Saccharine Irony

This site is a compilation of fluid thoughts, a collection of poetry, random glimpses of humor and tragedy, spontaneous notions of an extremely sensitive mind.

marshmallow lines September 26, 2007

Filed under: Movies — Aimee @ 6:11 am
Tags: ,

***********************************************************************

Since I was not able to finish watching the film adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice many months ago, just as I was barely able to finish the novel itself, I watched it again last night until well past midnight. Although I cannot list the movie as one of my favorites, there have been a few memorable lines that turned my insides into gooey marshmallow. First, it was when, against a backdrop of blinding sunrise and subdued green fields, Mr. Darcy declared to Elizabeth Bennet, My feelings have not changed. You have bewitched me heart and soul, and I love, love, love you.

And then, when Elizabeth spoke privately with her father on how she loves Mr. Darcy, and how her prejudices about him have been all mistaken, Mr. Bennet, teary-eyed and smiling, replied, I cannot believe that anyone can deserve you. But it seems I am overruled. So I heartily give my consent. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzie, to anyone less worthy.

Remind me to read the novel again.

************************************************************************

 

Trees September 24, 2007

Filed under: Faves, Saccharine thoughts — Aimee @ 12:58 pm
Tags: ,

Last Friday, I traveled home with my officemates in a white pick-up, right after working hours were over. I was hoping the weather would cooperate because ever since that awful, awful episode when my bus got stranded for four hours one rainy evening due to a landslide, I haven’t been as keen on traveling through these parts as I used to be. Mercifully, the weather turned out to be beautiful, no rain showers or capricious winds whatsoever, and for two hours or so we were offered a delightful view of the green countryside, wide expansive skies, and the sporadic sights of small, wooden houses by the highway, and few ramshackle food and convenience shops.

But for some reason, I found myself staring at the trees for most of the two-hour journey, and have made a mental observation that when you recline further on the car seat; the trees take on interestingly peculiar shapes, as the vehicle moves swiftly along. There were trees that looked like lollipops and emerald cotton candies, and there were those that looked like pointed arrows and twisted spoons. There were trees shaped like giant bonsais (note the oxymoron), and there was one particular that looked like upright animal bones, without the cranium of course, because it did not have any leaves, and was powdery white in color.

There were trees resembling an open umbrella, and a few that looked like open fingers. And there was one that I particularly liked, jutting out of the side of a bridge, because it looked like those lovely trees found in photos of African savannas, the name of which now escapes me.

In time, my eyes grew tired from all the tree-watching and I dozed off; my drowsiness amplified by the darkening twilight. When I opened them again, we were steering down to the place of my childhood, and from where I sat, the city lights were clearly visible, orange and lovely, against the balmy evening.

 

Eerie Enchantment September 23, 2007

Filed under: Career Chronicles — Aimee @ 8:20 am
Tags: ,

A few years back, I once lived alone in a house of seven bedrooms, for ten months. It was that time when I just got transferred here in this nascent, sleepy city in the heart of the Bukidnon mountains for work. I barely knew anyone in these areas and was looking for a house to share with young professionals like myself, when someone suggested a cozy, cabin-like dorm house which was up for rent in a quieter part of the city. The owner lived in another split-level house a few feet away from the cottage, but because the property was relatively wide, and was surrounded by trees and bamboos, the cabin had an isolated, almost surreptitious appeal to it.

There were not too many neighbors, facing the property was an empty lot lined with cacao plants, and farther away one could see the tips of the mountain forests, hidden now and then by the transitory fog. Public transportation was rather a short walk away so that honking cars, whirring motorcycles, and the like were a welcome rarity. I found the cottage charming at once; its façade was designed to look like it was a log cabin, when in fact it was just made of simple cement, and it had a little wrought-iron gate, and potted ferns hung carelessly from under the little windows. Because it was bordered on two sides by trees and shrubbery, brown leaves would often carpet the pavement during breezy days, and the chorus of the crickets and the sound of bamboo leaves brushing against the wind would often greet me at sundown just after arriving home.

The little house had seven rooms as I had mentioned: three on the first floor and four above the small, steep stairways. It had two spacious bathrooms, and a corner sink. My room on the first floor was the largest and I was happy to have grabbed it first. The middle-aged landlady, perhaps a looker during her salad days, was friendly enough but always kept a certain distance from her tenants. She promised me that soon, I would have housemates; mostly young and single nurses working at the public hospital near her place. The summer season merely delayed their arrival, and that come June, the cottage rooms would all be rented out.

Except that the nurses never came. Or anyone else, for that matter. The weeks dragged into months. The landlady became noncommittal, and soon I grew tired of the solitude I once found so charming. I soon dreaded coming home to an empty house of seven bedrooms; the isolation was slowly eating away at me. I would take my dinners at fast foods or little cafes, and upon getting home, play all my CDs until the wee hours of the morning. The darkness, the crickets’ noise, the bamboo stalks all had an eerie feel to them that I slept with the lights open. I could not stay late outside because by then, the streets would be pitch black, if not for the light of the fat, sinister-looking moon. During the course of the ten months, I found myself a roommate, but she traveled frequently that she was almost never home at all. My landlady was quite particular with her choices, and so was I, so no one else came to live with me at the cabin.

On the third month, I had a sweaty nightmare, I didn’t sleep until morning. On the sixth month, a number of transients lived at the house for a week, disrupting my sleep even more, and stealing my toothpaste and soap, but the night they finally left, I wished they never did, and I would have gladly given them a gallon of toothpaste if their lives depended on it. On the eighth month, one of my friends from my home city spent a night with me, and told me she’d never understand why I would live in such a lonely part in this side of the world. She was right.

On the tenth month, I finally left. And couldn’t be any happier.

 

Not For Sale September 21, 2007

Filed under: Sarcasm, Women — Aimee @ 9:55 am
Tags: ,

(This is my article that the Philippine Daily Inquirer published in their Young Blood column on June 19, 2003. I hope I don’t sound too feminist here because really, I am not in that extreme. I’m just exasperated with women who view themselves as mere extensions of the men in their lives, nothing more)

 

 

It occurred to me only recently that a good number of people honestly believe all women in this age are out to “sell” themselves to men. But I think these people make little sense.

For starters, there is the popular idea that women dress well and strive to look good for the sake of men. It is believed unthinkingly that the only reason a woman would prefer to look at least half-decent is simply to put herself on “sale” in the “market” of men. I have even heard one guy declare that women dress up because it serves one purpose: flirting. It is like saying that in choosing which dress to put on, a woman’s uppermost concern is how the male specie would react to it, regardless of whether she personally likes it or not. It is the same as saying that without the “approval” of the opposite sex, a woman is a total failure. It is as if women go through their daily routines with a sign on their backs reading: “Heck, buy me and take me home. I am for sale.”

Why is it that even some women say they are here to “sell” themselves? Perhaps it is because they are convinced everyone is in a chase, and the game ends once a man finally takes notice, starts a courtship, and in due course gets to “buy” her. Then once the game is done, women can stop taking care of themselves and be content being baduy and losyang.

Does having a relationship with a man mean that the woman can opt to be pabaya since she is no longer in the “market”? Any broad-minded would disagree. For why can’t a woman do something for herself and herself alone?

I know women do not live to “sell” themselves or whatever “goods” they might have. Rather, they are here to prove themselves, to explore their strengths and thereby improve gracefully over time.

A woman should do something not because some other entity impels her to do it but because her heart is set on doing it. For instance, a ballerina performs on stage not to elicit appreciation and applause from the men but to show everyone in the audience, both female and male, that she is more than flesh and bone but above all else, an artist. A female athlete strives to win not to impress the opposite sex but because as a woman, she gets a deep sense of fulfillment from her efforts. In the same way, a woman who dresses well, walks with poise and speaks with quality should do so not because she wants to sell herself to the eager customers but because she wants to prove that in a male-dominated society she can be their equal or even better.

Of course, there is a big gap between how a woman should be and how some of them actually are. Some of us actually give women a bad name by deliberately behaving indecently. There are those who quite literally put themselves on sale, believing that doing so is their solitary function in life. I have seen some women go to the extent of trading their respectability for the pleasure of having male company. There are females who choose to wear black thongs with flimsy white pants, while traipsing the walkways of universities or even hearing Sunday Mass, strutting their stuff before a wide eyed world. Isn’t this a vulgar invitation to the males?

Call me old-fashioned, but I think I have better things to do than to bare a lot of skin. Well, these women can always offer excuses but whether the male audience is buying them remains a big question. Any ordinary male perception would simply conclude that the female is showcasing herself in a way that invites some unseemly reactions.

But this type of women, who go beyond the bounds of propriety, are a tiny minority. So it is unfair to regard women as objects of trade. They are more than cost-effective merchandise. Men cannot buy them and consequently own them. Anything that is for sale eventually leads to ownership by the buyer. If this were the case with women, then they are no better than the next Playboy issue or some fancy sports car that any man would love to own and brag about.

There are times when women are better off listening to themselves than listening to everything that men have to say. An overprotective boyfriend is not worth keeping if he destroys his girlfriend’s individuality. A possessive husband is worth leaving when he wants to turn his wife into a miserable marionette. In such cases, women are better off living out their own dreams. In fact, they would be better off trying to please themselves first. It may be a cliché, but it is true that a woman should not need a man to complete her; rather a woman needs a man to complement her.

Still, there is some truth to the supposition that women try to look good to attract men. It would be hypocrisy for women to say that they don’t welcome male attention. The way a woman carries herself reflects her personality. In our society and age, a personable appearance is a necessity. But women should do something not just because they want to draw the attention of men. A woman should do something because she wants it for herself, because it’s her way of gaining authentic self-esteem and completion.

A woman should know her strengths, and selling herself is not one of them.

 

 

HAPPINESS IN CALORIES September 19, 2007

Filed under: Food — Aimee @ 5:41 am
Tags: ,

I am saddened by the truth that nowadays, I can’t even say pointblank what my favorite food is. I have always believed that food plays a huge role in altering the human mood, as when a piece of good chocolate can almost instantly make me smile, after an episode of frenzied emotion. So it gives me great misery, however that it is a willful misery, depriving myself of my favorite foodstuffs, on account of all these info overload on healthy-eating, the big C, antioxidants, free radicals, blah.

Why is it that I am always told ( yes, I care to listen) that eating too much of my favorite grain chips will give me kidney problems in the future, no matter that it is labeled “whole grain”, because it owes its kicking flavor to MSG? Since high school, I have been drinking coffee, and have subsequently been loving it, but I have limited myself to not more than two cups per day, since that ridiculous afternoon when I complained of hyperventilation, sweaty palms, and gastric pains. I adore chocolate, especially the dark variety (for me, the darker, the better), but my Mom is adamant in reminding me that it was diabetes that took my father’s life six years ago, and that chocolates sold anywhere has enough sugar in it, otherwise it wouldn’t be marketable or be considered as a dessert. Frozen delights had been second in my list after chocolate, but because of the perennial weight issue (pants that get too tight, tops that barely skim the waist, and even bras that wouldn’t close properly), I simply cannot have more than what is reasonably enough. Having gone to the grocery this week past, I was tempted to try out some yogurt instead, but for some funny reason, I was suddenly attacked by guilt. How in the world can I betray ice cream, unhealthy calories and all, when it had comforted me during my tumultuous college days, and kept me sane through all those hellish summer afternoons?

Mayonnaise has been my favorite dressing, but after realizing that a big dollop heaps about 110 calories, I have been meaning to try out mustard instead. While pasta is my preferred comfort food next to any rice dish, I have to watch myself whenever I take a second helping of lasagna or my mushroom penne rigate, because that would mean, in my silent code of rules, giving up that gooey good-old brownie, not to mention the 400 calories that lasagna harbors secretly. Doughnuts, choco-chip cookies, wafers – all these may be laden with the infamous trans fat, which is currently being banned, or at least attempted to be banned in most restaurants. Oh, the complications of healthy eating! What rhapsodies a chocolate can elicit from the depressed! Indeed, the road to obesity is paved with very good intentions.

Most days now, my diet consists of fish, sautéed gulay, and even the occasional beef and pork. As for fruits, I love mangosteen, strawberries, and ripe mangoes. I still eat chocolate, but have given up stacking my little glass containers with those devilishly addictive brown stuff. I still drink coffee, and sometimes buy myself a small pack of those multi-grain chips at the nearby sari-sari store. I still have my pasta and taco takeouts but I know I can’t have it more than once per week. I have not been gaining weight; thank heavens, as I have been wont to think too much before eating anything.

However, I can’t say I am happier now than those days of many years ago, when I could devour mounds and mounds of mocha ice cream topped with thick chocolate shavings, gulp a tall glass of soda, and never count calories, never be guilt-stricken, never gain a pound.

 

The Haunted Dreamer September 18, 2007

Filed under: Saccharine thoughts — Aimee @ 5:09 am
Tags: , ,

I am currently loving Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield. I don’t really know, but the song just speaks to me. It’s actually a harsh retelling of what I should be doing with my life right now, but because of it’s nice, kind-of-positive tune, it doesn’t sound as harsh as I have personally deemed it to be. I should know because I’m always staring at a blank page, and actually my bedroom windows are kinda dirty ( don’t tell my mom), I just seem to have too many inhibitions for comfort, and really, as much as I love the sound of the rain, and the romantic, subdued atmosphere it brings, I hate getting caught up in it without an umbrella ( ask my SO; read: significant other)!

So, so. the song is simply, albeit pointedly, telling me, to “Start conquering the world right this very second, because for all its breadth and height, you’ll need more than a few lifetimes to actually get to do it!!!!!” But then again, I go back to reassuring my ego, and that yes, little baby steps will do for now, little baby steps that shall soon grow into monumental adult steps, very very soon. I know time is running fast, and honestly, I can’t convince myself that I love my job in this boring insurance agency, and probably never will unless they give me a marketing and/ or writing assignment, plus a hefty paycheck.

But, after hibernating for so long, I’m afraid I no longer realize what I’m actually good at. I love the English language, and I love reading ( though work constraints don’t always allow me to do it very often), and I love observing people, but I don’t fancy myself a good writer. i have not even written anything substantial in the past six months, and am easily distracted by so many things at once: a ringing cellphone, office clients, curious apprentices, my indispensable S.O., funny SMS, late night TV shows, Youtube, eeetceeteeerrra. I love to cook, I love to bake, I love staying in the kitchen, but I still don’t know if I could ever make a career out of it, unless I take a decent culinary course, or have enough money for capital. I am fond of little kids; learning their language is amazingly easy for me, and have been toying around with the alternative of teaching preschool as a profession. But. But because I am a management graduate, I have to take up several units of Education courses and pass the LET exams before I can teach in a primary school.

Which then brings us back to my day job as an office clerk/ desk officer/ remittance poster/ appprentice trainer/ documents filer in a small office I share with obnoxiously loud males. While I don’t intend this to be my lifetime gumption, i have come to love Bukidnon and its picturesque valleys and mountains, and the gentle, easy ways of its people. I can even imagine a life here — a nice white picket fence house, me typing on a laptop in my room ( writing, I can imagine), a hubby whipping me up my fave pasta, opening a quaint cafe, and weekly travels to the city, monthly travels over the country and yearly or bi-yearly travels around the globe.

There is yet too much in my life, however that’s unwritten, as Ms. Bedingfield goes, and if I don’t discover how to blot ink on these immaculate pages, I shall forever be haunted by the lost possibilty of conquering this world, breadth by breadth, height by height.

 

The Saddest Lullaby September 15, 2007

Filed under: Poetry — Aimee @ 5:21 pm
Tags:

The Saddest Lullaby

~~~

What would it be like to die?

I stared at the bottled fetus
And spoke silently
To the shadows cowering
Behind dusty shelves
Of dry animal bones.

I peered closer and saw
The wrinkled mass of skin
That bound together
A lifeless mass of flesh.

It looked as if it had survived
A century, only to die without
Ever growing an inch.

What would it feel like to die
Without having been born
And to float aimlessly
In such a cramped space?

I could almost hear an answer
In a voice stifled in regret,
Whispering as in a lullaby

A low, far-away, sad song.

I moved closer and realized
The voice was my own.

 

Paralysis September 14, 2007

Filed under: Saccharine thoughts — Aimee @ 6:19 pm
Tags: ,

A fairly normal Friday; decided to travel home the following morning

Too much work can be paralyzing. Especially when you’re stuck with work you’re not really too passionate about. But then again, it’s not just work that can send you into a subjective paralysis — anything that you are not too passionate about, but that which you are unfortunately stuck with, is asphyxiating. A relationship you’re not too crazy about, a home you can’t even call a home, a spouse you can no longer connect with, a job that does not inspire you — all these can drag anyone down to the dregs of desolation. I can now imagine why there are too many unhappy people in this world. And it all started with the fact that most, if not all of them, made the wrong choices in the beginning.

A new graduate chooses the first job offered him thinking that he made a noteworthy decision, and sticks by it for years and years to come, duped into the notion that a highly secure, stable job is always enough. A girl gets courted by an affluent egomaniac, and eventually marries him, believing that love is merely found in books but never between two people, or worse believing that the egomaniac she married would actually change. A spoiled rotten child follows the dictates of his parents blindly, never knowing how to subsist without the comforts of home, even at the ripe age of forty plus years. Or the proud career woman who keeps on searching for the perfect man, that perfect mate she has so consciously fashioned in her subconscious, foolishly thinking that it does and can exist.

It’s just amazing how one choice can alter lives so drastically, and how the unwillingness of making one can stifle the very nature of what our lives are supposed to be: free, spontaneous, independent and impassioned; flawed and unpolished in some areas, but sublime all the same.

 

Leaving Home September 13, 2007

Filed under: Career Chronicles — Aimee @ 2:18 pm
Tags: ,

- Originally created on 08/09/2006-

I had never appreciated home the way I did after I packed my bags and left, and perhaps when I finally return one sweet day, it will be harder for me to leave again.

I left home almost two years ago for work. Well, I never really left it, I just spend five days working away from the city I grew up in, then traveling back to my hometown on weekends on a two-hour bus commute. A few months before my twenty second birthday, I remember how I had packed my stuff in a state of unusual optimism. I was trained to be self-governing in character, being the oldest in a brood of three, and I felt that subsisting in the recently chartered city of Malaybalay in Bukidnon where city traffic and shopping malls are nonexistent would be as easy as pie. The lifestyle congestion of a thriving city like my hometown in Cagayan de Oro can be quite a nuisance that I easily welcomed the thought of a simpler life, so simple that one could hear the pine trees rustle their needles during breezy nights and anywhere within the town proper is just a short walk away.

For all the poetic romanticism I had reserved for this new place however, I was soon shoved face first in a position I hadn’t really counted on. It turned out I was the only young female in a workplace dominated by five twenty-something males whose language and antics got fouler each passing day. They were fond of swearing, for one, and it came as naturally to them as breathing. They would talk of girls and sex nonchalantly, as if I myself were not from Eve, and being the newest addition in the office could very easily take offense from such brash talk. Simple minded and insensate as they are, they would comment on the size of my chest, the shape of my buttocks, and would even go to the lengths of asking me something as personal as my own virginity. One officemate has this unabashed habit of relating his sexual encounters of the previous night whether anyone in the office asked for a recount or not.

Sure, there have been good days and after a while, in a very odd way, we have all become better acquainted but being in their company teaches me to simply accept people the way they are and seek out, however difficult, the lighter side of each one. It was out of my own volition that I came here, and I have learned how to hold my tongue and keep my cool, even when the feminist side of me longs to lash out mercilessly at Mr. Casanova. Oh well, since I have no one else to back me up on my arguments, lashing out at him would be futile. The rest of them would just laugh and examine me as if I were something fast forwarded from a different era.

Yes, leaving home not only meant leaving that sun-drenched house with the cozy kitchen I had known since childhood, it also meant leaving for five straight days sensible conversations with life-long friends, anecdote-filled family breakfasts, and “diet” dinners eaten while watching evening news. It meant having to do away with the perquisites I had grown to neglect over the years, like always having someone laugh at my stupid jokes, a sister who would iron my frilly blouse at the last minute, or having that particular someone fetch me from the office, hold my hand, and walk me home. And until I lived my life away from the comforts which had been right under my nose, I never realized that I would actually come to prefer a humble tomato omelet lovingly prepared by Mom than one ordered from some fancy café.

Almost two years and dozens of tear-stained tissues later, I have grown quite adept with turning a deaf ear to insensible remarks and to amuse myself with things I’d rather do alone. Here in this cold plateau, I have grown twice as strong-hearted and a thousand fold more grateful for the things I am now missing but have actually been blessed with my entire life. And yes, the mobile phone has become my very reliable companion, as calls from home, apart from my precious weekends, are my anesthesia in this period of psychological loneliness.

There are just some days that I wish to have an interesting talk with people who respect women as persons, gives a damn about economic or socio-political issues, and appreciates topics other than sex, women, booze, and, sex again. Some days I would love to share thoughts with someone who has read the works of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez or the sensual poetry of Pablo Neruda. And funny enough, some days I even find myself missing the carbon monoxide fumes of busy Divisoria and the maddening traffic after office hours.

And whether or not the decision I made two years ago would prove to be a wise career move in the end, it doesn’t hide the truth that some days, I wish I never left home at all.

 

A few of my Favorite Things September 12, 2007

Filed under: Faves, Saccharine thoughts — Aimee @ 9:10 pm

A bowl of mango ice cream; A glass of strawberry milk shake; Sinful, dark chocolate; Red sunsets on a long stretch of beach; Purple evenings/ twilights; Smell of the earth after the rain; Reading a good book on a rainy evening; The smell of freshly brewed coffee; The feel of velvet on my fingertips; The feel of silk on my bare skin; A wooden chest filled with mementos; Sharing a good laugh with my sister; My dog’s silly, tongue-wagging smile; Drifting, falling leaves on a windy day and; a bed of fallen brown-yellowish leaves under a canopy of trees; Silent, echoing, chapels and cathedrals; The sound of bamboo stalks dancing in the wind; A nice white hammock and plush pillows; Building sand castles (when they don’t even look like castles at all); Fishing through the dictionary for a new vocabulary; The smell and sound of sautéed spices in oil or butter: shallots, garlic, ginger, capsicums, chilies, and lemons; Blowing candles on the cake on my birthday; Separating an egg’s yolk from the whites (silly, silly, silly); Pineapple fruit or juice added in any dish: pork adobo, pepperoni pizza, hamonada, and my mom’s sotanghon; Oatmeal topped with fruit and raisins; Scanning old photo albums with old pictures; Prose and poetry, fiction and essays – reading and writing them; Watching animated Disney fairytales over and over again; Furry slippers; An infant’s toothless smile; The crisp, crackling sound a bunch of dead, fallen leaves makes when set on fire; Watching horses run, and mounting them; A bunch of yellow orange roses and calla lilies wrapped in lime green paper; A nice set of pearl earrings; Frolicking in the rain; The scent of cinnamon; A baby’s clumsy but firm grip on my pinkie finger; Exfoliating my face with brown sugar and baby oil/honey; Being lost in rows of aisles filled with a myriad of books (as in a bookstore or a library); Listening to a broad range of music- from Norah Jones and Frank Sinatra, to 311 and Enya, to Incubus and Coldplay, to Aretha Franklin and Alicia Keys, to Josh Groban and Andrea Boccelli, to Jason Mraz and the Black Eyed Peas; Watching a father and his young daughter together, whether on the bus, eating lunch, or walking hand in hand etc.; Watching old, gray-haired couples kiss; The smell and texture of sugar turning into caramel under slow heat; Achara, or green papaya salad; The sound of horse hooves on cobblestone; Chad’s smile, Chad’s puppy eyes when he laughs, Chad’s wonderful foot massages, Chad’s hands holding mine.