(Post within a post)

Copy-pasting some random blabberies i wrote when i was jobless and had no internet connection. Things tilted a bit since i wrote this–for better or for worse, I still have to figure.

This, Again

Three words to summarize this year—just another cycle. I guess that’s what we are most afraid of: repetition. We are afraid to make the same fall again, in the same breath, in the same frame. Our appetite for repetition is our double-edged sword. We learn things through exposure—habits, routines, osmosis–stuff like that. By the same token, we make ourselves susceptible to fucking up because we are used to it. ‘Immunity’ is one word that comes to mind. And this year has been about that: failing, indulging in some hope, getting some things done, setting everything half-baked, and then failing all the same. In the same breath, in the same frame.

My nine-month love-hate affair with my day job ended in November. While I saw it coming, I have to admit the conclusion was quite abrupt. One simply does not get jobless when bills are piling up and there’s a grumpy landlady ready to knock on the door every end of the month. Not when Christmas is just around the corner, not when everybody is rumbling about their 13th month pay. Here’s the thing, for nine months I chose to stick with my low-paying job because I thought something bigger might happen along the way. There were days when I would spend more than I would earn–but that was okay, because someone in the office said something like “sacrifice.” I had my mishaps and shortcomings which I tried to counter in the most beneficial way I could. But as I would relate to my friends in the most subtle way possible, there was just no reciprocity of investments on both ends. Someone drew the last straw, someone had to leave. Parting ways with that job is not really about stripping myself off of a title. Who cares if I turned from being the Cyber Account Marketing Strategist to the Nap and Laundry Projects Coordinator? Parting with that day job actually means saying goodbye to 9-am MRT jam, solemn walks on the bridge way, presentation jitters, and coffee jelly in Ministop. See? Routines cause us emotional baggage that should not be there in the first place. So here I am, stuck with my bed undone, gorging on a canned tuna and daydreaming with my embryonic hope.

They say, between love and career, only one is to survive. I do not know what happened to me but I fuck up on both. The guy who makes me smile a sheepish smile at the oddest hours is the same guy who caused my bulging black eye bags. Tears have a habit of making out with sleepless nights, I say. It has been an on and off relationship with B; sometimes I think it’s worth it while most of the time I think it’s suicide. There’s only one thing I realized in this—that the only time you can say that you’ve moved on is when the former flame comes back to you, begs you with let’s-start-again-and-i-missed-you’s pegged a la One More Chance and all you feel is nothing. Not a thing. Probably not a tinge of elation. Not that feeling you get when he texts you to come over and you turn up in no time ditching your biggest presentation for the next day just to be with him despite, and maybe because of the consequences. When one more chance is not worth a second thought, you have moved on. I was one hair strand away from completely moving on but when B came back—poof! I could have as well prepared confetti and balloons just to welcome him back. But I am in love so what the heck.

Two years ago, I was jobless. Two years after, I still am. Three years ago, I thought I was in love with B. Three years after, I know for certain that I am. Sure, life happened in between and under—I got a job, flirted with other boys, did rackets, and almost made out at the movie house–but things are the same. Going back to square one is becoming a habit.

I am in this, again. Maybe it’s time to create my own version of pitfall.

Leaving and other sessions

Leaving and Other Sessions

It was her 5th nap of the day. Her rumbling stomach—satisfied by a trip to the convenience store this lunch—woke her up. Eating, unlike other days, had been more of a necessity than a whim. Waking up, on the other hand, had been more like a choice than a routine. Days like this gave her the benefit of choosing when to wake up, where to wake up.

She finished half of her beer the day her day job walked out on her. On happier days, she could finish half a case—even better when prodded by a good company, greener jokes, and fake guts. On drunker days, everything is magnified: punchlines are funnier, friends are dirtier, and everything else, including the sentiments some try to nurse, becomes an open wound wanting to be healed by brewed malt. She thought she could trade one day of soberness for one bottle of beer. (She doesn’t need much of it anyway.)

The weather in the city is a combination of tasteless smell, cold breeze, and polite gestures of TVCs urging dwellers to worm through the malls and waste money. Christmas has been a favourite season. Everything else changed when her dad passed away.

Computer shops, to her surprise, still existed. Oftentimes, she’d found herself sandwiched between a high school kid playing video games and a middle-aged woman logged on to Skype. It had been two weeks since her internet connection at home had been cut. Friends, those that she shares intangible elements with, had been tossing out guesses in her absence. Some hypothesized death (dark humour, she believed), some thought elopement, while others, the ones closest to her, knew it was just one of those days when she would disappear without goodbye. Sometimes, absence has a way of knowing who remembers.

Leaving had been a habit—a dangerous one, to some extent. Alternating her routes in an attempt to avoid some people proved to be the best antidote. For the past years, her life had been had been about that: moving from one’s space to another’s, planting feelings to some place she arrives, leaving them unwatered, until it withers and she’s ready to move on to another. “Disclosure” is a word that needs breathing space in her vocabulary.

B is back. As wrecked and fucked up as her life already is, she still had the balls to welcome him back.

B

“She stuck a bookmark

in my heart

and walked away.”

Saul Williams, “She”

It baffles me how you manage to walk in and out of my life like nothing happens. Like nothing happened.

But my high tolerance for pain, sleepless nights, and constant neglect amazes me just as much.

Blahhberr Blahhberr Blahhberr

I’m running 3 days late for a 22-article deadline. Might extend for another day if I don’t shut this window down in the next millisec–

And I didn’t.

I’m still here. Rummaging through some Adele songs. Torn between past and future tenses. Grammar twisted and turned. 90 minutes exited and I have had 8 breaks. The usual. Youtube. Chat. And a bit of stalking. No, a lot of it. Productive, eh? I have evacuated to the sala from my room upstairs thinking things would be extra productive without the sight of the bed. I failed myself. Don’t worry, Carmina, I tell myself. The editor, whose face I have never known, is kind enough to understand. A 3-day delay is–okay. Forgivable. You work with average to quality outputs, anyway. Not to mention you work your ass off every night marveling at the  essence of that nose hair trimmer review all for a cheap rate. Not bad.  Yes, your editor, in fact, will kneel down on you, virtually, and pledge you to work for him some more. With the same cheap rate. With the same fucking nose hair trimmer reviews.

I tell this to myself. Wait, who tell this to what? “You” is now the “I”? And “I” is the new “You”? I don’t get it. Neither do they. We are lost as all the others are.

Blahhberrr Blahhberrr Blahhberrr.

 

And the 9th break is done and over with. Now, off to work…

22

I am at the best phase of my life. Where mistakes are forgivable. Where being naive is expected. Where everyone my age is high on ideals, ambitions. Or the lack thereof. Where being stupid and principle-oriented are at the driver’s seat. Where everything is new, challenging, different–a first-time.

I was a fresh grad one and a half years ago. Now, I’m juggling the lives of an advertising agent, a freelance writer, and a weekend laundry lad. All these while reviving the enigmatic essence of how to split the bill and try to make ends meet.

I have a full-time day job–my second since I stepped out from the idealistic era that is college. I am still an idealist–to some extent, I guess. The “I want to change the world” mantra is till in my DNA (for how long I wouldn’t know). I have my bucketlist and am working on it. Yes, I get insecure with colleagues earning twice as much as what I do. Of course, the inevitable self-questioning creeps out off my bed at midnight. Things like “I’m too old to do this, too young to do that.” There are questions I find the answer to on the street the next day I wake up; there are some, however, that are left untouched, never discussed amidst coffee dates in Starbucks. I wake up, dress up, go to work, peek through unfamiliar faces, become acquainted with some, accumulate more Facebook friends, drink a beer or two, and go home with the same unanswered questions.

I am at the best phase of my life. You can be at the worst phase in yours. At the end of the day, it’s all a matter of how you look at it. Half-full or half empty. Black or white. Yes or no. This or that. The good news is, whatever inconsistencies, mishaps, losses, resignations letters, tax dues, electric bills, and self-interrogating thought bubbles you have, it is just a phase. You deal with it, move forward, and go on with your life including all the shitty details that come with it.

Sundays and Pictures

This blog is on an identity crisis. Much like the weather. Humid and dry in one minute, thunders and blackout the next. One day, I’ll just pull out my daily itinerary from my planner and squeeze it all in here.

As much as I want this blog to sound personal minus the diary-rant vibe, I don’t know. Today is Sunday. The usual: brunch, extended sleep, laundry assignments, Sunday racket, and plans that are not bold enough to get a life.

I guess we’re torn apart like that in one way or another.

On an unrelated note, here are some pictures of the great Apartment. 🙂

“where do we go from here?”

Krispy Kreme artwork, org teaser, goodbye notes, pictures, DVD poster, magazine cut-out.

blur

swollen

I am a tired girl.

Where do I even begin?

Putangina hindi ko din alam.

That I fall out of love with my job just as soon as I grow tired of everything else in my life. That I listen to the same song for bazillion years. That I just pitched my slot to hell. That I do not know any better.

Putangina hindi ko din alam.

Where do I even begin?

If I would compartmentalize my state of emotions today, define it, give a name to it, revoke it, chew it like a gum, put it under a vandalism-filled arm chair, drown it in memories (only to remember days after), and put it on a pie chart, this is how it would look like:

And quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind hibernating for two, three, x number of years. I need a break for gahdsake.

Swung

I have always enjoyed riding the swing.

Back in elementary, I’d frequently drop by the bare lot at the back of the Church where an aged swing stood erect. When a small playground became open to the students in high school, I found myself wheeling away from the classroom just at the end of our last period to shove my small frame into the playground’s entryway.

My feet tilted on the ground, my torso a bit stretched, my hands gripped tightly onto the chains. I’d release and swung free.

I guess the quench for moving somewhere else without really going anywhere has been with me ever since.

Rainy Days Like This

My accomplishments for the day include half-emptying my laundry bin, going halfway through two blog posts, resiting the urge of soda, and not giving in to the first move.

It is raining outside. B texted me as I’d expected he would. I do not know what to feel. My feelings, by the same token, do not know me as well. I guess we’ve reached a dead end. All three of us: B, Myself, and My Feelings.

I would have tucked myself inside the blanket but the rain outside told me to jot this down. Something about turbulence and tranquility and why we should write in between. Anyway, I plan to sleep on this and fuel my happy hormones for tomorrow’s work. Ah work–the brokenhearted’s greatest antidote.

Also, a poem by Anne Sexton. I just thought it fit.

Admonitions To A Special Person

by Anne Sexton

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you’ll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor’s part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won’t be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I’d pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you’ll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

Tick

This is your life; and it is ending one minute at a time. – Chuck Palahniuk

It takes

eight minutes and half to the next train station

two thousand steps and a slip to your home

ten hours and an entire playlist to your real home

four minutes and a dose of charm to be the next in line

two tall glasses of water to quench thirst

three open tabs to get distracted

half a minute and a good joke to the 28th floor

one long explanation and a fist bump to steal the punchline

eight consecutive days of silence to give up

four dial attempts to get someone pick up

one 2-word text message to ruin the day

one 4-minute Rico Blanco’s song to climb down stairs

nine hours of sleep to forget

and a split second to remember