lets me win. We usually play best of 5. He taught me how to cheat by using your index finger to hook your opponents thumb forward so you can pin it with your own thumb. Sometimes we look out and into the other cars, trying to spot people picking their nose when they think no one's looking. It's fun, too, because when the car turns a corner he pretends that the turn is sharper than it actually is and he makes a screeching noise like the sound of brakes, and pretends to be thrown across the back seat, flattening me against my window. It's rather funny. He makes me laugh. He's cool sometimes. Other times he's a douchebag. I don't really know what that is, but I know it's not good. (Note to self: Look up the word douchebag in the dictionary.)

We get to the hotel where Brian's tennis meet is being held today and pile out of the car. He goes to the back of the car to get his tennis things out of the trunk and I bend down to fix my shoe situation. As I tie my shoelaces I look over my shoulder to see my brother's friend Nathan get out of their car. I keep my eyes trained in his direction until I spot who I'm looking for. There he is. Nathan's little brother Kristoffer is standing off to the side looking forlorn. I tie my other shoe and get up to follow my brother to the courts. Mama trails behind us talking to Tita Flora, Nathan and Kristoffer's mom. I start to run ahead but stop dead in my tracks when I realize I forgot my bag in the car.

I straighten up and try to walk more dignified as I head back in the direction from which I came.

"Ma, can I borrow the keys to the car?"

"What for?" I hear the slight warning note of irritation.

"I forgot my baaag." I whine.

She sighs.

"Hahai, ambot ani'ng bataa. Here. Don't forget to lock the door when you'r done! And give the keys back to me right away, ha?"

"Okay, okay." Then when she's out of earshot, "Sheesh."

I get my bag out and put it over my shoulders. As I'm locking the doors I hear the scrape of gravel being shuffled around by shoes directly behind me. I spin around so fast my bangs flutter and I find Kris standing there.

"Hey," he says.

My eyes widen; my pupils dilate.

"Hey." I say. Awkward pause. "Gotta go."

Then I run. Fast. My feet flying, my backpack slapping my backside I sprint toward the courts, craning my neck over the other kids and parents, looking for my mother. I find her with Tita Flora who is still young and pretty and always smells like her name, with perfectly black, perfectly blow-dried hair and gold bangles that twinkle and catch the light when she makes elegant gestures with her hands. She is part Filipino, part Japanese, with the mark of the latter clear in her complexion. I have always like her. She always gushes over how big I'm growing and how pretty I look even if I'm wearing one of Brian's old Budweiser T-shirts and probably look more like a boy than anything else. I toss the keys into Mama's lap and run off to find a good look-out spot, where I can watch people unnoticed.

I make my way around the courts, trying to find an elevated spot, when I walk smack dab into Kristoffer. He is practicing his volley against the wall, bouncing a tennis ball against it with his racket. Thump. Thump. Thump. He stops when he sees me.

I feel knots in my stomach again, but they're different from the ones I felt in the car. Kinda the same in that it was because I didn't know what would happen next and was excited to find out, but laced with something else, something different I don't know what.

"Hey," he said. "Why did you run away earlier?"

"Oh, that, er.. Hehe. Sorry. I had to get the keys to my mom." I put my hand up to my face to push my sweat-matted bangs off my forehead.

He looks at my inquisitively. "So.. did you bring one? You wanna go today?"

I can barely contain my excitement. I forget the knots. I thought he'd never ask.

"Yes!! Let's go!" I squeal.

"What, right now?" he raises one eyebrow, but looks like the idea appeals to him .He grins, squinty-eyed and toothy.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I quickly stow away the image of his smile in the glass case inside my mind. It's kind of like the one at the arcade but instead of prizes, the one in my head is full of my favorite memories. I like to think that whenever I'm feeling bored or lonely, I can take them out of my case and look at them again, hold them in my hand, polish them, feel the things they made me feel when I first added them to my collection.

"Yess, now. There's no time like the present," I preach, taking him by the sleeve and giving him a tug. "Let's carpy dee 'em or something like that. I read that somewhere. Come. Onn!"

He shrugs and puts his racket and tennis ball on a nearby chair. We make are way out of the court area and around behind the hotel's main buildings, leaving the noise of the other people behind. There is a garden and then a section of unkempt, undeveloped land. The hotel is fairly new and they have yet to landscape the entire surrounding area. We call it the 'boonies', but it's hardly that. More like just some tall weeds and what used to be a marsh. But further down the winding dirt path, as we had discovered on our previous trips there, there is a clearing. And in the clearing a 'sometimes lake'. A pool of brown water that will dwindle down to a puddle when the summer heat evaporates it, that will probably disappear completely by the end of the summer when school starts up again. But right now, it's alive in all it's murky glory. Dragonflies whir about, kissing the surface. Toads ribbit along the edges, and lily pads float atop the water looking thick enough for us to use as stepping stones.

I set my bag on a grassy knoll far from the water and I kneel down to open it. I reach in and pull out the empty Best Foods mayonnaise jar I had taken from the kitchen cupboard earlier. It was the largest jar I could find and I had scrubbed it clean of the label and it's adhesive weeks ago getting it ready for it's purpose today. I had had Brian drill a few small holes in the top so that air could get inside. I hold the jar against me and I unscrew the lid. I look up to see Kris taking off his shoes and rolling up his pants. I laugh at his spindly legs and then for some reason stop myself from laughing some more. I honestly don't know why he subjects himself to me. He's three years older than me, for goodness sake.

I stand up and hold out the jar to him with both hands. He takes it with the solemnity of a parish priest. His hands are bigger than mine so he can wrap one whole hand around the glass without dropping it. He moves towards the water and wades in. I follow, but just to the edge. If I get my shoes wet Mama will smell it in the car and wonder. He goes out slowly up to his shins at first, keeping his eyes peeled on the water, on the lookout for the groups of tiny black creatures we have come here to catch - tadpoles.

I smile at the sight of him - crouched over the water, jar held at the ready. He's up to his thighs now, having, in his concentration, become unaware of the depth of the water. Suddenly, in one swift motion he swoops the jar below the surface and comes up with a thick swarm of them, water dripping down his arms and splashing on to his shirt

"I got 'em!!" He beams up at me triumphantly as he shakes his hair out of his eyes, and I grin back. "I got 'em I got 'em! There's a whole school of them over there to the left."

He starts to head back toward me holding his one arm far out to the side to keep his balance while cradling the jar in the other.

"The mud is so slimy," he mutters. And it does indeed look like he's slipping and sliding a bit. He gets to a point a couple of meters from where I'm standing when I sense that something is wrong. He is getting closer to me but it looks as though the water is getting deeper. I see the dark wetness climb up the front of his shirt in menacing slivers. The sharp panic in his eyes is contagious and I forget about my shoes, my clothes, the scolding I'm going to get later on and plunge forward into the water.

"There's a deep spot!" he shouts. "It's like.. quicksand or something, help!" He tries to climb out of it, but it's hopeless.

I plow through the water causing deep ripples to emanate from my sides. I stand in front of him, not knowing what to do. There is no one nearby to hear me if I yell. I feel as though I will anyway.

"Grab my hand!" he says, extending his free arm to me. By now the panic that was there a moment ago is dying from his eyes and I see that he is no longer slipping further down, he's just stuck, immobile. I actually detect the hint of a smile playing around his eyes.

I reach for him and he takes hold of my hand in a tight grip, warm palm pressed against warm palm, his fingers laced around my wrist. I grab hold of his wrist with my other hand and pull. Hard. Too hard. I try to right myself but it's no use. I scrunch my face up in preparation for the impact and fall butt-first into the dirty water.

"Aaarghrgleck! My mom is going to kill meee!" I spluttered, trying to get back to an upright position.

It's his turn to pull me up by the hand and it's this way, hand in hand, we make our way to the embankment. We're both breathing heavily from the exertion of trying to walk in mud determined to swallow your ankles, we flop down on the grass, weighted down by our wet clothes, but not before the jar was safely placed on the ground and the lid screwed back on tight.

We look each other up and down.. I look down at his shirt pulled sideways on his body, almost completely dark with water and I look down at my own clothes, there are green water weeds coming out of the front pocket of my jumper and I'm soaked through and through. I look back up at him in wonderment and... incredulity. Then we start to laugh. Hard. The mirth seems to start somewhere deep in our bellies and rises up and up ton escape from our throats. We laugh so hard our eyes are watery slits and we're doubled over and clutching our sides. I fall to my side clapping my hand over my mouth and gasping to catch my breath. I sigh, spent, and close my eyes. The moment is over. This is where I will cut it and wrap it and add it to my shelf.

"We better get back, they'll be wondering where we are." He is trying to wring the water out of his shirt.

"My mom is going to kill me. I begged her to get me these shoes and now I've ruined them."

"At least you've got these guys." He picks up the jar of squirming tadpoles and hands them to me. And the cute little spermy creatures wiggle in agreement.

I look up at him while cradling the jar to my stomach.

"Thank you." And as I say it I hope he sees how much I mean it.

"You're welcome." He smiles, blinking the afternoon sun out of his eyes and I take action shots.

" Thank you for saving me. "

Later on in the car, Mama is yelling at me from the driver's seat, shooting me her 'look' through the rearview mirror. I suspect the power of 'the look' is diminished when it's just a reflection and not a direct exposure, because I can barely feel it. I can feel the jolt of the stops and the turns. I can feel my wet clothers squish-squishing against the car's seat. But her words are just background noise to the thoughts in my head, the memories I was poring over, finding places for.

I look at the jar in my lap and find myself wishing the tadpoles would stay tadpoles, not grow any older. And for a long time thereafter, my favorite memory was the one of Kristoffer's hand pressed in mine, holding on for dear life.

Kath Bloom - Come Here by ChapterMusic

*This is my first post for the Happy Blogging Challenge that Citibuoy and Spiral Prince put me up to. . Haha. Click on the links and read theirs. Citibuoy's proves that happiness is truly subjective, while Spiral Prince takes us through a more traditional sense of the carefee happiness of childhood. Anyways, apil pud na si Cludiopoi pero ambot asa iya entry. Naa pa'y uban :Line of Flight's Sampaloctoc, and Manila Bitch...

**As for the story, all the people are real (a name or two might have been changed) but this really did happen, it's just the little areas where my memory failed me did I have to resort to confabulation. All the little details - the stuff in my bag, the books, rollerblades - really are some of my favorite things from childhood. The story still feels clunky and unwieldly, I'll fix it later. ;-)

Of the Interpretation of Dreams

2012-01-17T18:41:00.004+08:00

Four-thirty in the morning again and I woke up from the weirdest dream. I was being stalked by some sort of evil sociopath, and after managing to evade him a couple of times he succeeds in kidnapping me and brings me to some sort of lair. He strips me of my clothes, puts me under a cold shower, and leaves me there. While he's away I manage to will myself to blend into the white tiles - not just blend into them but actually melt through them so that my body goes through the tiles and is inside the wall. I am triumphant, if only for a moment. He comes back and from behind the tiles I hear him chuckle derisively at my attempt at magic because as it turns out, like an amateur Harry Potter character disapparating incompletely, I have left my feet sticking out of the wall. He grabs me by them and pulls. And then I wake up. Trés bizarre.

Interpretations, anyone?

Happy New Year

2012-01-15T04:30:00.002+08:00

Morning Sun by Anwen Keeling

My first audio post. Thought I'd try something different. =) (by the way, that's supposed to be *illegal substances.)

First post 2012 by sittingprettyincebucity

I Wish I Had a River

2011-12-28T12:48:00.006+08:00

It's been that time of year again when I fight to keep from going under into the dark and swirling holiday murk that usually engulfs me in these months. And I'd managed to keep my head afloat pretty well, too - kept away from shopping malls with their never ending Christmas carols, away from their perky people bubbling over in shiny happiness, the holiday decorations that mean next to nothing to me save a distant reminder of my childhood.

After the Christmas day celebrations with my family I came home to smoke a cigarette on my little porch. I was scrolling through the new Facebook timeline feature on my profile and saw the first four people who had added me as friends in 2007. Among them was a boy that I had met through MySpace which was more popular at the time. He lived here, and I was still living in Cebu. He had sent me a message with his friend request, telling me he thought I was pretty and would I like to go to the beach sometime. You see, I had put down Jacksonville as my location. His profile picture was of himself in jeans, shirtless (looking good shirtless, I might add), standing on what I assumed to be a bar, wild hair, eyes shut, arms extended outward, his head tilted a bit toward his right shoulder, with a red plastic cup raised in his left hand. The lights and the background were blurred and there he was in the middle, vivid, swaying to music. He was pretty good looking (That's an understatement. Hot is more like it.) that is if you're partial to the epic hair, Harley-Davidson riding, sneaker-clad, Marlboro reds-smoking, chin-pierced, fun-loving, bad-boy type, which I'll admit I am. We only exchanged a few messages, but I was flattered enough to look forward to them. He was a wild one, you could tell. I didn't know him, but I was intrigued by him. He just looked so alive.

Anyways, when Facebook became more popular, he added me there, too. We didn't exchange many more messages but I would sometimes see a 'poke' from him or something like that. When I arrived here nine months ago, I entertained the idea that I would look him up, try to strike up a friendship maybe, seeing as I didn't know anyone here outside of my family. Once I thought I had spotted him at a local mall. The idea would resurface sometimes, but I never acted on it.

So when I saw his little picture in that box on my Timeline, I clicked on it, curious to know what he was up to. I scrolled down the wall, reading the little messages from friends saying that they loved him, they missed him, etc. Now where could he have gone off to, I wondered. As I scrolled further down I realized he had died.

My mouth was agape in disbelief. What in the world?! How could someone so alive and so young be dead? This is a joke right? I scrolled down for a good 20 minutes, determined to discover how he had passed, reading more messages of love more 'RIPs'. And sure enough I found it. He had died in a motorcycle accident one month before I moved here. Jesus. I Googled the date and the words 'motorcycle accident' and found a video of the news that night, about a man who was in critical condition after an accident on a local road. There behind the reporter, in the middle of the road, the dark background slashed intermittently by red and blue police lights, was the outline of a motorbike on it's side. He had hit a car. No one else had been hurt.

I found my thoughts going back to him for the past couple of days. You might wonder why this would affect me considering I barely knew the person. But it does. I don't know exactly what, but it's something. This was a human being that I was connected to by a feeble string, despite that being composed entirely of half-forgotten e-mails, it was a connection, nonetheless; an awareness of another person's existence in this world.

So what is it? A reminder that life is fleeting and tomorrow I could swerve and drive myslef off a bridge and it could all be over? A reminder maybe to act on those little things that you put off or push into the back of your mind? The things you want to do but are afraid to? I don't mean to say that he could have been the love of my life or anything like that, because he likely would not have been - I'm saying that I might have found a friend in this person. What kind of insight could this person have brought to my life? What kind of fun might I have had from knowing him just looking through his photos was such a riot? (The image of him at some party wearing nothing but a lime green Borat man-kini with a drink in hand is still enough to make me smile. I kid you not. Rare is the man who can make that look good.)

Maybe it's just to tell me to live my goddamned life because it's fucking passing me by. I don't know. But it means something.

Rest in peace my almost-friend. I wish I had known you.

The Endless In-Between

2011-10-30T13:22:00.002+08:00

Has it really been three months since last I wrote? Well, in that time a couple of things have happened. I got a job, for one thing. Is it a dream job? A paycheck is a paycheck. And with it I've been able to sign the lease on my very first (self-funded) apartment. Is this cause to be happy? Definitely. Living with my brother and sister-in-law was pleasant enough for a time until it became varying degrees of unpleasant.

So now I have 800 sq. feet of prime 3rd floor rental space which feels like so much more considering the only pieces of furniture I have at the moment are a twin bed (a hand-me-down from family), a tv stand (with a little tv courtesy of my brother) , and a little wooden stool that I bought at that wonder of stores where you can buy ammunition right across from the milk and eggs - Walmart.

On the one hand it feels like I've finally taken a step in the right direction, a step forward. But sometimes I can't help but feel like I've moved across the world to do the same things I've always done - read in silence and stare out of windows at the people below. Only the names of the streets have changed.

By far my favorite part of the apartment is the screened in patio from which I have a great view of the swimming pool below and to the right. To the left is a sand volleyball pit. Just beyond these is a man-made lake of the sort you get in every Florida apartment complex - pretty nonetheless, with throngs of ducks swimming about. And beyond that still is the apartment building across from mine. All framed by two tall trees that I've discovered is inhabited by a number of playful squirrels.

It should feel like a step forward. But all I feel is dizzy from swimming in circles. Stuck in this no man's land between someplace forgotten and somewhere imagined, I'm trying to get there but it feels so far away and the transition feels interminable. Am I making any sense to you?

What of the wretched hollow, the endless in-between. Are we just going to wait it out? - Imogen Heap

From a Year Ago...

2011-10-30T11:47:00.001+08:00

* I found this post buried among the drafts of half-formed ideas. It was written over a year ago in a fleeting moment of maturity. Just wanted you to know I'm still alive (some form of alive anyway...) How have you been doing?

I've decided to forgo with a long part III to the story of le garcon. Why? Because - of the four people who will read this post, three and a half will be gay men, and I realize how difficult it must be for you to summon any sort of concern for a random (heterosexual) girl's romantic misfortunes. But please realize that the trials and travails of the twenty-something looking for love are not bigoted. Loneliness is no straight supremacist and makes no distinction between the perfectly straight, the perfectly gay, or people of whatever integer on the Kinsey (Sexuality Continuum) Scale. So we should have something else in common besides our mutual affinity for men.

While blog hopping I came across some interesting posts by people younger than me who seem to have experienced so much more than I have in terms of relationships and heartbreak. I read their entries written in tones of wisdom and sometimes cynicism, but never without a little optimism, and I wonder how I have gotten to this age and still feel like a child play-acting at being an adult. Although I do my best by way of mimicry, I feel like sometimes my naivete sometimes shows above my collar.

I just have a slow life learning curve. I suspect my psych evaluation would read: I.Q? Normal. Emotionally? Retarded. So in attempt to show that I have indeed learned something in my 25 years of living, here are just a few lessons learned in the year 2010

1. Just because you think you are hot shit, worthy of unmitigated respect, doesn't mean that every person you meet will treat you accordingly. Some people just don't seem to recognize (your value) and your deserving respect, or recognize it but then ignore it.

2. If a guy only ever wants to hang out with you in the dead of night that is not a date. That is a booty call.

3. Don't allow anyone to treat you in a way that doesn't live up to the standard you've set. If you let them do it once, they'll do it again.

4. When in doubt, act in congruity with logic and reason.

5. No matter how much you value a priori knowledge (that gained through experience), sometimes it really is good to listen to the voices of reason (the voices of people with experience). I used to never believe anything anyone would say to me, (especially if their advice was anecdotal) because I had to subject every theory to my own mind. I had to see for myself. Sometimes, (lo and behold) people actually know what they are talking about. Who'd have thought.

Ticker

2011-07-16T02:15:00.000+08:00

"Could it think, the heart would stop beating."

25 Years of Deception I

2011-06-22T18:16:00.007+08:00

Painting by Alice Neel

What is your stand on the truth? Do you think it is useless if all it can cause is pain? Or are you of the opinion that stark honesty is best - whatever the costs? After twenty-five years of digging around in the family closet, I’ve finally found the proverbial skeleton that I felt was there all along.

I am adopted.

When I was a little girl I would sit in front of the mirror and try to discern whose features I had acquired. My (very) Filipino nose was certainly my mother’s, I thought. My cheekbones were hers as well. My eyes I could never place. They didn’t look like my mother’s eyes. They weren’t my father’s, either. I didn’t resemble him at all, really. But my suspicion that I was adopted didn’t stem from not looking like him. It didn’t come from not looking like my siblings either because my brothers and I actually share some physical similarities. How is that possible, you wonder? It’s possible because we share 12.5% of our DNA.

We are first cousins.

As I was growing up my family would take trips to the Philippines – for vacation or if someone in the family died – and I would have these sporadic chances to spend time with my relatives. There were some people I wouldn’t readily admit a blood relation to, some cousins, some relatives by marriage… and then there were my mother’s two sisters. One of them looks like a chubby version of her. They look so alike, that when rifling through old photo albums, I would constantly get them confused with each other. Can you sense where this is going?

Looking back on those trips now, I remember that everyone (family, neighbors, and village idiots alike) kind of looked at me oddly. My mother’s family is from a very small town where everyone knows each other’s business and the older you are and the longer you’ve lived there, the more of your neighbor’s business you know. I don’t know exactly what it was in there eyes that I detected, but I knew (even at eight years old) that it was something. Pity?

‘The poor dear, she has no idea.’

I don’t know. But there was something in the way they looked at me that made me think they knew something I didn’t. Knew something about me that I didn’t. Can you imagine that?

Years went by and the thought took a backseat to more pressing pubescent concerns – boys, acne, Brad Renfro. But I would always be reminded of it when my mother would scold me for anything I had done wrong. She would say things that sounded so odd and non-sequitur to me that stand out in my mind to this day. If my father and I had a disagreement, she would say,

“You should be thankful to your father for giving you your last name.”

And I would think,

'Well isn’t that generally what fathers do?'

Why did she have to point that out as if it were significant? Because it was.

Aside from weird slips like that, hints were few and far between.

Then my father died.

I was ripped from all that was familiar to me, disconnected from every tenuos connection I had managed to make, and transplanted to the Philippines with my mother. Her reason? She did not want to continue living in our house without my father. My brothers were all grown by this time and living away from us. (The youngest was in college in Hawaii at the time.) And so I went.

We moved into my maternal grandparents' house, next door to the aunt who looks just like my mother. Right next door to the aunt whose sharp tongue all my relatives say I inherited.

My doubts escalated.

(to be continued. I can’t write all of this in one go.)

Streaks in Skies & Sad Goodbyes

2011-04-18T11:25:00.001+08:00

It’s funny how blogs are left dormant in two situations – either nothing is going on in your life or too much is going on. The latter is true in my case. What have I been preoccupied with for the past month or so? We-e-l-l, packing the last ten years of my life into two suitcases with a weight limit of 50 lbs each, for one thing. Your friendly neighborhood neurotic has left the city she has called home for over ten years to go live on the opposite hemisphere of the earth. If on a globe you stuck a (long) needle through Cebu and pushed it all the way through to the other side, you’d be in the general longitude of where I am now. What am I doing here, you ask? I ask myself the same question.

I’m at the cusp of a new period in my life and it’s terrifying. Change always terrifies me. And this is pretty big. I feel like this is the point where I should finally forgive myself for all the stupid mistakes I've made in the past (by commission or ommission) and start anew. But there’s that nagging thought in the back of my head that tells me I can’t just wipe the slate clean. There are consequences and repercussions of past mistakes that affect me to this day. Consequences. Despite my age, I feel like I still need to fully understand the meaning of that word. There are a number of things I wish I could have done differently in the past. I was so immature, I didn’t think about the future and the simple idea that what you do (or don’t do) today will affect you tomorrow. But, you know… spilt milk. Now I can only hope to prove that the past doesn’t have to define my future.

Of Being Alone

2011-03-08T15:43:00.001+08:00

There are some things happening in my life right now, big changes are about to take place... I'll write about them soon, but for now I just wanted to share this beautiful poem...

Of the Ineffable & Incomprehensible

2011-02-05T23:54:00.004+08:00

There are moments between people that I’ll witness – a hand held, a furtive caress, a shared look– and I’ll wonder what that is. Sometimes I feel I’ll always be an outsider looking in, a voyeur to a closeness that I’ll never understand, a spectator to intimacy that is so genuine it is palpable, so real it is incapable of being trivialized. Any affection that I have ever felt for anyone so far in my life seems pallid and petty in comparison.

Have you ever felt this way?

Portishead - Glory box by Fixed46

Le Garcon Sans Savoir Vivre I

2011-02-02T13:38:00.013+08:00

One night while possessed of malevolent glee,

The Fates played a prank on unwitting S.P.

And brought my path to cross,

Through a series of circumstances,

With that of one of my many

One-sided diminutive romances.

Oh, how I loathe you, omniscient narrator

Of Le Livre de Ma Vie!

You are one without heart,

Sans merci for poor me~

Poor little S.P.

And thus begins this little story,

A short sort of allegory

Of le garcon sans savoir vivre..

-Sitting Pretty (Pathetic)

It was Friday night on the weekend of the big Mardi Gras festival in this sometimes charming Queen City of the South. The excitement in the air was palpable, weighted by the collective anticipation of the thousands of people that had swollen the city's population. - the relative calm before the face-painting, street-writhing, drum-beating, trumpeting storm. I had decided to eschew the pre-Sinulog festivities as I had already gone out the night before and fulfilled my weekly quota for number of nights per week spent inebriated (with interesting results, both inane and insane, one such episode I've dubbed The Curious Incident of the Mirror in the Nighttime). Plus, I was looking forward to staying in and reading my latest Fully Booked sale acquisitions (Nabokov, Camus, Eggers) and a couple of books, too, from a charming little used books place in Mandaue City called La Belle Aurore Bookshop where I had found, to my utter delight, a copy of early short stories by Simone de Beauvoir.

So there I was, comfortably ensconced in my queen bed, clad in oversized T-shirt and fuzzy striped socks with individual toes, pillows arranged strategically to best simulate a La-Z-Boy recliner (a couple propped up against the headboard, two more underneath my legs just beneath the backs of my knees), and my mug of coffee at a perfect distance on the nightstand (requiring only the minimal extension of an arm to reach). In short, I was planning on being a sloppy slobby bum, balancing a book in my lap, dribbling coffee down my chin, and being too lazy to find a tissue, wipe it away with the back of my hand. Just as I was smiling in a self satisfied way at my ergonomic improvisations, the message alert on my phone goes off and it's my fabulous fairy friend, A.D.

"Hey! Where are you? Come have dinner with me and some of my college friends. Drinks after."

"No, thanks. I've reverted to my introverted ways. Maybe next time?"

"Okay, then. =)"

A few hours go by. It is midnight. Nabokov's wordplay and literary allusions are starting to irk me a bit. I get antsy. I jump out of bed in my striped feet, almost slipping on the polished wood floor. I call A.D.

"Is it too late to catch up?" I ask.

"No! Dinner is over but we're having drinks at The Tinder Box. Get over here! I won't take no for an answer. Andd," he adds, with a sly inflection, "There's someone I want you to meet."

'Hmm,' I think, cocking an eyebrow. A boy perhaps? Since December A.D. has been saying half-jokingly that he's going to set me up with some boy or other and I wonder if this is one of the prospects he had in mind. I usually find such arrangements abhorrent, but given the lull in my dating life recently (and resultant lack of fodder for this blog), I feel compelled to take a tiny step down from my high horse. I am mildly curious and for some reason now itching to get out of the house. He might be cute. This might be good.

"Be there in a bit!" I exclaim, as I scrounge around in my closet for something to wear and curse myself for not being one of those girls who buys tons of clothes and shoes. I settle on my favorite pair of tight grey vintage wash Mango jeans, a loose (as to cover the paunch I've grown over the past months of neglecting the gym) silk blouse from bYSI with a hand-painted floral design on the front with a nacreous shimmer, and a simple little black blazer I had commissioned a few years ago by a Cebu designer named Joy Bernaldez with the sleeves pushed up toward my elbows. I'm not a fashion maven or anything , this is just an attempt to sound fancier than I actually am. I finished with grey-silver peep-toe pumps with a 3-inch heel and my mom's decades-old Christian Dior purse with a gold chain. I slapped on some make-up and was out the door in seconds flat.

                 I get to the little wine shop slash delicatessen and deftly step around the little puddles left by the rain. The parking lot is illuminated by a rectangle of soft yellowish light from within. There is a boy standing in the lot. It appears he is waiting for something or someone.

   "Hey cutie, maybe it's me you've been waiting for all your life, hmm?"

                 I'm always coming on to guys in my imagination. I walk silently past the boy to the entrance. It's a squat sort of building with an entirely glass front where you can see through to the deli and shelves of Eurpoean treats. I notice there are no people sitting at the tables by the window when fabulous A.D. greets me at the door with the customary fairy beso.

   "Hey, you! Glad you could make it. We're over in the back, come."

        We turn left to make our way to the back room when I look up and straight into the face of the first customer to enter my field of vision, at the same moment he looks up to see me.

   It is the Object of 2010's Preoccupation & Aggravation.

   Oh, bugger.

Le Garcon Sans Savoir Vivre II

2011-02-01T14:24:00.193+08:00

Oh, Mother of Irony. I get out of the house to take my mind off every failed attempt at making a meaningful connection - every almost, near miss, could-have-been, and never-to-be, and here run smack dab in to a prime example? The most recent one at that? One for whom there may remain some infinitesimal remnant of the delusion of affection? Ye gahdda be kiddin' me. Universe, you're a punk. This warrants the overused word irony doesn't it? I say it does.

Nevertheless I am collected, cool as a cucumber salad, operating on Nonchalant Autopilot my demeanor betraying none of my inner turbulence. I smooth my silk blouse down with a steady hand and run my slender fingers through my hair to give it that volumized sort of come hither side-part, you know? I extend my neck to its full length and raise myself to my full height and am pleased that I wore the three inch heels as to tower over him at 5'9''. I approach his table.

He is smiling stupidly up at me from where he stupidly sits, visibly embarrassed, knocking his stupid knees together and fidgeting with his stupid hair falling into his stupid adorable face.

(Bleccch, S.P. really, yucch.) 'Well at least he looks dumber than I do' I think to myself. That will cease to be true in a moment. I clear my throat demurely to dislodge it of my stomach which seems to have telescoped upwards and into my neck...the neck he once bruised with his mouth.

"Heyyy," I venture, voice well-modulated, even, melodic. Three ys. Hey-y-y. I extend the last sound long enough as to convey that this is a pleasant surprise, as opposed to what it really is - an ordeal. Not too long as to sound affected, not too short as to sound curt. I am warm but not gooey, friendly but not gratuitous, a light zephyr, not a brisk breeze. (People say I over think things, what do you think?) I am impressed by my composure, my thespian abilities, and make a mental note to pursue a career in acting. Maybe win an Oscar. Or at least a FAMAS for some compelling performance.

"How are you?" is the next line in my script.

He stops knocking his knees together long enough to mumble something unintelligible in reply, and I wonder for the millionth time how I was ever so attracted to someone of such limited verbal ability.

In retrospect, this is probably the point at which I should have just ceased with any further perfunctory pleasantries and walked on. A.D. is standing some yards ahead, waiting. It would have saved me some embarrassment. Hindsight is always 20/20. I suppose I thought he would eventually find his misplaced manners and stand-up or introduce me to his company whose faces are a blur. I look at him for nanoseconds that seem like whole minutes, he stares idiotically back up at me. Any millisecond now I expect a dazzling display of good manners, excellent etiquette - of savoir vivre. Any millisecond now...any milli...nothing. None came. And then - horror. Like a woman possessed the most improbable string of words float out of my mouth.

"What, aren't you going to give me a hug?"

       Geezus H. I say it with enough levity that it sounds like I'm not altogether serious, but still! And even as the words escape my lips, like so many traitorous flying dwarves, to titter about in the air between us, I know he isn't going to stand up. I am not a friend. I am just 'some girl.' I am incredulous. I briefly consider saying,

       "So what did you end up doing last week when you totally booty called me at 2a.m.?"

But being possessed of savoir vivre, I refrain from trying to embarrass him. I smile to convey affectionate exasperation and smooth over my gaffe, my faux pas, my vomi mot, and wrap things up with final pleasantries, still unruffled, but inwardly incensed. So this is how it's going to be hmm? We're close enough for you to proposition me but I don't warrant common courtesy? I walk away, and just before I disappear from sight, he calls after me

          "Are you on a date?"

I smile. The question is absurd. As absurd as my running into him. As absurd as my affection for him. A.D. is obviously too impeccably dressed and too darn cute to be straight. And how smart is it to ask a girl who might be on a date, 'Are you on a date?' in front of her date? This kid has always been ridiculous and I consider the possibility he might be having a brain fart of his own (and maybe needs to reposition his gaydar satellite). Nevertheless, I dignify the question with an answer.

              "No, just hanging out with friends. See you later." Closed-mouth smile. Fluttering finger wave. Exhale of relief. Exit stage left.

                                                                                                                                                  [Exeunt.]

*Oh, don't think this dissertation-length diatribe is over. There's a part III.

Of Childhood Dreams

2011-01-04T06:40:00.006+08:00

Painting by Gerard Boersma

Momel, the blogger I have christened The Bovine Scatologist, over at The Blahg of Bullshit suggested that I visit his Mistress of the Universe's blog if I wanted to learn how to write creatively. When I was a little girl I thought I wanted to be a writer - a novelist, among a long list of other things (veterinarian, interior decorator, fashion designer, teacher, I think firefighter was in there, too, at one point) and went so far as to plant a stack of paper next to our rickety old typewriter and sit myself down in front of it to write a book. Clickety-clickety-clackety...ding! Aw crap, where's the correction fluid? This was short-lived to say the least.

I was reminded of this ephemeral childhood fantasy when Momel made this suggestion, so I popped on over there to see what was up. Jessica Zafra's Lit Wit Challenge 4.3 theme is Metamorphosis: In 1,000 words write a story in which the protagonist wakes up and finds herself/himself transformed into an animal, plant, or object.

I am currently tossing around the idea of a congenitally (and severely) disfigured child who may also be dying from some unrelated disease (must be some really bad fuku) who wakes up in her hospital room to discover she has morphed into a fly. As a literal fly on the wall, she is able to hear what her parents and other people say about her and her condition. I don't know. That's all I've thought up so far. Creative suggestions from you, dear reader, are welcome! =) Help a sister out.

*My use of the word fuku is an allusion to the book The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz, which I have recently finished reading, and which I loved. Read it if you haven't yet!

Bonne année et bonne santé !

2010-12-31T19:18:00.009+08:00

Happy New Year to you, wherever you are...

Of Disparity of Definitions

2010-12-31T05:58:00.005+08:00

Lovers by Rene Magritte

What is dating? I used to think this was a fairly straightforward concept, one that every adult grasped as an inherent aspect of adulthood. I thought that it meant two people who find each other attractive set date(s) – a prearranged time and place –to get to know each other better for the purpose of determining whether they are compatible enough to pursue a relationship together. They dress nicely, maybe have dinner, maybe make small talk or engage in long-winded philosophical discussions about the meaning of life or lack thereof – ala Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke…right? No? My sentimental celluloid education has failed me. A quick Google search reveals that I am not the only adult(-ish) person uncertain about the term.

Apparently, my perception of a ‘proper’ date is faulty on a couple of premises -the first being that it must be prearranged – preferably via a face-to-face encounter or at the very least a telephone call. The last person I was pseudo-dating would only call or text spur-of-the-moment to see if I felt like ‘hanging out’ or if I wanted to ‘chill’. This was a person who would intentionally start all messages with a lower case letter to appear more casual. When did people become so averse to formality?

Painting by Daniel Heidkamp

Second, I discovered that dating doesn’t even necessarily have to have a purpose.

“Casual dating is just that, casual, it is not done with any intent or purpose other than to be social and get to know someone a bit better. There are no clauses for being exclusive, no projections of commitments or emotions when one is casually dating. It is a social exercise that one partakes in to broaden one’s perspectives. Casual dating is key to finding the right long-term partner, as through this process we learn what we like and dislike and what we truly want in a long-term partner.”

Okayyy, I understand the logic behind this but what about the emotional attachment factor? As someone who becomes attached to people easily, how am I supposed to navigate around this? After a certain number of dates, if I agree to go out with you again, it pretty much means I like you and am entertaining the possibility of this actually heading somewhere. Now if my definition were the original one, i.e. ‘traditional’ and the person I’m seeing is thinking more the latter, i.e. ‘casual,’ you can see how the disparity would cause confusion, possibly pain. Throw in casual physical interaction- anything from kisses to intercourse and the situation becomes even more tangled – one person thinks the train is heading for some romantic destination, the other just wants to get off at the next stop, literally and figuratively.

Painting by Alyssa Monks

I don't know, maybe at the core of my aversion to casual dating is my narcissm - indignance at the idea of being treated as an option, an extra, a side dish. The high-maintenance diva in me seems to say "Meeee? A mere option? Kid, don't you see? I'm it, the main dish, the star of the show. I get top billing." I realize it's unrealistic to expect someone to know that they want you and you alone at the beginning of a courtship (for lack of a better word). But after a number of 'dates' shouldn't you have an idea? Which probably begs the question, how many dates exactly? Just how many dates does it take for two people to decide, you know what? I'd like to keep seeing you, I think we'd be great. But I don't think people are so open about feelings - maybe it's fear of rejection, or fear that the other person doesn't feel the exact same way you do.. So I guess some people just allow themselves to 'go with the flow,' and try to 'read signs' along the way. I wish everything were clear cut, black and white, you know? But I suppose in dating, as in life, most of it is gray. But all I'm saying is I'd like whole-hearted sentiment, not lukewarm - all or nothing, babe, that's the only way I roll. The way I see it, why waste my time and someone else's time on something I don't see going anywhere?

Maybe it's me, maybe I'm too old-fashioned. People are always telling me I was born in the wrong century. They're often surprised at my views on dating and courtship, (knowing my liberal views on most everything else) and probably consider me archaic, an anachronism, a feminist's nightmare. But it seems to me that the old days were much simpler. Cavemen times: loin cloths and wooden clubs. Ugg meet Olga. Ugg like Olga. Ugg want Olga be his, pull hair, make many babies. Grunt. Grunt. Unnnhh. (Clearly, I've done my anthropology research in the newspaper's cartoon section.) Fast forward to 19th century colonial

Philippines

: barongs tagalog, guitars and haranas, maria claras. Mahal kita, mahal kita, hindi ito bola...Ok, maybe I'm getting my centuries confused, but my point is, the path from a meeting to a marriage in those days didn't have to cut through the modern jungle of dating subspecies, ambiguities, equivocalities, that it does today. Intentions were clear from the beginning, and there was less confusion.

Juan Luna's Tampuhan, 1895

Studies have shown that men are more likely to prefer casual relationships and 'hook-ups' than relationships. How astonishing. And women are more likely to prefer dating, but overall, both genders showed a preference for traditional dating over hooking up. I think the issue underneath all this is fear of emotional availability, of being vulnerable. People crave intimacy but are afraid of it at the same time. Why? I've heard some say that they avoid interacting emotionally with the opposite sex because of some painful experience in the past. Others, cynics - people who probably haven't witnessed a long-lasting fulfilling union, don't believe that relationships ever last, so instead pursue casual flings. Others still, probably date casually for purely hedonistic, self-indulgent reasons - the Dorian Grays of the world to put it one way.

I think maybe the key to avoiding any sort of confusion is honesty. I'm back to the full disclosure theory, again. If you don't feel like seeing me anymore, say it to my face, and I'll extend you the same courtesy. If you're one of those people who doesn't believe in relationships and don't ever intend to be in one, tell me early on (explicitly) so I know not to expect anything and again I'll extend you the same courtesy - I'll tell you that I don't put out. Cards on table. Quick and clean. Don't lead me through the sludge of your emotional hang-ups, your collection of baggage, because I don't think that's fair.

What do you think, lone person reading this seemingly interminable post? (I promise, it's almost done.) Do you prefer traditional to casual? Hook-ups over relationships?I'd like to know.

All I know is I'll take traditional any day. Oh, and that I'm not afraid...anymore.