Bibliophilia

I should really write more. It seems like I'm always holding it off, waiting for that next drift of inspiration. On days like this one though, I remind myself that this blog isn't in the running for a Pulitzer, nor a Palanca--it's my personal blog, so maybe sharing more of my (not overly) personal thoughts wouldn't hurt.

In line with that, I have a realization to share!

That's basically it, sorry for wasting your time. If you found that boring, you can move along now. 

See, I like girls who like books. Almost--if not all--l of the crushes I've had like to read. My girlfriend goes through audiobooks and actual books like they're popcorn. Even my very minor crushes are/were apparently bookworms.

At first I thought it was just because reading is kind of an "in" thing now (my inner hipster slightly resents this), but my crushes are legit bookdorks. They're Lit majors, Booksale hunters, or polygamous readers; the type who'd spend an entire week's budget on books with (almost) no hesitation nor regret.

Maybe this is also due to the fact that I could never imagine myself with someone who doesn't read. That's like half a relationship's worth of conversation we'd be missing out on. And apparently, even for minor crushes, I'm attracted to something other than looks.

On a related note, J and I were at National in Glorietta 5 last Friday night (because bookstore dates are the best). We were talking about the Harry Potter chest set, which I said I wanted for my future kids. She asked "what if you have a kid who doesn't like to read?" to which I objected, since their hypothetical fetus will probably be listening to stories at the first sign of a heartbeat. 

Okay, enough about my hypothetical future bookworm offspring. My point is, literature really plays a big part--not just in my general life, but in my love life too. After all, I was in love with reading long before I was thinking about things like crushes. Also, words are sexy, and girls who read are hot.

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I haven't written such a light post in a while. It feels good to give this blog a break from all the angst!

Atelophobia

Thank you for your compliment. My brain is currently experiencing a self-esteem error, and kind words cannot be processed at this time. Your kindness has been archived for future consideration.

Wistful

Where did they go, those sunrises two years ago, when everything was easy to write and my emotions weren't so complex and unreachable at the same time? Here I go again at a frightening crossroad, with so much uncertainty and pressure, and nearly not enough sleep (often because of the workload; at times of my own volition).

It's yet another rollercoaster year of fun, excitement, fear, self-doubt, sadness, and utter, inexplicable happiness and contentment. In other words, it's life, or a particularly heightened phase of it. But among the many emotions, in this moment--and in many others, when I happen to catch myself--I am wistful.

Contradictory as it is, I've found myself most wistful at the happiest, calmest times. I yearn for things as they happen to me, because every time I can't help but remind myself: in a minute, or an hour, or the blink of an eye--this moment, this experience, and this unexpected swell of emotions will pass and I will never be able to have it again.

Around seven years ago, I was fascinated with cherry blossoms, blooming and falling in a matter of days. Until now this fearful fascination with change and ephemerality has stayed with me. Everything ends; everything passes.

So, often I shy away from any form of trying to capture the moment. Unwritten posts, pictures not taken, words left unsaid. Best left that way, for fear of not being able to do it justice. Instead I opt to keep them in my head, much like series episodes to be replayed when I feel the need.

Other times though, I think I ought to tell those stories--even just to myself--because the time will surely come when I will forget. Perhaps I'll start. While words and pictures may not suffice, they'll help, at least.

Perhaps, things aren't so easily lost after all.

Damien Rice - Cannonball

Seeker

Somewhere between a summer of new passions and old frustrations; between the thrill of an internship and the lazy first days which will mark my final year in college; between rainy days and John Mayer songs; between rare moments of clarity and my usual pseudo-profound stream of thought—somewhere, the stories I would have told got lost.

I was parked for three hours at a dentist's waiting room while my sister got her braces readjusted. During the wait I reread (for the nth time) Luis Katigbak's insightful first book, Happy Endings (which you guys should totally read). Afterwards, I wondered where my stories went.

And for the first time, I wondered if I would ever find them.

Yes, we (who claim to be) writers can be such bitches about writer's block and our never-ending insecurities about not being good enough, or about not having anything to write about, or not being able to do justice to what would have been the perfect subject. Or maybe that's just me.

That's the difficulty of treating literature like a romantic relationship, I guess. There's too much of an emotional involvement. Sometimes I think I can just call it off, and work on my other (unfortunately nonexistent) talents. But no matter how crappy my work gets, I can't not write.

At the other end of the spectrum, I think about writing for a living. I almost tried—I got accepted for a writing internship at an awesome company, but I didn't confirm my slot. Mostly that was because I was waiting for my dream company (which did not turn out well), and partly it was because I was afraid. To be fair, the company knew what they had coming. I was asked to bring some writing samples (and one or two, I picked out from this blog). I guess they kind of liked it, or found it free of glaring errors at the very least. But I chickened out, because—as with everything else in my life—I'm afraid of not living up to some self-imposed, insecurity-born standard.

(I did end up in an equally awesome company where I had a productive and fulfilling internship experience, but that's a completely different blog post.)

So I guess in reality, this is partly about me and writing, and partly about me and the fears that I have yet to conquer. Well I'd better conquer them fast because I have no room to be afraid. There's quite some responsibility resting on my shoulders this year: an org to dedicate my time to, and a long list of people—with me at the top—who are expecting me to finish that gosh-darned thesis, no matter what it fcking takes, man. Then we'll graduate happily ever after—or at least I'll be happy for no longer than a month. I'm giving myself that much time to take a break, and then I'll find a job.

But that's all future talk. I'll tell you all about those bridges when I get there. Because I sure as hell will keep writing. After all, if literature is a romantic relationship with words, then maybe if I stop trying so hard, the stories themselves will find me.


[That cute little girl in the photo is Yana, my two year-old cousin.]

Woosh

I was looking through my old multiply blog, and look what I found:

The moon is a fascinating object.
The romantic, the mysterious, the unreachable.
But why does everybody adore it so much,
when it's just a 'chipped rock living on borrowed light'?(Gonzales, Sunset Hair)
Why do poets and fools gaze in wonder at the light of dead stars
and still make their wishes,
when they know well enough that there's nothing to grant it?

Maybe that's why we love the unreachable--we set our hopes impossibly high,
so that when they don't come true we can always say "I knew it was impossible." 

No harm done.

But inside we know, for that tiniest moment in between the skepticism...

we closed our eyes and wished
the way a kid does--
right before he blows out
his birthday candle.

Wooosh.

Sentimental shit from my 18 year-old self. I have to admit, though--that it's still accurate for me. Three years, and maybe things haven't changed so much. (Maybe they should.)

The Limit Does Not Exist

We've traveled nearly everywhere, it seems--failing at hunting down PUVs and taking cabs instead. We've walked so many steps in the baking heat--I, in shoes too stylish for comfort (failing at vanity, as I often do)--always in danger of slipping on a foot bridge step. I've come so far to find myself parked on a mall bench for three hours, rereading a book which makes my head spin. I've come to be with you, yet I find myself alone (again, naturally--or so the song goes).

I've come so far, waited so long, and felt so alone--to look into your eyes as we talk; to have my hand held on a bus ride, and my face stroked affectionately as we walked along mall stores. All this to feel a happiness so small, yet so full. One that I haven't felt in months, and certainly not from anyone else.

Sometimes I'm afraid to discover just how much I can do for you.

Love is such a boundless thing.

Comforts

Sometimes you just have to step back, and step away from the details that are eating you up, to look at the big picture. That's when you see things clearly, and you get to think as the closest to being rational you could ever get (still not close enough though).

The thing is, often the big picture--and the decisions that need to made after seeing it--can be pretty painful to realize.

Still, it's your life, and it's your call. You choose your own happiness, and likewise choose the personal misery pit you will wallow in.

The only comfort is knowing that there's no rush to this decision.

And that you can always choose to curl up in the comfort of things you've gotten so used to, instead of facing the proverbially harsh winds of change.

(Often, being brazen is not being brave. Sometimes it takes a lot more courage to be what others see as a coward--if it means that at least one person is spared the damage.)

No one will ever need to know that you almost changed your mind.

Questionable Intentions

I never meant to write today, but there’s always something about you that compels me—to write, and do various other things I’d never thought I even wanted to.

I never meant to read, but there’s something about a sappy movie at five in the morning that compelled me to.

I never meant to know, but I now that I do, well I guess I don’t mean to know how I feel about it.

Because really, I never meant to feel anything about it. (It’s the movie, I suppose. I unfortunately am a hopeless romantic.)

And if there’s one intention that I at least got to keep, it’s that

I never meant to tell, and I never did.

Interlude

There's so much on my mind, that I have to either sleep it off, or blog it off. And, like most times, I can't come up with anything coherent, hence this news bulletin.

• First off, I just got back from a mini-vacation in Baguio. A little more on that later. I seem to have misplaced the short entry I typed in the hotel room.

• Second--being the vain person I am--I've started a 365 Project for 2011. It's actually gone on for the last month, and I'm proud to have kept it going. I hope it'll last the year. For the mundane details of my life in pictures, visit my 365 Project on Tumblr.

• Third, I am currently on a job hunt. I'll be doing my internship this summer, and so far none of the companies I've sent resumes to seem to notice me. Well this is frustrating. But I have to keep trying. I'm planning on doing walk-ins tomorrow, but look who's still awake. I hope I still have the energy to purposefully wander around the Makati CBD later today.

• Fourth, I would like to thank firewomyn for honoring me with the first LABIA (Lesbian and A Blogger International Award)--probably the steamiest-sounding blog award I've been acquainted with. Just another proof of how surprising and fun blogging can get. I really hope this catches on, since it's, well...catchy. Keep it up!

I miss blogging. All this school and org work is sapping the creativity and coherence out of me, but hopefully I can do some serious writing after the stress tides over.

Stage Fright

I'd rather hide behind the curtains

I don't want to be seen.

I'd rather watch, dim the lights,

or man the ticket machine.

But I would sing in the shower

when there's no one to hear.

Oh I could be a rockstar

if not for this fear.

You see, I dream to entertain

with swooning fans at my feet.

To get up on that platform

and lose myself to the beat.

But I shake and I cringe,

I run away from the spotlight.

It's just this terrible, weakening

incurable stage fright.

Quite an impromptu poem for a humanities class tomorrow, because I realized all my poetry are either mushy, crappy, or brooding. I'm not sure if this is a welcome change though, it still seems a bit morose or something. Anyway, even if it's quite hurried, it actually is something I've been wanting to discuss for a while. But more on that later, I'm too scatter-brained to blog. Man, school is tiring.

what's in a blog?

well, i really don't know why i have to have a new blog every once in a while. :))

maybe it's because multiply is one huge social networking-blogging-everything and i'm not a very sociable person sometimes. so here. a new one. for no apparent significant reason. :))

yeah, and because my wordpress sucks too. :p