The way Liberal media treats the President of America is just revolting. I can’t believe those people working at CNN, ABC, Washington Post, MSNBC, etc. have the nerve to even call themselves “journalists.” They are doing their jobs horribly. I can say a few things about Philippines’ below par level of reporting but U.S. style in these times is thousands way appalling.
I cannot read a single news headline from said media outlets today without a discernible swipe at Donald Trump. How obvious it is that their main aim is to discredit and take down their president by slandering him on their write-ups and bulletins. And all because he had exposed how most of them were mere mouthpiece for self-serving business conglomerates, funded by US billionaires, a handful of them Chinese. A substantial number of Americans have cast doubt as to the credibility of these news media — which also resulted to them losing millions in revenues. Biased reporters and journalists are having a hard time accepting the fact Donald Trump won’t bow to them, no matter how powerful and influential they are.
With the kind of problem the world is facing now, shouldn’t they help him instead, or simply be more understanding of what their top leader is going through? All they manage to display to the public is their total arrogance and pure vindictiveness. I can’t believe such kind of people exist in the land I used to have high regard for. This is not the time for U.S. media to be disgusting, and I mean really disgusting. It’s just not the time.
That I have no one else to really talk to in my physical realm is true. Stepping into this virtual world has always felt like a holiday – a respite from the grating realities of my earthly existence.
Here in my country, I’ve had difficulty finding people who are like me: highly enthusiastic about English and writing, deeply introspective, more of an iconoclast, and free from religious shackles. None of my family members or relatives share my pursuits. To boot, acquaintances and personal connections at work I have very little in common with – as my means of livelihood is totally unrelated to my passions in life. It’s on the internet, specifically the blogsphere, that I met people who were interesting to me.
In here, I occasionally seek refuge and a little warmth and the feeling of home. I don’t have the standard life of having a family around. I’m at this stage where I simply focus on the things that still sustain me and elevate my well-being.
The blogland is where I truly enjoy the privilege of running with stanzas and verses of my own whenever I want to– in spite of the fact coming up with the proper metaphor is an arduous undertaking. No doubt my strength is more on prose. Still, my poetic endeavours have been gratifying – because it’s somewhat new, something I haven’t given real attention to in the past. My pitiful lyrical attempts could also be traced back to my half a dozen skimpy silly lines several years back, as romantic verses have always been my preference when penning poetry. Besides, I’m a proponent of the writing tip that one should accord more precedence to feelings than words.
People around me, including my own sister, have been puzzled as to how I could go on after my son left. In my mind, I am profoundly convinced I am my father’s daughter. In the sense he and I were constructed of sturdier stuff compared to most average beings. No, I take that back. My father had been the real McCoy. There were days I wouldn’t want to rise up from bed and I don’t believe I’m as industrious as he was. Even so, my vow is to keep putting my one foot in front of the other. Because I am still bent on finding out how far my trudging steps will take me – while appreciating everything good that’s been left.
Loneliness is something I don’t want to process much in my mundane condition anymore. I guess it has since become deep-rooted I can no longer tell whether I’m sad or not. Too many losses, griefs, and afflictions I’ve had to set aside to be able to go on living. I’m simply determined to make use of whatever’s left until everything ultimately slips away.
In the event I’d get hit by a bus while carrying on with my daily humdrum tasks, I’d be at peace knowing my words, no matter how struggling and unskillful they are, would have their resting place in here.
One or two of my major job problems have been somewhat solved so I’m feeling a bit relieved, kind of peaceful and ready to celebrate the coming festive season. In fact I’ve put up a few Christmas decors inside my workplace. At home, I continue the never-ending process of cleaning up, organizing, and discarding unneeded stuff. Yesterday while sorting out papers to throw away, I found a piece of paper my son had left four years ago — it contained a brief poem drafted by him, probably in high school (for class homework), as he wrote under its title “written by me.”
Relics and Remnants
Yes or No? — a question long unanswered by the man who seeks what has long been sought by Judas on his death. Is the Answer found on the beach where footprints are washed away by the unstoppable ocean? Or is it in the relics and remnants caused by the reason of the existence of the question? The Answer will not be found in the wronged, but in the wrongdoer, for the Answer lives, on the relics and remnants restored to their past glory? crumbled to dust? Yes or No?
Hm, I don’t want to dismiss my son’s composition as balderdash especially when I’m reminded of the fact I compelled him to read all the classics in the school’s library during his elementary years. Compared to me, he’s thousands of times more well-read and quite an excellent sophisticated writer. I wish this only child of mine had kept writing poems.
My nephew recently told me he’d seen my son’s active Linked In account and so I took a peek the night I learned about it. Yeah, it seems he still works in the same firm. He’s now the company’s product engineer, maybe a promotion from his previous role as senior design engineer. And he freelances as a technical writer, too. Big time. But he looks so so thin and frail in a group photo… I get worried but I try to stop myself from thinking and being concerned anymore. He has made his decision. To live his own life without me. So I’ll do the same for myself.
Meanwhile, there’s no time for me to hunt for worthwhile sites to read. I guess it means I should write more often — which is fine because writing gives me pleasure. I had really wanted a blog diary but I’d always fall by the wayside. Blog overhaul might be the answer.
“There is some realm where feelings become birds and dark sky, and spirit is more solid than stone.”
Uneventful week except for the presidential election and my continuing online search for my end-of-the-year vacation destination. My sister is flying to NY this May and in October. Lucky rich she. But what I’m actually eyeing and excited about is Iceland. Yet she keeps discouraging me, for it’s way located at the end of the globe. Not to mention way chilly (we reckon). She encourages my second choice which is Eastern Europe and expressed willingness to go with me. Although looking at google images of EE’s tourist attractions, they can’t compete with the excitement of possible Aurora Borealis sightings and splendid views of glacier mountains, waterfalls, geyser springs, and other beautiful Icelandic sites. Hard choice it is.
While reviewing my previous posts from years back in the process of transferring a few to a new site, I keep shuddering in shame at all those darned amateurish soppy entries I had audaciously published. To think that I had befriended some of the best minds and most talented bloggers in my more than five years of residency in this realm. No wonder they mysteriously dropped off the face of blogearth. My writings must have distressingly driven them all far far away to another galaxy.
The current atrocious heat of summer has been intolerable. The other day I decided to have Coke to leisurely gulp down with my lunch so I grabbed an 8-ounce empty bottle and went down to proceed to a merchandise store. I’d been swinging my arms during my stroll when the mini-sized bottle somehow slipped from my grasp and away it flew at the back — a tiny sound of glass crashing followed. I turned around and walked toward the spot of disaster where glass pieces were scattered on the ground — scratching my head, a mix of unbelief and confusion on what to do next stunned me for a few seconds. Then my eyes caught sight of a street scavenger couple, a man and a woman taking a rest by the sidewalk, who’d been watching me. Surprisingly, the man was giggling.
My thought: “What’s so funny, sir? Can’t you see I’m in pain here? How can I buy my Coke without my bottle now? I’ve exactly only 9pesos on hand and my residence is on the 5th floor of that building over there. Though if you have 3pesos to spare for the required bottle deposit, I’ll forget you ever laughed at me. Everything will be forgiven.” The man was still giggling.
I began taking steps to head back to my apartment. Yup, I ate my lunch minus any delicious beverage to chug.
(This is another entry I’ll wince at years from today. See, why do I sometimes fancy I can be entertaining.)
I was buying food at 7-11 the other night when I glanced down on a newspaper carrying an article about a recent international survey that says Filipinos rank fifth as being the happiest people on this planet. The findings made me smile — hardly surprising me at all.
Why? Here are the facts:
For us, having no money is not much of a problem. Really. As long as loved ones are around, we feel A-okay. Most of the time, mere togetherness is enough. Starving together can even be a deep, bonding experience.
You must already be aware of our supreme fondness for parties or small gatherings, and of our intense romance with the videoke. Horrific belting out for several barangays to hear could turn into volatile situations once in a while. In the spirit of fun, however, off-key singing is generally acceptable.
In spite of our country’s economic afflictions, each year there seems to be a mall sprouting, like a mushroom, at some corner of a city; Something which fosters more groupings and better camaraderie. Not to mention we probably manufacture the greatest number of cheap, most delicious assorted chips and crackers in the whole world. Oh, that last one doesn’t count, does it?
We might boast of a low suicide rate, too. The motive for taking one’s life could just be a ramification of a liaison turned dreadfully sour – which manifests of our over-the-top passionate nature as well.
Pensive, quiet gals like me are looked upon as different, or odd. Yeah yeah you’re right, I am weird. You’d feel out of place and sometimes be ridiculed (as I have been all my life) if you aren’t the boisterous, big talker type. At faculty meetings – with all of us female teachers clustered in a room – the propensity of my colleagues to endlessly babble all at the same time never ceases to amaze me. I often imagine myself grabbing something, anything around me that I could stuff into one or two of my co-teacher’s mouth, just to lessen the din.
Everyone dances here regardless of religious affiliation, political persuasion, or the contents of their refrigerator. A shrinking violet that I am, I have thought of all the number of hours I reluctantly spent practising with my siblings to prepare for our performance at every relative’s party in my pre-teen and early teenage years. Hours that could have been spent reading English classics and mastering the art of penning mushy-mushy yet wonderful tales. I swear I could have ended up giving Jane Austen a run for her money. But then, it’s also a blessing my parents instilled in their children love of dancing; even though they’ve got this one daughter who’s been marked for bashfulness all her life.
Well, it’s gratifying to broadcast now that I can finally dance sans any morsel of shyness. In front of an audience. I mean in front of my favorite and sole audience. My cat.
Indeed, we’re a bunch of happy happy people.
In view of my penchant for strong dance beat, choreographed dancing, and fun videos, I include an old favorite of mine from 1989: Dino singing and bopping to his hit “I Like It”: one of those trip the light fantastic tunes that make me get up and dance to this day.
I was five years old when I first realized how much Christmas means to me. My siblings and I would occasionally choose to sleep in the living room, and certain mornings my eyes would open to our glittering Christmas tree with silver-foil leaves. It made me smile. The colour sparkled with the sunlight coming through the windows – making it a more beautifully enchanting sight. I kept closing and opening my eyes so the feeling inside me wouldn’t fade away. My spirits since then have been fastened to the magic spell of the Christmas season.
Santa Claus had been sweet, too, when he gifted me with a charming plastic baby doll – in spite of its immovable arms and legs – the first time. I was thrilled. His arrival had become an anticipated event in the three or four years that followed – until that Christmas day when he brought me house slippers as presents. (And oh, I forgot to mention how I caught my mother in the bedroom during dawn laying down those gifts from Santa)
*Fast forward several years to get to this day*
The kiss of December’s cool winds I have always awaited. Days of bluer skies, extravagant celebrations, as well as jovial moods from everyone have arrived. After all, it’s the merriest month of the year – which provides no room for somber themes and exhausted emotions. Yet the season’s perpetual essence stands before me to look me in the eye – defending its presence. How do you define a period that now represents my deepest loss?
As days go by, I ponder on the coming grand display of fireworks I’ve always looked forward to every eve of January 1 since I was a child. Will I be able to enter the feeling safely in watching them with thrill and awe again, I wonder.
Some evenings I walk along the streets… I pause from time to time as I linger and allow all those alluring Christmas dazzles to mesmerize me. But in spite of the majestic array of colourful lights everywhere, I feel numb inside. I was hoping their radiance would be the balm my grieving soul needs; that their brilliance might help in raising my spirits up to align with the stars at night. Even so, the glamour around could not be sufficient to deliver the original essence of Christmas for me.
Resurrection is out of my reach now. Carrying on is all I can manage. If what’s left of my world still affords me to live for tiny joys my heart can embrace – then it’s my task to flash the smile I can manage, find simple pleasures around, laugh at this world’s silliness, and cart myself hopeful towards a brand new year.
I’m not, however, ending this year with just another soliloquy of my heartache. I’ve come here, too, to say goodbye to the mandatory monthly musings that has been compelling me to bring a post out each month. The reminder is necessary no more because I conjecture I’ll be writing anyway whenever I can.
Fast lives do slow down. With most of my life strapped to my back, my blog will continuously get attached to the recurrence of my reflections and thoughts induced by ineluctable folds of common sense. But if you are ever wanting of a brief conundrum at any time in your life, simply recall how this blogger has repeatedly bungled life’s bundle of contradictions.
As I bid farewell to my monthly musings that has sustained my blog for two years, may you also not forget…that I am forever your babe.
It can get daunting. Thinking of the remaining lessons life has yet to teach me. Sustained by a life that has hoped for a destiny that believes in undying love and happy endings – with the people I have loved – I can never get used to setting a place for the “unexpected guest.”
I often get tired of being viewed as a woman of strength. Or as an indestructible one. Because I truly am not. Not all the time, at least. I’m no different from the rest. At times when child or job concerns overwhelm me, I curl up in bed; wanting to hide away from it all; wishing a higher power would transport me to my personal utopia – where I could feel like “I’m the King of the World.” Imagining of that special place where I could surrender to every thing my heart asks for.
There is nothing solid on this blogging sphere I sometimes lose myself into. Yet we are all in need of an alternative realm to help us in momentarily escaping our blistering truths and chained existences. And I, for one, didn’t come here to alter the state of humanity – which is a boh-ring and futile endeavour (I’ll have better luck coercing a carabao to sing). Nor have I come to impress anyone with some novel ideas, or the freshest perspectives. So please hear me as I say this one more time: I come here simply to put my f#%king thoughts down.
Only through writing can I bare my true feelings, my wounds, my blunders, my joys, my despair, my silliness, my sentiments. That this art is darn hard work I’ve learned to struggle with. But similar to most of the things in my life I gradually warm up to – be it a task or a way of living; either bringing me pleasure or adding up to my advantages – there is nobody and nothing that could stop me. A few have deemed me quietly driven, headstrong, even cold-hearted at times … “There she stays put.” they might infer once more. Well, my time isn’t up yet. I still aim to claim my place in the sun.
Phrases, thoughts, and lines…meaningful in their own way. They walk beside me; under the moonlight, in the rain, by the sea, in movement together with the restless sky… Dispensing with whatever deadwood that’s surrounding me. Eventually.
I’ve never liked politics, although I normally give my support to my favored political candidates by voting for them during election periods. Our incumbent president is one person I trust because he has vowed to remain true to the ideals of his well-loved parents. I can tell he’s doing his best. Other than that, the drama of Philippine politics is one area I don’t want to waste my time on.
These days, I can’t endure hearing anymore updates on the Pork Barrel scam which has nastily shaken up our country in recent times. What could be exciting in learning yet of another case of utter mishandling of funds by our government authorities? Surprisingly this time, the most popular members of the Congress and the Senate are figuring in the scandal. We’re talking about billions of pesos here, which has been manipulated to fall into the personal pockets of the wrong people instead of benefiting the right constituents. It’s embarrassing how the Philippines has become known widely, not just for its endemic poverty, but also for its deeply-corrupt officials.
Many are convinced the Marcos family, who had ruled the country for 20 years, set the perfect example of how the top leaders of a nation could get away with it all despite cases of plunder and murder that had been slapped against them. Imelda Marcos and her children currently are still enjoying their freedom, their wealth, their ostentatious lifestyle, and are even occupying congressional seats here as representatives of their home province. Unbelievable. We filipinos are that forgiving, I guess. Now it seems amoral fellows have come to rely upon the annals of misbehaving officials who were left unpunished – and to the forbearing nature of us ordinary citizens in the aftermath of their abominable financial deeds.
Personally, I don’t understand the psyche of anyone who can be ok with taking something that isn’t theirs in the first place. That’s outright stealing, of course, which is a crime. Eternal damnation isn’t part of my spiritual fears, yet I would never want anyone to suspect of my soul as negotiable if the cash was enticing enough.
As a tangent, you could also say borrowing money has never been a habit of mine. Alright, so neither is the habit of lending money, I admit (yep, don’t wonder why I’ve got few friends :-)). It is likely to lead to distasteful relationships, unpleasant circumstances – and the ramifications can be pretty heavy. I don’t know; the concept and practice of loan make me uncomfortable. Now you understand better why having a credit card is not my style.
Why does everything have to be about money in this world?
I guess this post states one more reason why I think I was born in the wrong country. Or the wrong planet. Or whatever.
I have not been in the mood to write recently, but my monthly feature of babe musing has somehow been compelling me to turn up with a post once a month. Gratefully, I always find myself a bit happier as soon as I start writing down whatever has been bubbling inside my mind. I’ll be setting aside my attempts at verbal gymnastics temporarily and try to write more spontaneously this time.
I’d like to touch on the subject of eye appeal for this particular post because it’s the quality I am destined to lose sooner or later; made poignant by my having to face the mirror each day of my life. Besides, who wouldn’t want to deal with this subject especially if it has the promise to make us feel better or more beautiful and youthful? The concept of beauty is no doubt equivalent to the concept of youth which has never ceased being a negotiable asset everywhere, every time. Men make no bones about winning the love and attention of pretty young things even if they act start acting funny around them. Which automatically means you could get more easily what you want from men if you’ve got “the power of beauty (plus youth).”
I can’t totally fault the opposite gender for that because frankly, I prefer handsome men, too (What about younger, you ask? That’ll be another story for another post). When I was in college, there was this guy who liked me and wanted me to be his girl. He was delightful in conversations and could make me laugh practically non-stop for two straight hours. The problem was I just couldn’t make myself fall in love with his face. I chose the other guy with the dashing facade, yet with blander sense of humor. A choice I came to regret in retrospect.
But let’s get back to the subject of beauty in a woman. For a start, I have to tell you: I wish my nose were different, my forehead narrower. Morgan Fairchild has got the perfect nose, in my book. And I also wish I were taller. In my secret life, I’m Angelina Jolie. Minus her history of drug use, minus her past with Billy Bob Thornton, and definitely minus the six children (Oh, the twins can stay, they’re so cute I won’t mind).
My parents did put a lot of weight on external matters. They were convinced the ultimate success of a woman is largely measured by her physical attributes – and how she makes use of them to her advantage. In parallel, an aunt and two of my paternal half-sisters won the major title in national beauty competitions in some distant past. They subsequently married guys from well-to-do families. What’s more, my mother had unceasingly been infatuated before by the allure of showbiz she constantly dreamed of one of her children making it as a movie star.
It was literally my elder sister who had had the potential to make it huge – as backed up by the never-ending praises she got from everyone for her apparent good looks since we were children. Her facial features are more regular than mine. She’s taller (she’s 5’3, I’m 5’1) and has fairer skin. She’s nearly perfect – and I’m not exaggerating. She’s smart and talented to boot. As a consequence, she made it successfully in the field of broadcasting and married a guy from a rich family. What about me? Shucks, don’t ask.
Truthfully, all my life people have labelled me on the side of beautiful – for the principal reason that I am a “mestiza” (with mixed blood), even though I can never be considered drop-dead gorgeous. No way could I match my sister in most aspects so I appeased myself with whatever God-given assets granted to me in birth. An amusing incident three years ago gave it more credence when a customer, who had been frequenting my booth at my other job to buy tickets, casually said out of the blue: “You aren’t really beautiful. You just look striking mainly because of your fair skin.” Whoa. Hmm… Did that surprise or offend me? Not much – except for his temerity in telling it to me straight and his opaque purpose for doing so. I have always been aware of the truth of his statement anyway, and it somehow validated my own long-time perspectives about my looks.
It’s true that here in my country what’s generally accepted as beautiful connotes regular features and some rubric measure of prettiness. Like most Asian countries, we also have our definition of a standard beauty. My mother had once remarked how she found Jackie Onassis unattractive even though the latter had been hailed as one of the most beautiful women in the world. By the same token Angelina Jolie’s beauty isn’t the popular benchmark of a gal’s loveliness here.
Here’s another thing you should know about me: I associate beauty with smell. You think you’re beautiful? Ok, but how do you smell? You see, I went to a neighboring Asian country a few years ago and found out that more than one-third of its population is made up of nationals from another huge Asian country which used to be a British colony. These people have dark skin (to my surprise) and inexplicable, pungent smell (because of their diet, I suppose) – their odor excruciatingly strong I almost fainted every time I was around them. Yet it was appalling that they are arrogant snobs who carry within them an air of superiority over other Asians, especially filipinos. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’ve been thinking all this time their species are endowed with a higher proficiency of the English language. Oh yeah? Frankly, they aren’t that good. As I watched them then act insolently towards others, I could only think, “Get real, you smelly people.” 🙂
Well, my real point is, cleanliness – both in looks and smell – is essential to make it on my list.
If I had to choose between beauty or brains, say, between looking exactly like Salma Hayek or possessing prolific writer Margaret Atwood’s cerebral skill, I’d go for the former. No contest. Yes I know; looks eventually fade and Miss Hayek will end up looking like a raisin after dozens of years, just like the rest of us will. But hey, at least I’d have a shot at marrying a multi-billionaire (she’s some very rich guy’s wife now, fyi) and romancing Antonio Banderas in a couple of films.
For the meantime, I am tired after teaching my English-deficient students all day in my job that pays little with non-existent perks (Whatta life). Please leave me in peace now so I can lie down in bed and begin fantasizing I am Angelina Jolie (with a clean-shaven Brad Pitt in tow).
Nothing momentous to share of late. Various demands on my time and my quotidian routine are probably contributing to my current lack of dedication to write on this blog. Writing has never been easy for me anyway. To boot, my regret for not developing the right foundation with regard to reading and writing in my much younger years still weighs on me every so often. It would have made a difference I’m sure. I could have been a lot better at wordsmithing, and writing about any theme would have been a snap. Alas, I’ve always struggled at every single item I manage to pen here.
It seems I’ve overdosed as well on putting out mawkish materials that make me feel nauseated every time I review my prior posts these days. I’m itching once more to delete them all. At the same time, I’m aware the never-ending process of discerning my voice here through the odd congruence of my love for the people around me, my moderate degree of contentment, my inevitable melancholy, and my low-grade indifference continue to unfold. They might have already combined in abbreviating my essence, too.
For now, no foolish, unrestrained feelings have been confounding me since my heart has earlier on been freed from the shackles of needless emotions. I have waited for so long to arrive at this placid station in my life. Very liberating, in fact, as it has afforded me to think more clearly and focus better on loftier goals. Yet could it be that the sweetness I used to spread around is gradually turning into some hard and bitter marrow of truth?
And then there also have been countless times when I feel like I’m walking around empty. As if I were only half alive. Because the impact of my massive loss early this year still weighs heavily on me. I sometimes even find myself turning away from anything that would remind me of the joys I lapped up in times gone by.
Since when have I started learning to feign ease even though my spirits inside are dying one by one? It’s no use pretending I’ve completely moved on. I’ve gotten tired of anyone who’s eager to dictate to me the manner on how I should put my one foot in front of the other. For the truth is, my dearest one who has left the realm of the physical world continues to hold primary residence inside my mind. Yes, there has never been a day that he fails to enter my thoughts. It seems my sense of loss has indeed infiltrated an undiscovered region. A kind of sadness seems bracing itself to settle by my side permanently and I’ve become jaded enough to allow its impending presence. Or maybe my broken heart has gotten underway in finally surrendering to eternity.
Still, the reality of how we’ve been all living on borrowed time is palpable. More than ever. So I’m doing my best to secure my world from a fated rupture. I’m taking shelter in constructive diversions hoping they would help eclipse my reality no matter how short a time. The simple details of this life I’ll try my best to keep on cherishing – privately. I can indulge on looking at the drama of the drifting clouds in my sky above and know it’s all I have for that moment. To desist from taking the present moment for granted. It ought to remain as a promise to myself. After all, I’m still entitled to whatever is left for the merits of my future.
Yet I wonder if I ever would find again the stories I had lost through the midst of those painful times.