6:45 PM April 4, 2003

I am awed at Filipino mis/maleducation. Just minutes ago, I was standing in line at National Bookstore Galleria, awaiting my turn to purchase my most recent treasure - Love in the Time of the Camera by Cebuano Simeon Dumdum. I contemplated the possible contents of the book and puckered my lips in anticipation.

"At last," I thought to myself, "Easy, entertaining reading. So unlike highly-charged Unbearable Lightness of Being."

Savoring the taste of triumph at having another book funded by my paycheck, a woman with brown, frizzy hair (I supposed it a product of a Sta. Mesa neighborhood parlor, whose gay beauticians were the likes of those who joined Charing Squad in Alas Dose sa Trese) pushed me aside. Yes, pushed, to get to one of the just vacant cash registers. Slowly, I felt my face turning hot, without thought, I yelled, "What the fuck??!?"

I waited patiently for my turn and here cuts in Miss Aegis look-a-like and robs me of my right to a fair turn, right before my eyes, infront of people, in a public establishment!! What the motherfucking fuck was that all about???

She couldn't look at me. I dug her grave on her back with my eyes. I fought the urge to fling my arms, snatch the scissors from the sales girl, and shear her head. First, because wearing blonde hair that looks freaking fake is a crime. Second, one should never step out of the house without brains and breeding. This girl has zilch. What she is, is some flak who looks like she just woke up from a deep sleep right after a terrible accident, where a torch burned her hair. To make matters worse, the people behind her followed her!

I had to do something. I blocked the way. One of them said, "Excuse me". I turned around, poker-faced and voice dead as stone, "Yes. I am waiting in line for one of these to finish. I'm waiting for MY turn."

No wonder the Philippines is still where it is. There are more people like them than people who have gone to good schools and environments. Social etiquette is on martial law. The subject is taboo, but everybody's in on it. I want to leave this country.



8:40 PM Greenhills

Uncertainty hovers above me. I do not know what future I have dealing with Mrs. P. Everything, the arrangement, the deals, the supposed career, seem to be a blur. She treats me more as a daughter than as her writer. I should be grateful for the special treatment, though. Sometimes, I really am. But knowing that the financial guarantee, the concrete sweet smell of crisp cash is far from now, I slump. I know my passion should alone drive me. But there are bills to pay, and a lifestyle to live.

Money does not define my world, but it helps in making me face my problems more with ease and grace. I also cannot deny the truth that if I didn't have any financial worries, I'd be writing more than what I do right now.

I am grateful for the introduction of Mrs. P into my life, and I know that someday I will be brought to greater heights in my writing career. I just have to be patient.

I sit here, now, in her garden, in anticipation of our meeting. I hope she presents me a mountainload to work on.

Life is short. I need cash.


9:00 PM

She sits at the edge of the pool, phone in hand, feet slowly grazing, circling the water. Waves increase the more vigorous she treads. I watch the movement calmly, wishing I had the life as easy as hers, and that I had a pool to wade in anytime I pleased. But then, why should I wish her life to become mine? She holds no freedom over herself. Her parents have already defined her life plan since birth. I, though battered, bruised, and tired, exist in the real world. I may not be able to plunge into cool, bluish pool at will, but I am able to plunge into life's mud and come emerge victorious, experienced, and cleansed. She is immaculate. I have walked on dirt. The hardened mud on my legs has made we walk farther -- without blisters on my feet.

SUPPOSEDLY FOR APRIL 3 ENTRY. WRITTEN AT 10:00AM. Jollibee near Pasig City Hall. UNFINISHED. HERE IT IS VERBATIM.


As soon as I finished Polsci (or, rather, got out of school, because I haven't exactly finished it yet), I vowed never to subject myself to any dealing with our godforsaken government. But now, here I am in Jollibee somewhere in the outskirts/depressed area of Pasig, waiting for 1:00 so my police clearance will be paid for. Only then will I finally extricate myself from this quasi-provincial hell hole and lounge somewhere, anywhere, where airconditioning isn't faulty.

i'm not prolific blogger, so most of the time I try to squeeze ideas out of my head when there really aren't any to begin with. Most of the time it's just bull-talk, like what I'm doing right now. It doesn't really make sense, and I don't think it's interesting enough for people to want to read. There are thousands of bloggers to I guess it's not something I should worry about. Perhaps there is somebody out there who writes worse than I do.Though I'm not particularly happy with the way my writing habits are developing, I console myself with the fact that I'm not the worst writer. Or at least, I believe I'm not.

Today, I found a gold mine on the internet. It was linked from one of the posts from either Pinoy Writers or Writers' Desk mailing list, i'm not really sure. It's called Writer's Fix. It provides free online writing workshops. There's this part where writing for the left-brained and the right-brained is separate, and I think it's a splendid idea to have it that way. One is for creative juices to flourish, and the other, for discipline. Speaking of discipline, do I have it now that I have been taking Creative Writing Workshops? Well, I think my drive to write has increased, but not to the level where I am worthy of calling myself a writer, YET. In time, probably. But that would mean I have to work extra hard.

I am grateful for my boyfriend who pushes me to write, though sometimes I snap at him. I find many excuses not to write. But, he, endures my hostility and goes beyond my lame excuses and prod me to write something. He does not always win, though. Most of the time, I just stomp away and go idle. Or eventually fall asleep. However, the mere fact that he is concerned enough to force me to write despite the person I am when pressured is reaffirming. He makes me believe in taking risks again. Because of him, my fear of writing fades. I'm not really sure if he is genuinely interested in the things I write, because he's a techie. But I do love him more for taking the effort to tell me 'You need to do some writing'. I sense my train of thought gearing toward mushiness. So I stop here.

By the way, I copied some of the exercises from Writers Fix. I figured I should do something like that for my blog. Just to have something relevant to write about. I have my list in hand. Tomorrow, I begin.

eureka!

why does it say 5:40:20 pm on my entry??? for the record, I did this at 9:30 am.

I'm listening to Donna Lewis's Silent World. I remember the TGIS days when Peachy was breaking up with Wacks and this song played in the background. How sweet. How clam. But I also remember doubling over, clutching my stomach, guffawing like a hyena at its maddest state --- Silent World is a song for the dead! Hahahahahaha!!! The trance that envelopes you while you immerse yourself into the song is heady, like when you get your first puff of a joint. It's heady and it shoots your senses into higher levels of tantric ecstasy. That's what the song can do to you. And it also has the power to make you believe it is a love song. "if I could put you on top of a cake i would ice you, and keep you wrapped up in a box to be near you, if I could, I would" could easily disguise itself as an ode to a love once had but lost, a love once desired but now obsessed over, or a love you never had. That's why I find it so stupid how these teeny bopper shows would use it as background for a breakup scence.

But you know, we have a knack at digging up things that weren't there in the first place. You know, reading too much in between the lines. I could probably justify why the song was played with that scene. Perhaps it was a symbol of the death of a love the lovers once breathed. I laugh at the depth of my thoughts. Or does this even qualify as deep? heheheheh! I'm so supposed to write 3 pages today. Oh, see? I'm out of the topic already. Probably because Alanis Morissette is playing on my speakers now. That girl has so much rage inside her! Her songs scream anger at the people who have hurt her in the past. Fact? Or Fiction? I can only assume. And being the assuming person I am, I do assume she had a wretched time growing up. Maybe kids threw stones at her and called her long-face. They would dance and jump infront of her, sticking out their tongues, and teasing her for being such a thin kid. And now she seeks revenge through her songs. I find her maneuvers a manifestation of insecurity.

Now, sex and candy is playing. Marcy Playground did a hell of a good job with the song. It was number one, I think, when I was in second year high school. I love this song. "I smell sex and candy, yeah". It has a perverted streak to it. I think innocence, puppy dog eyes, pigtails, Lolitas. Hahahahaha! What pervs. The Band. Me. The people who listen to it. But I could be wrong. It could have a real meaning to it. Remind me to ask Marcy Playground next time I see the video in my dreams.

My ghosts continue to haunt me. I cannot escape them. Everywhere, I hear voices screaming into my ear that I do not have the right to write, because I do not know how, and that I'm not good at it. How terrible it is for me who claims to be a writer, yet i cannot even please myself. I am confused with what I really want. Sometimes, I am this one very appreciative and giddy person. But there are also times when I feel like lashing at myself for being so ordinary and mediocre. I am. I just try to hide behind the the facade of being confident and domineering. Deep inside, I am as scared as a cat trapped in darkness looking for his mom. I try to look beyond my fears but I see nothing. Only darkness. At night, I am afraid to close my eyes because I do not want to be one with emptiness once again. I fear sleep for the same reason I fear loneliness. But I am lonely. My problems are my own. I cannot even tell my closest friend about the things that are bothering me. She would never understand. He would never understand. I'd hate to add pity to the feeling of hate people have towards me. And now, my struggle is slowly eating me alive. I am drowned in my own sorrow. This I would like to write but my hands are paralyzed and my head feels like it's losing air. My back feels like it's going to split and my throat turns swollen and dry. I do not know who i am anymore. I do not recognize myself in the person that I became. Like Jekyll and Hyde. I am slowly facing defeat. And one day, who I am will be gobbled up by who I have become.