Post Script

But there is dullness, too, and gaping time. As much as there is that constant exercise in quiet and contentment, the unaccustomed mind finds the (oftentimes) unfamiliar silences a little disconcerting. What of the previous life spent asking and chasing and turning things over and over until there are only more questions, more distances to run? What of the sleepless nights, the burning days?

But I have books to read, and music to play.

I have promises to keep.

Let me shout, too.

In the same way that I put off writing about typhoon Ondoy (I eventually did, I couldn't help it), I have also tried to put aside saying anything about the Maguindanao massacre. And this, for reasons difficult to put a finger on; though I will definitely make an attempt to make sense of it in this post.

I did try, you see. Tried to be my usual, clammed-up, indifferent self--a side of me which only the people closest to me understand, or tolerate--who would much rather stay in one corner and watch while everybody else scrambles for something. It's a sorry state to be in, most people would say. But it does have its advantages, which might seem selfish, but to those who understand the human psyche and its workings, and how the clamming up is a result of some trauma or another, it would make sense.

But, moving on, I could only stay quiet for so long. Not that it matters if I could, in any way, influence those reading this blog--which is not to say that I fancy this blog to have a host of readers because I am fully aware that it doesn't; but if I could provide some faint glimmer of rhetoric to you, dear reader reading this now, then I would be content. And as for the self that is trying to make sense of this whole thing, let it be spelled out that this is for you, so that you could gather whatever pieces of it you may and, in the process, perhaps emerge the least bit enlightened, for whatever it may be worth.

I realize that this may be the only time that I get to vent about it, so now is definitely not the time to hold back. Excuse the lack of understatement. It is not called for, at this time, nor will it be until the perpetrators pay—and pay what they owe—for the deed they have done.

So, the massacre. Massacre. The word itself is chilling, and for it to be actualized is nothing short of horrifying. Horror should be reserved for the movies, not real life. That this atrocity even happened is stupefying.

What evil, allegorical worm could be bad enough as to plant itself in someone’s mind, which must be narrow enough, small enough for the worm to be incubated and for it to grow to a size unwarranted by such a brain, so that it would, at some point in time, break loose into an act so violent, so full of hate, so blood-curdling?

I did feel my blood acerbate the first time I saw it in the news. How dare these people think that they could kill and violate and tamper with life and get away with it, too? It’s the proverbial glutton wanting to have his cake and eat it. Or, the severely misguided charlatan who was given a hand and now wants to take the whole arm.

It is an assault to the Filipino, this barbarity; a crime against humanity and its animus.

I am fuming as I type this. One can only shake one’s head and wait for what happens next. And the Filipino—even this Filipino--will wait. Woe to him who underestimates our capacity to think, and feel.

At the end of the day, though, is the question of what will happen next: so we have expressed outrage at what happened; so we have talked about it, discussed the details in detail, shaken our heads at the unreality of it all; so some of us, especially those in positions of power, have vowed--in front of millions, in front of the press, making our words seep through the television screens and the airwaves--to follow this affront through and ensure that justice sees daylight.

The question, then, is: where does this all end?

Here is a prayer that the archives get to record the event to its last; and may it be written in the last page:

RESOLUTION: JUSTICE.

I still haven't finished the book. =(

It's been a circus, yep, that's how things have been. Call it a circus. I tend to repeat things when I'm floating. And sometimes I don't know what I'm saying. Well, most of the time, I do. You might say that. I might say that. I think I've learned to mull things over first before giving a thought free reign. You might say I've learned to hold my tongue. What a cliche. If I counted how many cliches there are in what I've typed so far, I'd probably be appalled.

But, whatever.

I'm a little tired, that's what I am. Probably more than a little tired, I'm not entirely sure. "Probably" is such a safe word. There's safety in the probable. There could be danger, too, though, come to think of it.

And now I'm telling myself don't look back. It's nothing melodramatic; I meant don't look back on what you've written, so far. Well, I probably should've typed don't look up the page, keep your eyes on the cursor. Was I supposed to use parentheses? I think, yeah. Or, probably, I could've clicked on the italics icon.

But I'm staying where I am. Or, rather, I'm keeping my eyes here.

Here.

Right here.

Monday Morning Thoughts

I think it's sad, the way people get scared when parcels of themselves get exposed, bits and pieces they'd rather keep stuffed inside, parts of them that, if other people found out about, would really ruin how they are perceived to be.

In the workplace, we have this concept called "perception management" where it is posited that "perception is reality." Up to a certain point--and a certain point only--I would have to agree. But the line has to be drawn between perception and reality because, at the end of the day, after all the sad, mad, pretensions we have to keep up and go through in our sad, little lives, perception and reality are two very different things.

We are all guilty of judging people for sundry things: for being glum and morose and keeping to themselves three-fourths of the time; for sucking their thumbs during stress-filled moments; for liking Bjork, or Amy Winehouse, or the Backstreet Boys; for looking for a paper bag to breathe into during anxiety attacks (we snicker at the phrase--he/she is just faking it, we would say, what drama); for being happy three-fourths of the time; for being happy, period; for muttering to themselves; for having short, violent tempers; for being sloppy in dress and speech; for being too well-dressed. In short, we judge people for virtually anything. If there is anything discrepant in someone's behavior, our fangs take over. Then our capacity for seeing the bad in others goes up to tremendous heights.

But what do we know of their griefs, and what do they know of ours?

And that is why people in the low have nowhere else to go but farther down.

Or, perhaps, we are merely scared?

Enough said.

Have a great week ahead!
=)

Not Just the Coffee

Good thing the 7-Up can was empty, else a good portion of the table cloth would have ended up soaked in the sweet, chemical-rich liquid. Still, the knowledge that it was empty escaped me for a split second and, in that wink of a moment, my heart walloped so hard I felt like wanting to reel from its aftermath. I sat there, steadying myself, awed by the Pacquiao-like (but painless) punch my heart had thrown against my chest.

I am easily startled. A handful of people at work know this and have taken to sneaking up from behind me and shouting "boo!" or "hah!" quite often, making me do any, or all, of the following: jumping, shrieking, shouting an expletive or two, and, always, that hard thump in the chest.

It could be the coffee.

Or not.

I am aware that it's natural to be startled when, well, we're caught off-guard, but lately, the intensity of the pounding in my chest whenever it happens has made me notice that it has, indeed, gone from natural to too much. A friend and I talked about it after the 7-Up episode and he agreed that it can't all be just the coffee (I like mine light on the caffeine, anyway, I mostly order mocha-flavored ones, except for those occasional really drowsy times when I have to force myself to be on the go, then I'd request for an extra espresso shot).

Perhaps I've built my wall piled too high with rocks that when it crumbles because I forget to stand guard, it crashes really loud and hard?

(clip art from clipart.com)

People are breaking, breaking, breaking... Dear God, please help them get through whatever it is they need to get through.

Meanwhile, I stand silently by, a mere observer, calm and steady; a witness following scenes with eyes that see too much from looking, and a heart saddened by the confusion, the griefs that friends try hard to keep between folded hands, yet which push themselves out, even so.

And in the middle of this seemingly aimless, static wait, I remember thinking how I was once where they are now, how I was them, once. And I remember how it felt, only, now, because I have learned how it is to keep oneself detached, the pain feels very faint, like a sigh on one's palm, a murmur in one's mind.

Remembering--and always remembering, because forgetting will not be possible--how it was and how it is, I find myself inching forward and reaching out a hand. I cannot, cannot keep looking and remain a bystander.

Because turning my back on them would be like keeping the door shut on my knocking, pleading self.

Thoughts on Women's Month

I've dipped my fingers--no, make that hands--in quite a number of debates, and most of these were arguments with male friends, verbal romps ranging from the mundane to the lofty, from flippant topics to weighty ones. There is something strangely satisfying in seeing the look on a man's face when he senses defeat creeping along with the words being thrown at him by a woman who's determined to avoid losing, at all costs. And it wasn't the woman who started the match, in the first place.

...or was it?

The thing with today's female is that she is angry, and rightly so. I don't want to indulge in prattling (as men would call it) about society's having favored the son over the daughter for centuries and centuries, but I will, anyway, because woman has held her voice in hushed tones for far too long and has lately refused to be silent.

It's written all over history and literature, that man has worn the iron glove for far too long. But woman will no longer have any of that. Out with the washing and the fingers burnt from cooking day in, and day out. Now, you see her out there, in her clicking heels, smart skirt and crisp, tailored blouse (with ruffles, too), ruling the corporate world alongside men; in her tiny, short shorts, braving the heat and the dust and overtaking the smug, muscled runner (who's male, of course) in last Saturday's 10k.

It doesn't matter what she is, or what she wants to become: truth is, woman is gaining on, and even outdoing, her male counterparts in fields which which used to be ruled by men. Goodness, she can now grasp the world in her hands if she wanted!

No more speaking in whispers and bowing heads in silence. Woman has, in all her emancipated glory, finally come out and the men better watch what they say or else they're really gonna get it.

May you realize your true worth this Women's month, and ever after.

Hurrah to girl power!

Vapors

I still feel like I'm teetering on the edge of some high place. After the hell I had surpassed, I've begun to think of myself as someone who will steadily face each setting of the omnipresent sun.

Lately, the feeling that this may not be the case has been nagging me like some persistent echo.

In January 7, 2007, I wrote:

You probably know how it is, when that tiny wail clamped inside your chest balloons into a huge lump of painful, ear-splitting screams. For some of us, it's easy to let it out. Never mind that the odds of being heard by the people two doors away are ninety-nine to one. It's as easy as one, two, three, scream! Then it's all over and you feel a thousand times better where it used to hurt like needle-pricks.

For the less fortunate ones (namely, the repressed), shouting is out of the question. The thought of it just never comes, simply because it's not the natural instinct. We probably never learned the trick as children.We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream.

And, with it, the pain.

And then the tears never really come.They have retreated, pushed down, as well. And we think, what a feat it has been, what sweetness in the strength of temperance, one more victory for the taking.

If it's victory or something else, I can never really be certain.

The day I marched to Brian

Aside from the onslaught of my beginning-of-month deliverables, this past week was marked by an epiphany.

Let me write about it now so I can make some more sense of it and put it all together. I am not satisfied with mere contemplation.

I have surprised myself (and the people around me), this past year, with constant bursts of assertiveness in the workplace. I use the word "surprised" because those who know me well--not even myself--would not think of describing me as headstrong or self-confident. I am sullen and quiet (or used to be) and most people would interpret that for submissiveness. Others take it for weirdness (haha).

It seems, though, that several forces of nature have conspired to transform me into something else. These forces are: my personal demons, motherhood, my family, certain recent, not-so-ordinary happenings in my so-called life, my former bosses Tin and Lester, the books that I've read, and heaven only knows what else.

Anyway, after this preamble, let me relay an incident which, for me, put an end to my self-doubts (or most of them, anyway) and one important cementing element to my quest for identity:

Last Monday, one of our American business partners, Brian S., was in the site for a surprise visit. At that same time, the plight of a certain client had put me in a quandary--I had spoken to him and I felt it my obligation to help. Now, the aid he was requesting for was turned down based on the policy parameters and its turn-around required the stamp of approval from someone in a director's position. I went to my boss who, unfortunately, was not qualified to approve it. She told me to go to Brian and seek guidance. And I was like, no way, I can't do it and I won't do it--talking to the AVP and the VP, yes, but being within a meter's radius from the BP would be such a horror! This thought, I, of course did not say out loud. Anyway, she said, this will be good training for you in terms of talking to upper management and don't worry, she said, Americans are very much into advocating the open-door policy.

So, anyway, five minutes later, I found myself marching to Brian's office, my nerves surprisingly steady and my heart beating, well, at a normal pace. My knock on his door was far from the timid one I had been used to making. I introduced myself (the nerve!), sat on the chair across from his and smoothly recounted (my voice didn't break! hurrah!) the client's situation. Now, Brian was very nice and explained his decision (which, unfortunately, was a no) in a detailed manner, such that a supervisor of my level would very well understand. I, again surprising myself, felt it my obligation not to give up that easily and laid out my cards more fully, giving him my stand on it, pointing out the details he might have overlooked. He was nodding and said that he agreed with some of my ideas, however, from the business side of things, he advised me that he had to stick to his decision. My face must have fallen a little because he smiled warmly at me and told me that I will be encountering a lot more of these situations and that now was the time to start learning to say "no."

A few hours later, I sat at my desk, still disappointed that the client's request was turned down and then it occurred to me that, hey, not once did I realize the enormity of the task I had taken upon myself to achieve. I went to my boss to iron things out and she said not to worry because I had done the right thing (and I believed so, too) when I stood up for my cause.

This story, aside from the fact that it's a long one, is another piece that I will add to the string of anecdotes documenting my road away from diffidence. I know that this will not be the last in this series. The next ones, I hope, will not be things to make such big deals out of because by then, I would have become better versed at handling them and they would have become part of my norm, quotidian stuff like the trips I make to and from the office everyday.

Suddenly Homesick

My dad called me earlier to remind me that it was fiesta at home. I was shocked to realize that I had completely forgotten all about it.

I must have been that busy with work and that caught up with my issues.

Oh, but I want so badly to go home.

When I said "fiesta at home," I meant the Peñafrancia festival of Bicolandia.

From THE INTERNATIONAL STUDENT TRAVEL CONFEDERATION:
Peñafrancia Fiesta
A triumphant, water-borne procession carrying a statue of the Virgin is the highlight of Naga City's biggest annual celebration, the Peñafrancia Fiesta. An image of the Blessed Virgin of Peñafrancia travels back to her Basilica on the Bicol River from the Metropolitan Cathedral. The procession is a phenomenal spectacle - the statue bobbing on the decorated boat is surrounded by her devotees and cheered by hundreds of locals. The week preceding the celebration features parades, a sports festival, exhibitions, a regatta and a beauty pageant.


For pictures, click here and here.
For the festival's history, click here.
To find out just how famous this festival is, click here.

It's been ages since I was home for the festivities and I must say that I miss it sorely. Talking to my dad this morning made me feel homesick all of a sudden, wishing badly that I could be back in Naga if only for a few days, re-living my childhood and High School days, when my most serious predicament would be the anxiety that every Math exam brings.

But, hey, I'm digressing. There are no exams during Peñafrancia.

What I will be missing are: the processions and the parades, the food, the food, the food (Daddy said my brother was grilling pork ribs as we were talking), the joyous frenzy shared by the Bicolanos, the expressions of devotion to the Virgin of Peñafrancia, the fairs.

Most of all, I shall miss the sense of belonging and the comforts of home, because every Peñafrancia festival is a reunion between friends and family, a reaffirmation of one's roots, a reminder that one is loved and protected.

Happy Fiesta to my fellow Bicolanos.

Lit Geek Update #7

Hurrah pour moi!

I never thought I'd be able to go back to my books, but whaddya know, am reading again! This time, it's Ursula Hegi's short story collection Hotel of the Saints. It's a quaint little book full of quaint little people and colorful little lives (but what life is little, eh?).

I loved her in Stones From the River and even more in Intrusions and, judging by the four or so stories I've read, so far, this collection promises to be worth the while.

I just hope I'd have the diligence to see the book through until the last page, and not let it meet the same fate as Isaac Bashevis Singer's Gimpel the Fool and Other Stories, half of which I read during some waiting stint in Starbucks, and the rest of the lot, well, I never really got to finish.

A half-read book (especially if it's a good one) is a sad thing.

Weight Woes

At least one week per month, I go through what I call a "hungry phase."

During these periods and if I happen to be in the office, I then become a much too frequent visitor of the 2/F pantry's vendo machine, from where I usually snag three items: a can of soda, a bag of chips and a chocolate bar. This, mostly after lunch--which is an entirely different feast: a half cup of rice, beef tapa or chicken flakes and orange juice in a plastic cup. On "extra-hungry" days, there will almost always be sprints to McDonald's or Hen-Lin, which stand so conveniently near to my workplace. And, an hour into my shift, I would already have finished off a medium-sized frappucino--an appetizer of sorts before lunch.

Tsk, tsk. Bad, bad, bad.

It's a good thing this happens only 7 days (give or take a few days, I can never really be sure), or else it wouldn't take that long for me to double my present size, which isn't something I'm proud of, in the first place. Like a number of, if not most, women, I have a never-ending preoccupation with my weight. Reed-thin is beautiful, and any pound of flesh (or fat, for that matter) that goes beyond that, is something to be alarmed about.

I am aware that this will sound superficial to some, but the fact remains that this subject goes far, far deeper than most of us would be willing to take it to be. The compulsion to be "un-fat" may be traced back to any number of things, like: a problematic childhood, a deeply-rooted insecurity brought about by an extremely low self-esteem, severe depression, some long-forgotten trauma that surfaces again and again, pressure from the mass media, etc., in the same way that it could subsequently lead to any number of things, like: (again) severe depression, a continuously deteriorating self-esteem, anorexia or bulimia (I had the latter when I was in second-year college), numerous sicknesses (like hyperacidity, ulcers and hypertension), and many other results with scary-sounding names, I'm sure.

The cure?

I wish I knew.

Pensive mode, once more

The doldrums are here.

Time to listen to Carrie Underwood's

"Lessons Learned" and Corinne Bailey

Rae's "Put Your Records On."

Hope it does the trick.

Sigh.
Sigh.
Sigh.

Question: Why did Alfred burn Rachel's note to Bruce Wayne?

Yup, haven't gotten over The Dark Knight yet. I do have an answer, just wanted to throw out the question for the sake of saying it out loud--or writing it down--and giving it some semblance of permanence.

It's a sad affair, what Bruce and Rachel had.