The child is gone

February 1st, 2010 § 0

Something remarkable happened to me a couple of days ago. I was logged in Facebook, looking at the wall of status updates of my friends. A name popped up in a friend’s status update comments. A blast from the past. Before I could control myself, I directed a question to her, asking if she, by any chance attended my high school. Turned out that she was indeed the one I thought of. If memory serves me right, she was a transferee from Bacolod, a place that the rest of us that time must have considered exotic, being land-locked Bulakenyos who probably considered Luzon as the only part of the country that mattered.

After this initial contact, she invited me to peruse her profile so I could get in touch with our other classmates. And before the euphoria faded away, I did exactly just that. I stifled a groan when I saw that she had 500+ friends. How was I supposed to get through this list? But about 90 minutes (and a blooming migraine) later, I have seen the many names that populated my young life. However, out of the 30+ names I saw in her profile, I only managed to click about 3 other names.

I have previously written how I felt about my unremarkable years in high school. Of course, when one hears that I graduated from high school at age 14, he or she wouldn’t agree right away that it was an unremarkable 4 years. But to be honest, that’s really how it was. If anything, the only remarkable things in my high school life were how socially inept I were, the sense of alienation that I felt (which never lifted until after my second year at university, and my utter lack of friends. If I were going to use my present definition of friends, I’d say that I only made one true friend in high school. And I never contacted him again since going to Manila a few weeks after graduating from high school. I saw him only 10 years later, by accident, while I was dining with my boyfriend at a restaurant. We were cordial with each other; he seemed excited about a supposed high school reunion that was going to happen in a few months. I feigned excitement when he mentioned the reunion, but I knew in my heart that I couldn’t be bothered to return to a place where I existed virtually invisible–always on the fringes, on the outside looking in the beautiful and popular ones.

Last I heard, J is dead. I remember he had a congenital heart defect. In fact, in our senior year, he got sick and almost died, about the time we had our annual spiritual retreat.

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You got me

January 27th, 2010 § 0

I do not wish to write about the holidays again and yet here I am doing so. The past holiday season did not leave me with feelings of joy that I usually felt before. In fact, if anything, I felt absolutely mirthless over-all. Sure, I had bursts of exhilaration and cheer (which can be mistaken for real happiness) but these were ‘facilitated’ by external agents like drugs and alcohol. In fact, I was so glad, no–thankful that the holidays are over. That’s one less reason for my innards to continually knot themselves into tight balls inside my belly.

Still, there are other things that I’m also thankful for during the past holiday season: the gifts. Yes, you read it right. In spite of the general malaise that my prose has exhibited of late, when it comes to gifts (giving & receiving–but more on the receiving), I am still a big soft, fluffy monkey. Of all the gifts I received, these are the ones I like most.

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What’s not to like about this gift? It’s orange, it has a cute chicken in front, and it’s a giant egg-shell! It’s adorable, and with no real purpose in life other than being beautiful (and yes, adorable). Scrump was given by another friend, who knows I sorta collect Lilo’s (Lilo from Lilo and Stitch, not LiLo the Lindsay Lohan) doll. I just put in there because of the great contrast in color.

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I love books. Books as presents I love more. This book was given to me by the author himself. This self-published memoir chronicles his struggle at reconciling his sexuality with his faith. Some people might find the thickness of the book daunting, but I read it in one sitting, one cool evening. Ray writes such fluid prose, making the reading process easier. But this is not to say that it’s an unremarkable book. Some of the contents are bordering on the ’scandalous’–depending on the degree of one’s modesty (read: prudishness). As for me, there were some moments that made me blush. But all in all it is a compelling read. I promised Ray a review of his book in this blog. I will do a ‘proper review’ in the coming days.

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Comfortably numb

January 26th, 2010 § 0

I didn’t expect that I’d be able to write this post, because I felt that the past holiday season went by in a blur, almost a drug-induced haze that it didn’t seem worth writing about. And yet here I am, doing exactly the opposite of what my glum heart has told me to: ignore the holidays, let it pass like water flowing around river stones. I don’t remember much, actually. My memories these days are more confined to what I was feeling rather than on what was happening.

I went through the motions of fixing the Christmas tree, which turned out better than I expected (though I wouldn’t admit it). I went through my friends’ plans of hosting a Christmas eve party at home, instead of a Christmas day lunch that I usually did in the past. This experience taught me that a potluck party is way better than people contributing money then having the cooking done by just a few people only.

Why? Because when the expenses exceeded the pooled money, nobody volunteered to make a second contribution to the one who handled the cooking. Moi. I however, hope that everyone had a good time. Based on the level of intoxication of people, it’s safe to say that they did have a good time. I was, in fact, so drunk that night that I only managed to help V, my room-mate, a little in tidying up after the party before sleep claimed me.

The rooftop of our flat was decorated for the party. In the end there were too much food (which we ate for the next 2 days, it seemed) but not too much whiskey, vodka & beer. There were new friends (at least to me), resurrected friends, and friends of friends who attended the party.

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The Beautiful Ones

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Return to innocence

January 25th, 2010 § 4

I found this in my 16 year-old cousin’s blog over at tumblr. I’m not sure if she wrote this (it looked as if she got it from another blogger–a friend, presumably) or not. I’ve been reading her posts for quite some time now and I am quite taken by her eloquence. Am I glad to have stumbled upon her blog. I haven’t seen her in a long time. the last I did she was this chubby, cheerful, and affectionate girl who had hugs and kisses for everyone. In her sweet sixteen party, she had apparently blossomed into a pretty young woman, whose beauty seems to equal (if not surpass) that of her older (and only) sister’s. Thanks, K, for allowing me a view of your mind. Such beauty makes me feel the world isn’t such a dreary place, after all.

I have no doubts the girl can write. But this particular note got me thinking. Because this was something I would’ve attempted to write when I were young myself. Of course most of the details would be different: mostly because of the sex/gender divide; also because we’re almost a generation apart; and we grew in different parts of the world. But I guess the general sentiment will be the same.

When you are young you can’t wait to grow up and when you’ve grown old you can’t stop thinking about when you were young. One of life’s hard facts. And one vicious cycle.

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Last Christmas

December 24th, 2009 § 0

Although the title of the post suggests a reminiscing of sorts, I will not do it simply because last year this was exactly what I was doing: thinking about last Christmas. My Christmas eve tonight will be a busy one; the house will be the venue of our Christmas party. This means I will make an early trip to the market and the supermarket in about 6 hours, then spend the day cooking and preparing the house for the party. I am not in the party mode at all. If truth be told, I’d rather spend it quietly, alone. However, lately I do not trust myself to be alone with my thoughts. So, even if my innards feel like they’re rolled into a tight ball, I have decided to go through with the party.

Also, it took me quite a while… and after a seemingly long delay, caused by many things (procrastination, learning a new software in my macbook–goodbye, CorelDraw! deciding on which photo to use, which design to do, and what message to write, plus all the wranglings brought on by a simple yet brutal lack of inspiration), here it is finally: my holiday card for 2009.

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Be happy

December 23rd, 2009 § 0

Perhaps the most perplexing thing about whatever-the-hell-I’m-going-through-right-now is my inability to write about the whole experience. This is something I used to do with ease, since I was young. Whenever I felt troubled, disturbed, and confused, writing has always been a refuge, a sanctuary. When I was grieving–the passing of a loved one, or the end of a relationship, writing has always been an effective coping mechanism. It didn’t matter what I wrote: a poem, a story, or a simple outpouring of thoughts and feelings; writing made me feel better.

And now I can’t even do that.

I am resisting the urge of seeking someone to talk to regarding this, whatever-the-hell-this-is. I tried doing it to my friend but it ended in disaster. What was I thinking, anyway? I couldn’t–shouldn’t burden any of them with this. I am told I cannot do it alone but how can I bring other people into this morbid dance? It’s not that they brought me here in the first place. Well, some of them, probably. But the nature of my friendships has always been one that is frustrating and infuriating and loving and caring, all at the same time. Although, lately, yeah, I have to admit that, of late, all of them seem to frustrate and infuriate me more than love and care for me.

My gut tells me stay away, but my mind tells me I cannot do this alone.

But, pray tell, do what? Get over this funk? Emerge from this rut? Be free from despair and anger? Regard the glass as half-full instead as half-empty? Let my heart swell with emotion?

It seems that like writing, I am unable to do any of these things as well.

My mind is a bottomless well of ideas. A thousand ways–or more, to deal with whatever-this-is.

Do the things that made you feel differently. If this fails, do new things that will (hopefully) make you feel differently (hopefully, better). Seek the company of friends. Go out and (try to) have fun. Eat and drink and indulge. Do some physical activities and get an endorphin high. Read books with positive messages. Have a good cry. Have a good laugh. Pray. Talk to someone. Talk to a professional. Renew ties with  loved ones. Communicate with your family. Communicate with God.

The list is possibly endless.

If only these ideas will march out of my mind, coax my tired body to actually move, and turn these thought-forms into concrete actions.

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