A girl’s gotta have such trinkets inside her treasure box 
Strawberry Fields in My Mind January 30, 2008
This movie musical – Across The Universe – is lovely. The timeless Beatles’s songs are rendered exquisitely, and the production is a visual pleasure. After watching it, I can’t keep Strawberry Fields Forever out of my mind. Oh, and did I mention Jim Sturgess is the ultimate eye candy?
Lucky, lucky Worms January 25, 2008
Yeah, this is kind of old news, but there are days when a girl just has too much on her plate that even the deaths of two heartthrobs cannot afford her to make an early reflection on such unexpected tragedies. Again, I was sacrificing sleeping hours for writing, and exploring the sunny world outside when lethargy strikes. Anyway.
Ten days ago, on the 15th of January, Brad Renfro died in his sleep. His Hollywood star sort of waned over the years, but he had such a brilliant career in his youth. He was unforgettable in The Client (1994), and I remember watching a few of his movies in the mid nineties (Sleepers, The Cure, and Tom and Huck) with only as much as a perfunctory interest in his acting prowess, because I was to busy swooning over his lovely brown eyes. Anyone will excuse me for doing so, I was a dreamy adolescent back then, and Brad Renfro was one of the few swoon worthy icons of his time. Then, as most disturbed young actors are wont to do, he grew drug dependent and his movies have become few and far between. Up until his death more than a week ago, my closet still had a few magazine cutouts of his boyish gorgeousness, an outdated remembrance of my silly-shrieking high school years.
Then Heath the sensual Ledger died seven days later, again in slumber. This guy had jawbones that’s to die for, and a burning stare that makes you want to strip down to your underwear and soak in an ice cold bathtub. Brokeback Mountain established his acting skills. He was always excellent in period films. Then, all of a sudden he was reported not to have woken up one gripping afternoon. Sleeping pills overdose, perhaps.
The price actors had to pay for all the glory and red-carpet attention. When people are blown-up to such larger than life proportions, it’s quite hard to believe that they can fade away just like that, and then we are reminded again of the flimsiness of mortal existence.
Such youth, such beauty ought not to be wasted inside rotting mounds of earth, I should say. But it just might as well, for all the grandeur and eminence and possession that one life can hold. Brad and Heath have had their share of the best, so everything is not really wasted. Dying in your twenties however is not a thing worth celebrating, when there are people in their fifties who are just starting on the rosiest time of their lives.
Such a huge regret, whenever those lucky earthworms get their fair share at a most ill-gotten time.
Romanticism of the Old Pen January 21, 2008
These days, I find myself missing the long, handwritten letters era, when the only thing that connected you to a distant old friend was the old, reliable postal office. Snail air mails have never been too reliable but we did not mind it back then. Whenever the smiling and wrinkly post man would drop something inside our fence mailboxes or stick between the grilles of our rusty house gates, there was always that feeling of unmistakable excitement and apprehension. Excited that someone from miles away might have remembered us, yet apprehensive all the same that the letter might in fact be for someone else.
Two nights ago, I spent my midnight browsing through old letters from friends. Nope, there weren’t any love letters, though I was wishing to find that there was one which I didn’t get to open. But there weren’t any, I had the most lackluster love life during my student days, and even when I am perfectly happy with my love right know, the scented letters still do not come that very often. The letters were from ten years ago, dusty and yellowed and forgotten. An old classmate who flew to New York wrote me on more than a few occasions. A dear high school friend who went to live in General Santos City and later settled down in Hawaii wrote how much she missed school and the rest of us. And then one of my dearest friends with whom I still remain in constant contact most insomniac nights actually wrote me a letter one Christmas and cheesy Valentine’s. I just wonder, how many letters did I actually get to write these past years, and did any of them survive dust, discoloration, and oblivion?
I wish I could draft more handwritten letters these days, even if I don’t get to send them. The keyboard is an amazing thing, but it only speaks of speed and convenience, nothing else. Maybe I’m just an old soul who relishes in everything antiquated and romantic. Maybe facing the monitor for long hours has made me realize the elegance of the old years. Days when writing was a task and an effort, but also something that you would really find the time for even on evenings when you’d rather read a book or go to bed.
Seven Holidays per Week January 15, 2008
Today I went to the bank to claim my cyber account card. Finally I got it, which means there’s definitely no way I’m not gonna get paid for all my written works. Then I went to the mall for my grocery shopping. The good thing about not having a structured job is that you can make everyday a weekend or a holiday. For the first time, I actually enjoyed grocery shopping. Today is a working day so the supermarkets were somewhat deserted. Browsing through the aisles was like being in a peaceful library. There were no annoying shoppers who would bump you with their heavy carts. No obnoxiously loud couples who would argue like they were just inside their bedrooms. No horribly long counter queues, no aisle traffics, no toddlers who would suddenly scream because their mommies won’t buy them those extra soft chocolate chip cookies. Believe it or not, I went through every aisle, checking out the items even though I would not actually buy all of them. It was like having a huge pantry all to myself. Ah, the beauty of solitude amidst such pleasures.
Indeed, having an office desk and a blinking computer inside gray walls is a very dangerous way to view the world. A two- day weekend is definitely never enough, I should know it, because I’ve been there and back. And the early Monday morning rush is not something to look forward to. It’s true, making a living does not run in parallel with having a life. But for most of us idiots who know nothing else, making a living is the closest we’ll ever gonna get to having a life. Again, little wonder why there are so many unhappy souls in this world.
Let’s hope I’m not speaking too soon here. Because somehow, the idiots are the people I love, and genuinely care for my future whether I want them to or not. Who knows, maybe I’m an idiot underneath- having a structured job, short weekends, annoying bosses, well-connected officemates all equates to a perfect life. Maybe, ten years from now, I’ll look back and remember the idealistically foolish and headstrong girl who wasn’t strong enough to find, and to fight for her rightful place in the world. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll wither and grow wrinkles after spending a youthful life inside gray, air-conditioned walls, faking smiles to people I’d rather give a piece of my mind to. Because in this country and age, idealism does not always work. It may work, but not without tear and mucus stained tissues, frustration after frustration, and people thinking you’ve gone entirely mad.
Why can’t every day be a holiday? Because if truth be told, people deserve all the holidays they can get. I know I deserve it, so I’m enjoying it while it lasts. I’ll start my new year by treating myself to seven holidays per grueling week. 
The Way of the Cosmos January 12, 2008
For girlfriends, wives, exclusive daters, and all other fussy females, stop asking your men for more emotional depth. The fact is, they are insensitive by nature. No, it’s not entirely something that they are proud of, they would often tell you how clueless they are on this, but it’s just something that is embedded in their genetic make-up. They are born to be clueless, insensitive, and practical to the point of boredom. Again, it is not their failing. They were just fertilized that way.
The most common example would be the frequency of giving flowers. Most guys, whether they admit it or not, hate giving flowers. Those who do so are merely prompted by societal pressures, or by those cheesy Hollywood romantic movies that we, women are so fond of. Most men give flowers without ever knowing why women love them. But because they want things to be simpler, they just proceed with no further questions, buy a huge bunch from the flower shop, write some silly nonsense on the card, then secretly relish the smother of kisses that comes after presenting the flowers with much aplomb. Most guys need hints all the time. And the sad truth is, without these subtle hints, the woman will never get her fair share of those gorgeous orange roses.
So it’s time women stop fantasizing about love letters, poetry, chocolates hidden inside drawers, and rose petals scattered on the bed. They are closer to fiction than you think. There are two pseudo types of men who do this frequently. First are those men who would want to get to your underwear sooner than you think. They want to rush things so bad, that they would research for an entire day on how to be the perfect Casanova: roses, nonsense poetry , and all. When a woman’s heart melts, the rest of her clothing would melt away too. Then when Mr. Casanova has had enough, the roses would stop coming, and the female will be left with the wilted petals and exaggerated letters, nothing more.
The second pseudo type would be those men who are not even men at all. So in touch are they with their feminine side, their emotional selves, that they can predict all that a woman yearns for. Many women have fallen into this trap, thinking that they have found their modern Romeos: poetry and songs, tearful scenes, quixotic kisses and make-ups. Only that, Romeo was more of a Juliet after all. He was confused, he would tell you. And when you recall those days when he sang songs to you, picked the perfect stilletos for your birthday, or gave you those impeccably arranged rose and lily bouquet, you would begin to realize just how uncomfortable you actually felt that time. Like, everything was just too good to be true. That such a man was the stuff of distant fairy tales. That indeed, everything he had done were for the sake of his own fantasies, fantasies he had carefully hidden from the prying eyes of the world.
So just be thankful when your man is clueless with gifts, or roses, or shoes. Or if he doesn’t wax sonnets like Shakespeare or Neruda. Be thankful he knows nothing about lip gloss and mascaras and nude pantyhose. Or that his letter contains some loopholes, or that he once bought you an expensive flashlight when all you really wanted was a cheap make-up remover.
Be thankful you have a man in your life. Stop being too fussy. Men are just being themselves: clumsy, clueless, and practical to the point of boredom. But nothing tops being real and downright honest. And having a few sweep-you-off-your-feet kisses in between.
Cupcake Afternoon January 9, 2008
Today was a warm day with friends. Ella and Mae came over at the house to bake cupcakes with me. I don’t know why I have this sudden fixation with cupcakes. Perhaps it’s the fact that they’re easy to make and easy to consume. And putting the icing is just like playing with colored clay, only that there is no teacher telling you how you’re not doing the right thing. We made just the basic variety so as to leave more room for us to experiment with frostings and toppings. Next week I’ll probably head to the supermarket for my baking experiment on chocolate cherry glaze cupcakes. They’re a bit on the expensive side I know, but no one’s gonna buy any of the ingredients for me, anyway. Plus I get to leave the house for a while, which is a good thing because I oftentimes catch myself talking to the computer out of sheer solitude. Creepy.
Len arrived much later, when the cupcakes were already set and pretty on the serving plate. Much to our flattery she didn’t believe how we could make such a lovely batch, thinking that we merely ordered the cupcakes for that afternoon’s rendezvous.
We chatted, ate, laughed, and conversed a bit about the absurdities of the world. We gave Ella our preliminary goodbyes, who’s leaving for Cebu on Friday. Brave, brave girl. But Nashy will be there and whatever the case may be, she’s bound to have the time of her life. Hopefully, she’d find her heart song across the seas.
When she comes back we’ll frost many more cupcakes, and laugh like she never left at all. In the meanwhile I’ll write, bake, and go out with girlfriends as much as I can. Sometimes I get the funny feeling that this paradise isn’t going to last much longer and that pretty soon I’ll be enticed to accept an eight-to-five-job because it’s the road more traveled by ordinary folks like myself. Why does work and happiness have to be at opposite ends of the pole? Guess I’m just talking about me.
If truth be told, I can bake cupcakes all my life, if my writing suffocates me. Anything but a predictable existence inside gray walls and half-brained asses. Anything but boredom, structure, and nausea. Hope I don’t need a golden compass to get to where I want to be.
But believe me on the cupcakes. They were a thing of beauty.
Crotch Issue January 4, 2008
Somebody save me. I’m about to break down from trepidation and uncontrolled laughter. It turns out my next writing assignment might be about breast and penis enlargement. With breast enlargement, I have no problem with. As if anyone can easily tell real from fake nowadays without having to squeeze them. But penis enlargement? Talk about ridiculous, funny, pathetic- an act of total, absolute desperation. C’mon, penis what?
I have written about all sorts of unlikely stuff: Wiccan witchraft, article marketing, fat loss and the calorie shifting theory, cooking sushi, NBA betting games, horse races, place reviews, web design, software packages, baby’s bottles, numerology, and a bunch of business letters. But crotch augmentation is something else. Like I’m supposed to know what it’s like living with a teenie weenie buddy? What it’s like to be embarrassed during steamy lust sessions? That I’m supposed to know how mortifying it is for them when the smallest brief size does not hug properly? Like anyone talks about that sort of stuff over the internet? C’mon.
But just out of curiosity I’m gonna try to click on some sites later. No, I’m not going to write the article, as long as my editor doesn’t complain. I’m just gonna find out if men, egotistic as they are by nature, would actually rant about their “smallness” over the web. Maybe, just maybe, honesty is the new machismo.
A little Personality Thing January 3, 2008
As much as my passionate nature is my strength, it has also come to be my worst failing. Everything has to be dealt with a passion for me. When I love, I love without respite. When I hate, I hate with a fiery intensity. I can be a chatterbox when I want to, trading jokes like a child trades mud pies. Then I could dwell on solitude for days on end- walking around a lonely house, eating by myself in a crowded cafe, watching a movie flick alone. Whenever I am in a bookstore I prefer to be alone, and usually end up debating silently with myself on the book choices. When I don’t feel like talking, I can persist like that for as long as my mood permits me. Which is why, I can hold silent wars as if it were the most natural thing in the world. For me, the equation is simple: it’s either you’re my friend, or not. No middle ground. No in-betweens.
I enjoy laughter as much as I relish my bawling sessions. Witty jokes make me laugh. The stupid ones reduce me to belly clutching. But when I cry, and it’s never been too often these days, I cry until I fall asleep. The tears just come in torrents, like a faucet opened too suddenly. I cry while throwing fists at my pillows. I cry until I cannot breathe anymore because my nostrils are too clogged up with mucus. Seriously. If anyone can be called a drama queen straight up, that’s me right there.
Whenever someone annoys me it’s either I walk away, or I tell the person straight up how much of a nuisance he is. But everyone knows how being too upfront can get anyone into too much trouble oftentimes. So walk-outs, leaving in a wind rush, emotional exits are my thing.
My worst pet peeve is when people don’t care to listen. Like you’re already explaining your side of the story yet all they ever see, or care to see are their own twisted versions. Straying from the point also gets to me. People who manipulate stories just to merit sympathy makes me want to shout. People who accuse me of being lazy drives me bonkers. Yes I am a bitch, a lousy liar, a drama queen but being lazy is the farthest thing from my truths. If anyone must know, I can cook my own meals from scratch, clean my bedroom, wash my clothes, clean the kitchen, do the grocery shopping, and bathe the dog. With work, I never like to disappoint people. I have worked for more than twelve hours every working day for the past three years with a measly, pathetic salary. If that’s not slaving over, I don’t know what it is.
Whenever someone accuses me of something I know I’m not, my blood rises to my ears. And that’s the time I wish I weren’t as passionate as I am. I can hurt as intensely as I can nurture. Arguments have to be patched up the soonest time possible because if they were left to rust even more, I will get used to the idea and simply not care about fixing things at all. No I do not love these silent wars, but I I think I just have a longer threshold for keeping silent, keeping mum.
I am not taking pleasure in the fact that everything about me spells intensity. That I always do, feel, and speak with a passion. Sometimes I wish I were the insensitive, indifferent sort. Sometimes I wish I don’t have to cry over movies or songs, or be inclined to write long love letters to my guy. Sometimes I wish I don’t laugh as hard, cry as hard, or hope as much.
Sometimes I wish were a little girl in pigtails once more, never knowing what pain, what betrayal, and what grown-up love means.
The Reign of the Earth Rat January 2, 2008
There is just one resolution I’m gonna be keeping this year. That is, to stop believing in resolutions for once. This year I’m not gonna be expecting anything, but I’ll be keeping the conviction that I deserve all the good things my heart desires. This year, I’ll do away with plans, expectations, fears, and all the useless baggage. This year, I’m allowing myself to be a nomad, a drifter, camper, impulse traveler, writer, and all the things I have deprived myself of in the past. I’ll devour a bar of chocolate in one sitting if I want to. I’ll head out to the beach on a working night on pure instinct. I’ll watch all the flicks I want, read all the books on my shelf, have ice cream by myself at the mall, have a tequila night with crazy girlfriends. This year will be for the fulfillment of all my hedonistic desires, and no one’s gonna step a foot and chastise me for it.
All this time, I thought that if I slaved for work, I’d be rewarded like I ought to. I left my home, friends, dating life, the bookstore, the malls, everything without a second thought. And in the end, I found myself sniffing at tissues, wearing ugly eye bags, and a million times more unhappy. So much for being a slave.
So this year will be my year of redemption. I’ll get a real job when I’m tired of being a drifter. Or when an expensive hand bag suddenly makes me want to have a decent paycheck. I’d probably read more into what the stars are actually telling me. Maybe the answers are just right under my nose. Or maybe the answers are hidden far far away, across a stretch of ocean, somewhere I had never thought of exploring.
Until then, I’ll be celebrating my freedom, looking forward to a year with no framework and no intricate guide maps. And perhaps, this may just be the grandest year yet.
