If i was able to grow beard and matching side burns to go along, I would have had. But I couldn't; I palpitated by the sight of aggresive people fetching their baggages, squeezing their grown bodies into mine, a somewhat indication that I was still insubstantial (or looked like one) even to my home country which, over the years, evolved somewhat foreign and questionable to me. Surrounded with the most impatient people I'll ever encounter in my life, I watched the moving machine intently, almost gave me a squeezy feeling and constricted lungs. Boxes after boxes came along and similar baggages anyone would have thought all these filipinos planned to buy the same red ones to abominate my pea-head brain and make me even confuse as if I was not terrified for my life already. When I unboarded Philippines Airlines, with heavy eye lids that is, I thought I wouldn't be able to exit the new territory. I went along with the flow, followed two old couples, down the stairs and more stairs (where the hell are them elevators! My carry on was freakin heavy), and alas I saw a magnificient sunrise, a sign perhaps that no matter how heavy my carry on was (as, if you were there, would also thought...I'd have had drag it to the floor), I'll get to my destination and be able to decipher my uncle from all the filipino cloned bald-headed men.

Easy was far from check out. Maybe "easy" barely came along when I finally saw a man, with all his disappearing receding hairline, waved at me from the crowd...I thought to myself, "Who the hell is that?" Of course it hit me, or so I've heard that my uncle was not picking me up but my dad and the butler, instead. After the long, grueling time I had at the "pick-up baggage" area...after my weary face was about to turn sour...after frustrated sighs were about to be heard in some hundred miles, I finally saw my poor red luggage all beaten up from the back, looking tired and pathetic. I knew I was not going to be able to carry them both and still look fashionably tired...oh I knew. And so i got me one of the big carts about, oh I don't know, a mile from I was. The one thing I truly hate about traveling (and I've only done it twice...you know, gone international) is the fact that there will always be 95% you would get lost and or loose your luggages. I am one of these people who will likely to face such unfortunate adversity. I would be fine if I was in the clouds because my mind is in the clouds, somewhere over the rainbow, away with the horizon most of the time anyway. But when it comes to being alert and tending some real world concerns I lack attention thereof.

Anyway, after asking the old lady upfront what to do next (and she said "well, sweetie, you go home now..." oh the sarcasm,), I stood up front for good 20 minutes looking for a bald man or a sign that says "Ja, WE'RE here" and an arrow pointing down. A hand wave was okay too although crazily, I thought everyone was waving that I have had looked around and see if there's anyone behind me. And sure enough there were hundreds of people looking for their own families as well.

I seriously thought I would take a taxi cab back to my uncle's house although all so sudden, I saw my dad beamed through the crowd with his glasses, a faint smile, and (even from afar) creases in his face. As he signaled me to walk towards the right, I felt the breeze that would soon accompany me for a 6 week vacation to my hometown. It wasn't bad weather, I am not use to humidity anymore like the old golden days of my childhood.

My dad and I hugged like we have had a good relationship over the years. My oldest sister was there too. She still looked the same during his post-college days of bang up reasonings and funky hairs. Even with two kids, nothing have changed for her. She still buys expensive heels--the cost could help feed a whole town for a day. My dad on the other hand looked weary as if he is already in his 70s ready to retire--from his job as a government official as well as his job being a dad, son, and to my nieces and nephew, grandfather. Jimmy was right about everything though. He encouraged me that no matter what have happened and will happen during my stay, my family would be happy to see the 'grown-up' version of the spoiled brat they used to adore and even perhaps, abhor. And I saw that reaction from the start.

Our way back to my uncle's house, both my dad and sister 'obstruct' me with mile long questions. All the what's, when, where, and why's of life, it was presented during the car ride. Of course I willingly answered their questions--out of breathe--but I answered with my weird combination of the tagalog, english, and ilocano vocabulary, nonetheless.

When I get off the car and be reminded of why Philippines will always have a place in my heart... I knew summer '07 was going to be somewhat idealistic: I was far from reality, far from my mom...far from the fast-pace life of California. I was, alas, going to relive what i've missed for 2 years during my melancholic days here in the States.


P.S.
It has been a year. Its weird how time flies by these days.

Labels: memory lane, unfictioned

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About three months ago, I have decided to resume my supposed passion for art. Many people have heard about it and have seen my capability to deform a building's facade, paint it with different shades of red and call it "art". I, on the other hand, has not considered this supposed "talent", really A talent. When the people in my art class last year mentioned I am cheating my way out, I told them "it's [just] called being wise". In which then, I don't think art is really my forte; being wise might be, however (but on any given time, I will prove to you I am as talented as Picasso with more use of fancy colors). Anyway, while visiting galleries downtown with two girlfriends of mine who have more knowledge of the subject, I was suddenly (yes, in the middle of the raging LA traffic) struck with the idea of getting back to my one and true love: art and frustration. It was my friend's birthday the day after (I wanted to paint her a sea escape, utilizing only colors, no indication that it is a sea escape) and so I had the chance to prove to myself once and for all, I still have the will power to mull over paint fumes and stare on my rough sketch for hours at a time. My tiny tubes of paint were discovered, hidden under piles and piles of shoe boxes under my bed; the paint brushes however, were intoxicated with paint and hard as a butterfinger bar. Such ill fated outcome to my absolute desire to reunite with my love did not stop me, however. Although after 3 hours of pouring blue paint all over the canvas (it was then passed midnight), it occured to me I was not getting anywhere. I added some flare to my brushing technique, no luck to that. I tried adding white, well, it seemed to me a desperate act. The canvas did not lie, I was as talented as my next door neighbor: she's 5 and she drew better clouds compared to when I was 5.

These days, I've wanted my passions so bad, my forceful attitude has actually pushed all of that knick and knacks away. My efforts, especially when it comes down to art, have been ineffective. Oh yes, and I do put A LOT of effort, too much perhaps that sometimes, I just end up being frustrated that I cannot finish any drawing that I start.

Take my oil pastel on paper, for example. My niece Lyca is still faceless, her arms imbalance--hair, a bunch of lines that stick up...and no, i did not intend it to be abstract.

And lets not talk about my supposed landscape here, with a kid from Banaue, looking intently at me as I draw (take a photo) him. Instead of a peaceful, breathtaking scenery of the mountains of Banaue, it ended up looking like turmoil and chaos. While the trees lack (and I mean really, really lack) details, I feel like I am back to square one (to 1st grade where I drew brocolli-like trees).

Must I go on?

As embarassing this is for me to announce to the world (or just the people who read this) that I don't "got it no more", it is more than the embarassment--I am internally struggling with this. Although telling an old high school friend I missed Mr. M, the teacher who truly pushed my buttons during my art career in high school, says a lot about my real desires to reclaim what I have had a year ago: a budding talent, the feeling of absolute frustration that had always turned into definite passion.

What can I do? Every time creativity strikes me, I am out and about pigging out on Pad thai and boba tea. Every time I have an idea or two about what to write next, I am dealing with customers who will never be happy with how their baby looks like. And most notably, every time I truly, absolutely want to paint a modern thematic art, I am nowhere near a canvas or paints.


Hmmm. I don't think I can push further (it's 1:00AM, what do you want from meee?) Like they all say: it will come to me. Indeed it will be. Maybe it'll knock on my door tomorrow. We will see. :)

Labels: art, patience, personal statement

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For they Will Always be a Figment of your Being

Labels: hooleeday, Poem

| Enemy, I don't want to be my worst enemy.


I have been forcing some creative juices into my blood--although that, too, was a seeming failure from the start, I still tried some cartwheels, a little touch up on painting 101 and all the things I could possibly imagine just to get my wonderful artsy-fartsy self, back. Well, like everything I tried to fix (in my life, lately), my willingness, and forceful disposition to be back to my creative side, failed to work. Now a days, when I am not falling asleep in Psyche 3 or pretending I am cultured in front of my Italian professor, I am out and about working with whiney kids, pulling out some random blabberings along with my friends, pigging out on food that always makes me sick, or with the one person I am currently having a love-hate relationship.

Oh, go ahead, tell me my life lacks essence and I would agree, as to why I have purposely forced creativity rather than let it happen naturally. I sure do missed my high school days. Days when my art teacher had pushed me to my limits, caused me to talk shit about him and art behind his back...those days...those days...where did they end up to, now? Although, from the start, this year has been some sort of amazing beginning for my legal, "adulthood" years, there wasn't I had ask for more than to trip back to my three-dimensional self. Yet I wanted it so much, I forced it horribly to re-enter back to my life...that I guessed "it" got scared. Maybe Josh was right, I should give it up--not only for love, but also give up trying to be my parallel self. I am sure most of us have an idea what we want to be, have an idea what we are, even though it contradicts other people's views. And well mine is that...I am more than flat, boring, and floating, oh and incapable of creating great things. But lately, it just seems to me that I am just those mentioned.

While I should know who I am by now and what I want to do in life, it seems as if I am getting pulled back 10 years and stuck with my childish ruts. Why? Aren't I too late to start discovering my "passions"? Okay, so it is not about discovering but rather having it back. Honestly, I have been selfish to myself; while I do have time to help my friends, think about my friends and their well-being, and try to do what's best for them, my "self" however, has been left here hanging, wondering, and in the end, gone, past my 6900 street. AND I WANT IT BACK, DAMN ITTTT!! I WANT YOU BACK.

This person who drinks margarita, just hangs out constantly, almost everyday damn it and not worry about anything else besides relationship dramas WAS NEVER ME. I was more than the girl who feels empty inside--I had a good head on my shoulders, I had a plan, I wanted things, I was determined not to be most kids...but now, I AM THE PERSON I DID NOT WANT TO BE, empty, shallow, and lacks culture.

This entry is my outcry for help. I thought maybe if I put down how I feel, my deepest desire in here...that I will understand and constantly be reminded THAT I WANT CHANGE. This is for me, for my own benefit...my 5 senses...or just one. I have to stop confiding in to people and maybe for once, start being real to myself and understand what's really being given up here. I do not want to be 40 someday and still bitter I wasted a good amount of my time going through life eyes wide open and nothing else--no determination, passion..NOTHING!

I want my passions for visual arts, photography, cooking and writing to be with their rightful owner: ME.
I want to grow up in the context where I own up to bigger responsibilities.
I DO NOT WANT to waste my time, my money, and energy on people who are never meant to last 4 months in my life.
I want to be a better daughter; a better worker; a better friend; a better lover; A BETTER STUDENT; a better person, period--nothing more, nothing less.



Oh. If only you really know how I feel. Frustration is not going to get the better of me this time. NOOO. NOOO. NOOO.

Labels: womanly rant

| Thoughts in Bus 062

Seated near the window in the back, he had a quiet depressed presence surrounding him. His tie was too loosened up, it almost seemed as if it was going to fall down any time the bus swerve to the right and then left...and right again. Cousin Nerie called him up at work that day, bearing all the bad news he could have imagined. It explained his early leave from work--he found out his dad had a heart attack and did not make it to the hospital. He was never close to his dad yet the news still left him dumbfounded, as if a giant slab of stone was put over his head, hurt, and worst, just suddenly proceeded into his throat. It had been hours since he took the bus 062 home although he had not gotten out and let the damning bus in circles... he asked himself: "When will it ever stop?"

Other thoughts wandered through his head "Maybe if I was a little nice to my old man, I wouldn't be here, feeling guilty. I don't know what to do. Damn it, Mario! Go home. Go see your old man..." and tears poured out, like rain in the middle of summer--profound, nevertheless, melancholic, coming from a man who was clenched to his collar, gasping for air.
--

The same day, the same bus, an African-American old lady was seated in her wheelchair, up-front. She wasn't sad, she was thinking deep, her face, the map of the world. Grocery bags were assembled nicely in the floor, as she watched 'em moved gracefully with the engine. Happiness was questionable although her body language translated appreciation for the food she was about to bring to her six grandchildren. She found them, all diversed in their own means, under the bridge near her house one day, asking for some change. Out of pity but mostly annoyance, she decided to welcome them in to her humble house of crumbling walls and pictures of family she barely see twice a year. After 20 minutes of oblivion, she snapped out of her thoughts:

"What am I going to do with these kids? I am not getting younger or richer. I just hope they will learn how to own up to responsibilities soon. I am really counting on Alliyah but she's busting up so much with that loser boyfriend of hers..."

and realized that it was already her stop.
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"Ninguna suerte hoy. No quiero seguir viviendo como este. Ellos la gente blanca sigue tratándome como la suciedad. Sólo porque no digo su lengua, esto no significa que soy menos más elegante. Deseé que yo no debiera haber tomado mis posibilidades y sólo haberme quedado en México donde, aunque el salario mínimo yo ganara no alimentó mi familia correctamente, éramos todavía felices. A diferencia de aquí ... vida es lo peor. Debo seguir luchando...Dios mio!" Juanito's thoughts reverberated within. In the same bus, 062, he sat peacefully in the center, his legs moved back and fort, as if he could not wait to get off and be with his wife who was actually prepping some delicious carne asada at home. She had a 5 dollar raised from taking care of old people in a retirement home and gotten a big tip from one of the families who came visited that day.

Juanito on the other hand, was still puzzled how to get another racket, while he thought of asking one of his compadres if he could get a job in the Mexican restaurant he currently works at. He just wanted to have a decent job before career day at his son's school. The pressure had been bothering him a lot because, like any parent, he just want his kids to have a better life--better than what he was having. Hopefully, he thought, better than he'll ever imagined.
--

Another person, seated near Juanito, looked too peaceful, as if he had no worries in the world. Ryan looked straight ahead, indifferent about everything that surrounded him; not the wailing in the back, anyway nor the noise outside. Deep down however, he was full of anguished. If he could have, he would have...ran out in the back and suffocated the wailing man in the back or robbed every passenger of bus 062. Nothing compared to a 23-yr old something guy who had emotions which ran deeper than the ocean. Stupidly, he decided to quit his job because of a tiny misunderstanding with one of the female managers on his "ex" company. Stupid perhaps since he had not had another job,

"How am I gonn pay for my bills!? Fuck..Fuck...Fuck... Stupid bitch! ..."

was all he could think of--all the cussed words seemed to apease his anguished and calmed him down for just a second. Although afterwards, he was back to an internal battle number 95672. If only he still had his xbox to keep him company, to ease the pain and frustration that's building inside and most definitely the hatred he had towards himself. He believed it's the closest he could get into his ideal reality: gang bangers, grand theft autos, and hello, HALO!
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A young couple, seated in the 4th sit near the front looked like a happy ending to a movie. The girl's head on the guy's broad shoulder, the guy's arm around her. Little smirks graced their beautiful faces; young love did not quiet look so promising as theirs. Dreamy sighs were exchanged back and fort and the disturbing sounds that surrounded them sounded like hawaiian lullabies to their grungy ears. Not a single word was said yet it seemed as if they understood each other with or without. The silence were meant to cause more hormonal love; they were attached to each other like siamese twins, cats, mind you. Thoughts were hidden behind amourous taspestries and only introduced by their inner selves, guilty, and deep inside more confused...scared?

The guy said "I hoped she doesn't find out about Kendra. I really...uuh...what's the word? Like? Love? ..I care for her."

The girl said "I am scared to feel it; because even if im not trying to, it is still too powerful...the feelings. I do not want to get hurt in the end. Maybe...hopefully...he doesn't hurt me. I am scared. Does he really like me?"

If only minds can talk out loud. If only, babe.
--

Bus 062 did not run out of personalities that day. Another being, a girl with average hair that stuck out, sat behind the two lovers. She was smiling like a psychological muse, and she knew it too. A list of thoughts loomed in her head but the one thing that was memorable was the thoughts of food.

"I am hungry now... I want some Thai... to thai or not to thai? That is the question..."


We all have our different stories and as i have spent a good amount of my time riding the Orange Line, I have encountered people that I created my first impressions of. I could go on and on with this but I won't bore you any further. We're special, no doubt, but most of us, do end up worrying about our problems...we think about them, a lot actually and that's where "being special" draw the line. That is where we are not-so different from the others. We have our own stories but they're all the same stories under the categories of sadness, caring, hatred, love and sometimes just as basic as thinking about what kind of food to eat. WE THINK everywhere, even in a bus 062. I've just thought. Enjoy!

1. Translation: No luck today. I do not want to keep living like this. Them white people keep treating me like dirt. Just because I do not speak their language, it doesn't mean I am less smarter. I wished I should have not taken my chances and just stayed in Mexico where, although the minimum wage I earned did not feed my family properly, we were still happy. Unlike here... life is worst. I must keep fighting...

Labels: FICTION

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Reporting for Duty

Most situations in my life have fallen under "better" category but some are still unbearable, inhabiting the one place I wish more peaceful and uncluttered. It has been more than three months since I wrote a personal entry that does not involve flowery language and migraine-inducing stories. I guess I have gotten carried away by the ups and downs of my own roller coaster ride that lasted about sometime that I neglected my usual vents, raves, and rants. Like how a friend of mine is now getting carried away by a woman who, I think, he does not even want to get steady with. If you see a similarity, let me know as I only added that to emphasize that "getting carried away" will never be a good thing--not for me, anyway.

Somewhere, beyond the silence that stricken my room and mind, I know all the entries presented here are based on my personal experiences. Yet I do missed being human and real sometimes; I have missed translating my feelings down to words and making my few readers wonder what I am talking about (now). My past is quiet exciting, intimidating and questionable. But the past is the past and most days, when I have the urge to practice my will to write, I feel like I need to press everything outside of my mind and put it all here instead of talking in the phone for hours at a time (until midnight).

Well, so here I am tonight, as I sit here getting lost into my own pool of self-doubt and confusement--like I have been all this years, holler! Nothing has changed. I still feel nostalgic about the people gone past my life, walked away, who didn't even said goodbye; I still missed all the important things in life because all I want to see is of non-importance; and most especially, I am still the same person who doesn't know who she is and tries to discover where she might be now.

Although my feelings are the same, my life is in constant motion. Day by day, I realized that walking out and moving on in a "relationship" is a good thing (although I have yet to completely accept it whole-heartedly). I miss many things and although I still feel the need to go back in time or have more millionth other chances, I can only be patient now. I know myself will come around someday and such adversity will only make me stronger and a better person.

I need this time of non-progression to understand and forgive the person that I had become. Although I am face with the consequences of love and heartbroken (for I face different phases of hatred towards men and my passions gone somewhere, taking coffee breaks), it is safe to say I will have my better days. I've wanted everything overnight but this...peace will not come anytime soon as I do need to face the ghosts that haunt me down at 11:11 in the morning first before anything else. I need this to learn how to let go and wait for the storm to ease down.

And so, I have officially enrolled myself to the School of Life. While I hated high school with angst and passionate distaste, I cannot say or whine much, about this.

It was bound to happen and if it wasn't, then it would have not had happened in the first place. Wish me luck on finding who I TRULY am (because I cant be doing it when im 25 and not getting any younger) and convincing my passions (for photography, art, culinary and writing) that I am calm, cool and collective now. Or so I hope.

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"Oh Sunrise..."

People pass by him as if he's a big slump of dirt glued in the wall of gleaming marble in the 4^th street building. Ironically, he is used to it—from passers by who look down and shake their heads upon smelling his stench and eventually avoid as if he is the twin of Frankenstein. Hopelessness still lingers through however, from head to toe and each core of his being. For him, life was not always misery and hunger. No, sir. He had dreams like you and I, maybe even farther than the stars. Yet, goodbye came too quickly as hello said goodbye effortlessly, which leaves where he is now, sitting outside in the middle of winter, frozen like Popsicles and almost freezer burnt like a slab of meat.

Owed his success to his parents, Mike decided to gamble his luck and invested for Urban Shoes. It was some good luck at first since after two, fruitful years being employed at the Company, he met what recalled to be “the one”. Like most marriages in this vast country of love and infidelity, their relationship seemed to be deem forever. After a year and a half of tender love and inexplainable highs, they already have three beautiful children who binded them even stronger than before. Good luck became his reality, where life became the vision he had in mind all along: glimmering like the Bay during a sunny day. He dreamt of taking over the Company someday, sending his children to prestigious colleges abroad while growing old gracefully with his loved ones and money by his side.

But such good luck took its toll for the worst, however. The company failed to met the quota for numerous deadlines and concluded to be fallible, in the end bankrupt, each single dollar was transferred to the bank. His dreams vanished as fast as the shutter of a disposable camera while his family, long gone, abandoned him with the gathered resources through out the years. It was not love that binded them; it was the money that kept them a family yet broken them apart. They savagely withdraw the savings, all 10,000,000,000 dollars of it and fled away to the shores of Mexico. “Worthless man” were the last words from the people who failed to be his support group.

He also lost his parents that year, about 10 years ago or so today. Plane 0567 is reported to suffer from internal machinery troubles and crashed amongst coconut trees and bushes in the blue island of Antigua.

His heart erupted and excreted vile feelings of total depression and madness, upon hearing the second round of bad news. One by one, all the purposes of his life came collapsing down, possibly worst than 7/11, or so he felt—as uniquely as his life experiences can be. For months, he hunkered in the living room sofa, nulling over the strong taste of wine in his tongue. Getting help, he believed, was not the answer but the improbable beginning of even more heartaches. He drank as if it relieved the pain—it only made it worst; he usually found himself crying in the morning yet intoxication continued until one day he just found himself outside, seated in the cold asphalt in 4^th street.

Mike did not entertain the idea of remembering how he got there looking as bad as he smells—worst than a dead, decaying crow in the side road. He knows he is use to the stares, to people pitying him yet not do anything about it, none at all, just warm voices who whisper “Awwww...” while they pass by. His day to day battle with the police also prevailed as they yell at him to “...go do something with (his) life or die painfully in jail”. Jail, he guessed was better than the sidewalk although they never took him in and lock him up. Damn police! They leave him there, rotting away like the winter trees: fragile, cold, and wilting away waiting for a tinge of light to come rescue him.

One, muggy, November morning along with the hustle and bustle that the city usually brings during this time of day, he woke up as always, with the blurry silhouettes of businessmen in their fancy coats and fatigued looks. Out of nowhere, he reached for his pockets like it could talk and told him to do so, when he found a 20 dollar bill inside and a tiny pill with a sun engraved to it. He concluded it must be some sort of children's vitamin or just plain candy. He squatted there happy and abruptly, he took the yellow pill in and sighed in “sunrise...” in which could be seen peeking through tiny spaces between buildings and hugging through atop smaller ones.

“Eeeeehh!!” he shouted in disgust upon tasting the pill as unconsciously, he swallowed it quickly, ruthlessly...disgusted. “So much for a fucking fantastic morning...” he said under his breathe. Twenty dollars clasped on his left hand, he started walking to the left, towards the big arch sign that says McFerrils, a cheap counterpart of the famous joint. Inside, he could smell the aroma of caffeine, the smell of baked biscuits, and frying sausages, a very different sight as he had not had a “good” breakfast since an old lady gave her 5 dollars and 2 cents...about 4 months ago.

"May I have some coffee...and.." he was interrupted by the person behind the counter.

"What size would you like sir?" she asked politely, unfortunately an obvious insincere one.

"The biggest one you have! Today, I'll have a feast like a king!" he said loudly, it scared Jona as stated on her badge.

"...Hold on, I'm not done. Let me also have a breakfast burrito, biscuits with bacon...uuuh apple pie...a cheeseburger and a chicken wrap..." he continued and stopped her from getting his coffee.

While enjoying his "feast" at a table near the window, overlooking the children's play area, his perspective changed drastically from feeling happy to even happier. All the meals he ordered had turned into gourmet meals--the ones you can order in some expensive restaurant by someone famous like Wolfgang Puck. The aroma was almost bearable for him and everything seemed more brighter & livelier...and were the McFerrils employers dancing to...Gold Diggers by Kanye West? He seemed more profoundly friendly to the other customers who just looked him with disgust when he approached them. While normally, he would feel worst than a stray dog when people ignore him, at that time, he never felt more confident in his life, he ignored the banters, took his food outside and danced his way to 4th.

Surprising, he did not huff by the sight of businessmen hoarded, walking in unison talking on their cellphones, yelling at god knows who and what about. It usually upsets him when he realizes that he could have been one of them too but that day was different. He offered them food as if they've been eating McFerrils everyday of their lives. The skylines towered over him as if they were god-given nature while the trees looked even prettier although its the middle of winter. His "home" which sits outside the noted "fancy" building looked like a big ball of warmth--just like what he used to have. "Life is not that bad...its fantastic!" he screamed on top of his lungs...in his head.

His perception became worst when night time fell. Christmas, that's how he called it that night all the lights twinkled, shined above his light head. He didn't mind the numbing, cold wind...he was just, HAPPY.

Until after sometime that everything wore off and he started yearning for the...SUNRISE. He realized that he was back to reality and self-control, self unworthiness...and even more so, misery and pain.

Labels: FICTION, reality, short story, XTC

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