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.

Underwrite

Okay, so I haven't blogged the whole summer. Needless to say, it was uneventful. Painfully uneventful, actually, that at one point I was almost convinced that learning to eat fire—with the matching inevitable hospitalization—would be a good way of spicing my summer up. But not really, I didn't plan to do that. Owing partly to the paranoia I inherited from my mother, and partly to my incredible laziness, I never learned to eat anything more daring than weird vegetables and moderate amounts of spicy canned food.

I never went anywhere, nor went swimming. I didn't learn how to drive, or even to cook a decent meal. Heck, I didn't even go out with friends. Probably the most adventurous thing I did was trying out for a summer call center job for ePLDT Ventus—I met a couple of funny people—but they never called me back. Thus ensued another summer of astounding levels of nothingness. 

That's changed now. To my huge relief, classes have resumed. My schedule still is prefect for bumming out—free Tuesdays and Fridays—which I kind of dislike, since I've had enough of my small house and my pink room to last me a couple of stressful weeks. I've been doing nothing for so long that the thought of spending nights sleepless and poring over readings seems almost appealing.

Writing is pretty. [Click the photo for credits.]

So what's there to learn from all of this? I have no idea. I just wanted to share, because today I came home from the first real, whole class session I've had in the semester, and tomorrow we're leaving for an overnight stay in Fontana with my parents' friends. 

I just feel like I have my life back. And apparently, me with no life means me with no blog either. I just realized how much of myself I really put into this blog—it's not that I didn't have any thoughts at all in the last two months, it's just that I was in a mood so lethargic that I couldn't seem to put them into writing. 

I'm reminded that writing is really a lot more than just a hobby for me—not just a way to release excess thoughts, or bitch about how the universe loves to bully me. It's not just a venue for my pseudo-profundity, or a grammatical exercise. Writing is really my life.

Back when I was fresh from high school, I decided not to pursue a Creative Writing degree because I was quite sure that with my moodiness and meager creativity, I wouldn't be able to make a decent living. And then the whole course-choosing-then-shifting thing happened. Through that and everything else I think I've proven that writing is my passion—something I'm sure I'll be doing for as long as I can, regardless of whatever career path I land on.

It's a good feeling to have something you can own. It's about time I claimed it, don't you think?

Why Go For Gordon

I am a first-time voter. And yet, I am already tired. I'm tired of this hell-hole of corruption, poverty, deceit and chaos that our country has fallen into at the hands of selfish leaders. I am tired. And that's why on Monday, I WILL VOTE.

As for the matter of choosing the new head of our country, I WILL VOTE FOR DICK GORDON.


I will vote for him because he is competent. His track record says it all, and his experience in the executive department is unparalleled.

I will vote for him because he means well. We can all see that what he has done in Subic and as Red Cross Chair has been beneficial to many.

I will vote for him because has a strong character and sufficient political will to set this country straight. What others see as arrogance, I see as a good weapon against the corrupt, manipulative government officials who will criticize him and make efforts to thwart his reasonable plans of action.

If that's not enough to convince you, then let me tell you why he might as well be the best, and almost only logical choice.

I refuse to vote for politicians who exploit the poor. I cannot honestly say that I love the masses, but that may be as well if loving them means insulting their intellect, like certain orange-clad gentlemen do. I do not want the masses to remain the way they are—impoverished, poorly educated, and susceptible to despicable, bare-faced lies.

I refuse to vote for manipulative politicians. I've had enough of the current government's lies and cover-ups. That's why we don't need a president who can't even face up to legitimate issues during the campaign period. Imagine him in Malacanan—with every scandal uncovered he'll probably hire script writers to distract us with dramatic monologues from him and his supporters, or maybe even his mother.

I refuse to vote for mediocrity. Inspiration and good intentions are never enough. Remind me about inspiration three or four years from now, when we're six feet deeper into poverty and foreign debt because of a president who lacks the competence to efficiently address those problems. Good intentions will not fill the stomachs of the hungry families, nor the heads of children who are relying on the government to give them the good education they deserve.

We cannot sing patriotic songs and stand around waiting for miracles like EDSA to happen every time. We need a president who can do something about the seemingly miraculous feat of transforming our rotten political system into a real servant-leadership.

I refuse to vote because of lineage. As I have just read from Ramon Tulfo's column, "Don't vote for a candidate because of his or her lineage since that criterion is like choosing a pet dog". Breed your dogs, not your presidents.

I refuse to vote solely on the grounds of morality. I am a Catholic, but I believe that the voice of a dominant religion is not necessarily the voice of God, and that the church and the state were separated for a good reason. If you want morality, then let me tell you what our moral duty is—to vote for a president who will help us help each other by concrete means.

That being said, it seems to me that only Mr. Gordon and Mr. Teodoro are the feasible choices. Personally I will go for Gordon because he has had more experience, and because from what I've seen of him, he can provide us with the disciplinary action that our country desperately needs. We have great laws, but our officials greatly fail in implementing them. And that's where Gordon can step in.

On a side note, Teodoro can also have another shot in 2016. He's relatively younger. I believe that NOW IS GORDON'S TIME.

I think I've given you excellent reasons WHY GORDON IS THE BEST CHOICE. I'm sure he won't be perfect, but he's as close to it as we can get, given our options.

If you're not voting for Gordon then weigh the factors. And if you can't give me excellent reasons against him, then I suggest you give in and GO FOR GORDON.

Pack Rat

I'm allergic to dust. Whenever I get near the stuff, I tend to sneeze uncontrollably and break out in hives. It's a fact as much as it is a lame excuse to get out of cleaning my room. My mom recognizes that, which is why we were still forced to clean the room and wax the floors a couple of weeks ago (it was worth it though, for mother dear bribed us with 2 14" pizzas and enough soft drinks to satisfy my RDA of sugar for a week). 

Now, room cleaning is a rare event for me—second only to trips to the dentist in the list of necessary things which I religiously avoid doing. So it came as no surprise when I discovered an assortment of mementos stashed in the various nooks and crannies of my small room, some of which I haven't seen in years, literally. My initial reaction was—well aside from the uncontrollable sneezing—a pang of nostalgia, which led me to reminisce about the said items and their history.

Among the objects I found were loose beads from a bracelet given to me by a former friend. You'd think that I would know how to hold on to my few friends, but apparently she grew tired of our company, as well as of the numerous issues we managed to get ourselves into. I remember the Wednesday morning more than a year ago, when the bracelet snapped as I was getting off the train on my way to our class. It seemed ominous, since we were already starting to fall apart/drift away from each other at the time. To this day she refuses to talk to us and barely acknowledges our presence—a tough feat,considering that she usually ends up being group mates with our other friend.

I also found my extemporaneous speech plans, nestled between the yellowing pages of unused bluebooks which I hoarded during my first year in UP, for fear of having to take an exam without one. I put the bluebooks to good use during finals week and reread the speech plans. I was taking that class during my GE days, when I first decided to shift out of ComSci. I don't want to go into details, basically it was a time when my whole life was in a state of flux (which is a polite way of saying "totally freaking confusing and chaotic"). That speech class was a breather for me, almost the only place where I more or less knew what I was doing. Later on my prof became a panelist for my OrCom admission interview (where she got to scold me for my habitual tardiness) and by God's good grace, I got in, and my life regained its direction.

Another notable find was a ratty band-aid (yeah I know they're called medicated plastic strips or something, but that's too long and too lame) given to me by a dear friend back in my awkward high school days. It was a bit dramatic, actually, a symbol for her declaration that she would always be around to help me cope with my emo issues. She kept her word, and she was a great source of comfort for me throughout that year. She gave me a letter during graduation which totally warped my mind—to date I consider it as one of the very few real surprises I've had in my life. We haven't seen each other in about two years, and if you're reading this Jek, well, I think we need a reunion.

I was also pleasantly surprised to find a notepad with short letters from my grade five friends. I remember we got a little sentimental at the end of that school year and writing notes became the in thing during our last day. The notepad contained messages, some affectionate, but mostly jokes—it was only years later when I realized how much my classmates back then loved to bully me. They would hide my bag and lock me out of the room, call me weird names, and even go through the effort of building up a showbiz career for me—they made posters of my supposed "concert" and all that. But it wasn't so bad. We stayed friends, and besides, I'd like to think that I wasn't such a nerd back then. At least they were laughing at me, not behind my back. I sort of enjoyed that too, I guess.

At the back of that notepad was a short note from my crush at the time who decided to go for my friend, much to my ten year-old heart's dismay. It merely said "Ei Rizza o last day na. Have a happy summer vac[ation]", but I remember how I treasured it (pathetic, I know). Thanks to my social awkwardness, we never became close—I would call her to spend almost an hour of not talking—and she eventually migrated or something. I wonder where she is right now, and if she's changed as much as I have. Lame as it was, it was the first in the book of my (un)romantic history. That's another story—which perhaps should never be told in this blog, for my own sake. 

I realize how much I've babbled here, and I'd like to apologize for wasting your time. I have no lessons from this, except that awkward teens need not despair since awkwardness can be outgrown—not that I've managed that, but well.

Photo from here.

I now think of how much of a pack rat I am, both materially and emotionally. I'm a sucker for nostalgia, and sometimes I find myself wishing for things to be the way they were before. However, I've been around long enough to know that there's no going back. I'm just glad that my life's pretty good right now, I'm thankful the people who stuck around. As for the awful times and the people who left, in the words of Fall Out Boy: thnks fr th mmrs.

Deadlines

I'm still swamped. Literally. I'm waist-deep in papers—though I'm usually seated on the floor when I sort through them—but well, you get the point. The hell weeks of college life are upon us once more, and the only thing I can do is to blog about it.

Actually, I meant to write this post weeks ago, at the onset of this semester's hell month. But it ended up being crammed, much like my academic work. I've gone through about two weeks of hell, and now I'm one week shy of being able to sleep normally again. I have one case study and three final exams left before I can close my eyes at night and not think of what I'll have to get done by tomorrow.

Of course, with tons of requirements come—well yes, great responsibility—as well several bottles of Red Bull, cups of coffee, and piles of junk food. But the word I was looking for before I got distracted was actually deadlines.

I hate deadlines. No actually I love them. (I'm clearly disoriented from lack of sleep and I can't decide where this blog is really going.) Well, it's a love-hate relationship I guess. I hate them because each deadline means more work and more internal panic attacks. At the same time I love them because they give me something to work for, a definite point in time when the effort (or lack thereof) put into a particular task will have to end. And of course I love being productive. Nevermind the fact that I haven't quite learned how.

So the thing is this: I love deadlines because I love productivity. But I hate them because I find that I'm never ready when they roll around.

I love Dali.

I know, it's my fault for being such a procrastinator. I wait around. A lot. That's why I've been dubbed as tambay idol (I have a seven-hour record as of yesterday). When I recall how I've been spending time recently, I imagine my days as a time-lapse video. There's me, sitting somewhere—in our ComSci tamabayan, or some place to eat, or some coffee shop—while everyone around me goes through life in full speed. I, on the other hand, am seemingly stuck in a time zone entirely of my own creation. I'm always moving too slow, waiting for something even I can't identify.

In case you weren't able to follow my pseudo-insightful mode, I'd just like to clarify that I've gone beyond academic work here. My personal life time management skill sucks just as much as its academic counterpart.

All my life I always end up trying to beat the deadlines. I got into a college course, and shifted to another one after two years—I waited one year too long. I often pile up a lot of transgressions against my girlfriend and I wait until she's tired and frustrated before I start trying to shape up. These were the times I got lucky, when I made it, even if it was just in the nick of time.

Other times, I haven't been so fortunate. I've shut people out until they're gone completely. Until they've left, until we've lost all contact. I didn't know there was even a deadline in the first place and I missed it.

So I promise myself to watch out for deadlines, and even prevent them, as in the case of my relationships. I may be a master crammer, but sometimes there's just too much at risk. The most important things in our lives shouldn't have to wait until the last minute.