ZEN Bitchin'

By some twist of fate, the start of the project I recently acquired was postponed, leaving me with a 2-week gap I had no way of filling with other bits of work, having refused a short assignment in the end of January. Another source of mild irritation in this turn of events is the fact that I missed going to Bangkok to meet a dear individual because I expected to be working on Monday. I could only clench my jaws and shake my fist against the sky crying, ‘Why, God?’ Of course, I exaggerate. That instant, two words flashed in my mind: ‘movie marathon’. During this time, I also learned that the American version of ‘Ugly Betty’ has been canceled, and will consequently end its 4-year run in a few weeks. This provided me the impetus to finally get the DVD of ‘Ugly Betty’. I always tried my best to catch it at Star World but I think I managed to watch most of season 1 only. So off I went to my friendly-neighborhood (pirated) DVD-store and promptly got me the first 3 seasons of ‘Ugly Betty’.

America Ferrera as Betty, circa season 4

Towards the end of season 1 a scene tugged at the remaining strings of my heart. In this scene, Betty (America Ferrera) was being prevailed upon by her father, sister, and nephew to forgive her colleague/friend who betrayed Betty’s trust. Frustrated, her elder sister Hilda exclaimed that Betty was too hard on her friends. Betty denied this with alacrity but when her father and nephew agreed with Hilda, she was forced to examine herself if she was indeed being too hard on her friends.

The state of my friendships has been relatively peaceful since the turmoil of the last 2 years. However, lately, I have found myself becoming irritated at some of my friends over the most mundane things. I have increasingly felt that most of the people around me seem to be able to do nothing but fail me in some way or another. This feeling did not help me at all. It, in fact, added to my distress, fueling my desire to avoid company as much as possible, for fear of being hurt or worst, frustrated.

Like Betty I had been told that I’m too hard on my friends. Unlike Betty I did not deny this. On some fundamental level, I know that this is at least partly true. I think, because it takes me a long time to be friends with somebody, I tend to completely give my trust to the few that become my friends. In addition, probably because of my insecurities, I like–no, I need to be reassured that this particular friend deserves my friendship. Because of this, I always tend to subject my friendships (and my friends) to tests and experiments.

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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.

The Beautiful Ones

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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.

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.

I have very few reasons to smile and laugh these days. I won’t give the morbid and grisly details because people are put off by other people’s misery, this I know clearly now. It is not true that misery loves company. People, especially those whom you feel very close to, tend to drift away in your worst times. I am speaking from experience.

However, something happened to me a couple of weeks ago. Without any real expectations, I entered a photo contest organized by one of Cambodia’s English-language newspapers. The contest was open to all amateur and professional photographers, with no real limits as to how many photos one entrant can submit in any of the 5 categories. These vague rules added to my apprehension but eventually my recklessness prevailed. To hell with all these fears and worries and dread, I said. And I shot photo after photo until my CF card couldn’t take any more.

In the end, I submitted 10 photos for 2 categories. Among the other entrants that I know, I submitted the least number of photos in the least number of categories. After that I went on with my remaining life here in Phnom Penh. One Monday noon I received a congratulatory text message from B. I asked, what for? And he said I won in one category. Winners for each category were to be announced daily–a fact that escaped me. And I couldn’t believe it until I saw the spread of the newspaper that showed, yes, I indeed won in that category.

I bought about 10 copies of that day’s paper, for posterity. I felt elated and, I must admit, happy. For the first time in quite a while. I was still competing in another category but I didn’t care anymore. I already won. To win in the other category would probably be along the lines of tempting the fates. Had this happened, I would’ve felt terrified of what the gods have in store for me, in return for such good fortune. During the awarding ceremony last week, I realized that most of the other first placers in the remaining 4 categories, plus the grand prize winner were all professionals. They either do freelance work or they have their own studios and they do work in travel, fashion, and advertising.

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About two weeks ago the winds suddenly blew cold in Phnom Penh. Nights began feeling too cold for me to use the a/c in my room. This happened for about a week before becoming balmy and dry like a summer night again. The trees in the small yard facing my building began losing their leaves weeks before that. It started with a few leaves falling on the brick walkway and on the stairs going up to my house, progressing to a handful or so finding their way unto the porch–courtesy of the wind. Three days ago, I woke up to find the ground littered with leaves, almost covering the bricks and the stone steps. I looked at the trees and saw that only one seemed to have completely lost its foliage. The other trees had significant losses, but at least remained covered with green leaves. As I looked at the brick walkway, my eyes began to differentiate the yellow and burnt sienna of the dried leaves against the ochre and reddish orange of the bricks. Shapes began to take form against the other shapes and I would’ve continued to stare at the patterns I were seeing had it not for the ding of the toaster, which reminded me that my bread was done.

Since I learned to count, I have been fascinated by patterns. I would measure the area of a room my counting the tiles, count how many books would fit on a single shelf, or decipher the order of colors in a printed fabric. The word ‘obsessive-compulsive’ comes to mind. Over the years, this fascination did not bloom to be an obsession (fortunately) but instead distilled into a quiet interest that nudges me time and again. I guess this is why I always excelled in abstract reasoning exams and why I love jigsaw puzzles.

However, this quiet interest has also caused me to look for, and see, patterns in my own life. My behavior, my decisions, even the things that have happened to me. Please don’t be so quick to dismiss my hypothesis; twenty-five years or so of scrutiny have led me to make this pronouncement.

For example, in the last 3 decades of my life, I have met at least one person who became close to me and later s/he betrayed me in one way or another. In my teens, my social ineptitude made me vulnerable to manipulation that resulted in a social disaster that tainted my entire high school experience. In my twenties, a colleague who’d become my confidante betrayed my trust for his own career advancement. A couple of years ago, I experienced quite a public betrayal in the hands of two supposed-friends (one old and one new) who not only tried to appear to be the aggrieved party but also tried to malign me to our common friends. Did they succeed? Let’s just say that my remaining friends deserve to be my friends and those who chose to listen to their shit-talk do not.

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