Although still tentative, I may have to embark somewhere far again this year. It’ll be my last — and once more, I’m feeling the need to finalize my autobiography — plus add in an outline of who I am, what I am, you know, just in case… Several of my posts have already covered some of my stories — still, I hope to expand on my chronicles and personal constitution. Failing to keep a journal in my earlier years, only memories that have survived in my consciousness are making it here. Hence, the random mode series and disordered form— as everything depends on my recollections and what I can manage to put into words.
Take heed: If I sound so much like a loser, well, because I actually am. Endure with me. Anyway, if there’s anyone who should complain about it, it could only be me. And yes I’ve long been deserving of a WordPress Shameless Award.
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Born in Manila, middle of three children. My family wasn’t exactly poor but we hardly belonged to the well-to-do bracket either.
My father had always been a businessman and identified for his industrious manners: he’d been a car dealer, a club owner, and managed a funeral parlor once. I guess he also liked dipping into the construction business because the houses we dwelled in were always undergoing renovation, some repairs or full structuring.
My mother worked as a barmaid in his club — that’s how they met. Both came from big families. Papa had an authoritarian demeanour; mommy was melodramatic. A particular blend of those traits were undoubtedly passed on to me. Because neither of them were introverts, they must’ve been puzzled that one offspring grew up to become socially passive, a dreamer, a bashful misfit. Having a beautiful outgoing elder sister and a similarly gregarious younger brother didn’t help. Lacking in good looks and ideal height in addition to being painfully shy and quiet solidified my status as the perpetual outcast.
When my father built a basketball court in our garage for my brother, I played the sport during my teens. I like the sense of motion so physical games and activities were among my childhood pleasures. I could fair adequately at running, skipping, roller skating, bicycle riding etc.; jumping (chinese) garter has held a spot as a memorable girlhood recreation.
I’m no mental heavyweight yet I’ve spent most of my time as a ponderer, mostly fantasizing of another realm where I’m regarded by others for my perfection. In another sphere, I am taller and a gorgeous svelte actress who can do drama or comedy or musical and who’s been going steady with this clean-cut very handsome action star from the 70’s. I’m not kidding.
These days my regret not having labored harder toward academic achievement is palpable. Why? The Internet has exposed me to diverse minds who’ve got bright, intelligent things to say about a whole world of topics. And my role has remained as a bystander…or a mere reader who pathetically has nothing to contribute to such elite conversations. My family used to marvel at my good reliable memory, though specifically after they’d sought me to name out actors and movie titles they couldn’t recall.
I can never consider myself a good person; not being a people person has got something to do with it. My acute sympathy and affection for animals in general, however, make me feel not normal at times. That explains my fondness for white Americans– their compassion for these less fortunate creatures (excluding peeps who have concern only for their pets) is touching. I’d loved and taken care of a number of pet dogs. Losing each one was crushing to me beyond words. Poor street cats and dogs and animal sufferings equally break my heart. I’ve been a cat lady for the last 14 years, btw.
At this stage, I’ve been doing my best to be ruthless in discarding stuff; not easy for someone like me who’s got attachment issues. As I make my transition to an old woman, certain measures have become valuable: being organized, simplifying my life, letting go.
(To be continued….)
You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing’s sake, back home to aestheticism, to one’s youthful idea of “the artist” and the all-sufficiency of “art” and “beauty” and “love”, back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermuda, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.
| — | Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again |
Bohemian Sentiments 