I found it unnerving I could not find time to stare and fill up a blank white screen for three weeks. Not like it matters. Record-setting bed time of 11 p.m. two nights in a row two weeks ago, and broke
that record last week with one night of knock-out at 10:45 p.m.
Chronologically, with help of saved text messages that served as a temporary journal
With the company of a couple of unoccupied plastic swings (one of which was broken), I did the traditional, fastidious pre-New Year brooding and pondering and "resolving" and staring at the expanse of
dark blue that was pierced by gold trails of pyrotechnics every once in a while. Soon it proved to be rather vapid and I diverted my attention elsewhere. The chains of the swings beside me groaned
when the wind pushed them.
I liked the way the park was empty when I got there, and how a few minutes later, little groups of people or a person would go there for the same reason I did. Some would sit on the other set of
swings, some would sit on the bench, or lie on the slide, some hunted for fireworks in the sky. I thought of starting up a conversation with one nearby who had his gaze at me for quite a while, but I just
held it until he turned away. I found it funny that at any one time, at least one person was looking down into a glowing rectangle white screen. Everyone was trying to send something to someone,
including me. This caused major air traffic and if the message was sent, it would only get there some six hours later. This happens around the whole world, every Christmas and New Year. Everyone
tries to get to someone else, be it a "Happy New Year!" or something much more than that, I would like to know how many people spend about an hour composing a single message to another person,
trying to suitcase everything into 160 characters. It's hard, I've tried it.
Yet, imagine the things all these people weren't saying, besides their stories and the stories within their stories, a "Happy New Year" could mean Hi I still think of you, I miss you, I would love to hug
you for a very long period of time, until it turns blasé or until every detail of this emphatic event the friction of the cloth the breathing in and out the smells the ruffling of hair - is indelible in my head and
will enable me to recreate in dreams flawlessly. I want to talk to you would you like to go out for coffee some time my treat, and as much as I want to talk to you I will just stare down at the brown of
my coffee, for fear my talking might give away I am in love with you instead of I love you why do people fail to distinguish the two?
I was called to go back home and I watched groups of stars move towards and past each other, I had never seen that before until then and it was rather marvellous.
About half an hour before midnight the family was in the car for so-called Firework Chasing and that was not very fun for me because my father's hands were all over the camera. I then had grown a
little appreciation for fireworks, for being so bright and big and shiny. The little light soaring up into the sky with either a boom or screech, and then exploding into several million brighter ones in flawless
synchronization. And that is the second time I've used the word "flawless" tonight.
The one type of pyrotechnic product I have grown a dislike for is the one that doesn't soar into the air. Like firecrackers. We were stopped from driving one road because farther down it was an insane,
unceasing crack boom sound, flashing lights, and a hell lot of smoke. It looked too much like what I see on war reports on news channels, therefore not happy therefore not good pyrotechnics.
The first minute of 2007 found me running around trying to capture fireworks on digital film. Maybe a pattern can be seen here, I did the same thing on Christmas, evinced two entries ago. Photography
takes my mind off things. Specially if the subject is popping everywhere and the camera has perfect settings, is on multi-shot, and because I have to keep my hands very still. Being behind a camera can
make you do anything. You will drop to the floor in the middle of the road, or lie at a forty-five degree angle, or run up a hill, whatever it takes. After this mad runabout, I realized that with that explosion
(mentioned two paragraphs earlier) of chemicals came one of very, very bright light:
I hate recounting such a long span of time, but I am trying to, so I can remember what happened these two to three weeks two to three years later... Also because I am under an impression - which
may or may not benefit me in the future - that I have an audience. (Seriously, do I have to be all amazing/famous/popular/gorgeous/Twiggy-Thin circa 1960s to get a little discourse here?)
On the fifth (this I know exactly because I had written a whole entry in my tiny candybar cellphone, eating up most of my message memory), with a conversation with Ruth still fresh in my mind, my
memory traipsed to the little, quotidian events of what was most of my Last Two Years - school: to, during, and back from.
An (immensely) incomplete list:
i. The sound of dragged footsteps along the smooth concrete floors. My current school has ugly peeling-off gray painted floors, so I do not hear such a sound.
ii. Walking down that fourth floor corridor, and how it is quiet and almost always abandoned in a sense that it was a fortress when running away from prying eyes of authority for an untucked shirt, or the
don of a PE uniform after eleven, or bright/black colored bras, or non-existant sock hems.
iii. The soft eddy of wind that is caused by the small opening (overlooking Delta Block and back gate) behind the third floor benches, and how we would sit on the floor during free periods to feel it, being
relieved of the humid air.
iv. Waking up, washing up, dressing up and out the door in record time of, at the most, ten minutes, to catch the 6 a.m. 970. Those floating numbers and letters that grow steadily as they come nearer.
Still a few meters away from the bus stop? Run, no one likes waiting another fifteen for the next bus.
v. Finding a good seat near the back of the bus. The best was always the row where the fire exit is, because there is big leg room and getting out from the window seat would not be difficult if the
stranger next to me was not getting off.
vi. Waking up on the bus thinking I am almost at the stop, only to find the bus is only about to turn left to Sixth Avenue.
vii. The calm, humble morning rush before the sun is up, how all roads are lit up by quiet lights, and how that oddly reminds me of that Bloc Party album cover.
viii. The quiet walk from the bus stop to school, usually in the company of Jia Yi, where nothing would be exchanged except a sleepy smile at the beginning, and a Bye at the end - the top of the second
floor staircase.
ix. Walking into the light of the road junction. I have always liked that area, especially before dawn, the lights are everywhere, bright and overlapping each other, some areas brighter than others,
drenching the dark gray concrete with a somewhat orange glow - anonymous. Smaller lights are in every direction, some towards (white), some backwards (red). The road is clean, smooth; decorated
with white paint, with an orange tinge from the lights.
x. The sign language with Jia Yi: "Cross or not?" "Still got eleven seconds, we could run" "So you want to run?" "RUN LAH" (All of this happens in about two seconds with head jerks, eye signalling,
slight arm movements and the grand finale of running onto the road, indicating that the other should follow suit)
xi. Walking on the wobbly blocks of cement that serve as a drain cover.
xii. That yellow and blue striped tent on the left side of the street, it always reminded me of Cirque du Soleil.
xiii. Sniggering at people who would stand up for assembly to reveal wet blotches on their skirt.
xiv. Looking at the sky while running during mass run, and the facile sense of accomplishment when we run ahead of large groups of people, especially on the grass, jumping over drains and dodging trees
and such.
xv. The slightly satisfying feeling when getting to the canteen early enough to Not queue up for (then) bad food. Then Bad because right now I could use a cheap dollar-fifty chicken rice plate in my
current school where food pricing is grossly inflated.
xv. Bus rides home with Julie and Jia Yi after softball training, and trips to the KAP McDonald's where I would spend my EZ-Link card money on french fries and ice cream.
I will perform a search (albeit desultory) within my brain until I find every single memory or image of Everything. Until I can freaking draw a detailed map of the school by memory. I am the freaking
Queen of Nostalgia. This Tuesday for P.E. we had to stretch before running (running! For the first time in a more than a year!) and I nearly cried because most of the exercises were the same and the
strains in the muscles were all very, very familiar. Nostalgic. Maybe that single word could explain my whole life so far. Angelina Jolie said she got a tattoo of a window because it signifies Escape
somewhat. I was always looking outside the window, wanting to be somewhere else, she said.
Speaking of P.E., my legs were fucking lead and I had to jump around for about two minutes and randomly kick my legs in the air, as if it would cause a quantum increase in my long lost stamina. Let
me blame the "track" that was made of gravel and sand, who can actually run on gravel and sand.
----------------
An afternoon at a classmate's house for a "math project" made me realize how much I like what the beat of music does to a heart. The music sort of takes over the job of pumping, the muscle
completely relaxes while the beat is so loud it pumps the blood. It is a good feeling, especially if you stare at a red wall that is being run over by tiny rectangle lights caused by a disco ball. (Red wall and
a disco ball. Cute or what.)
More recently I accepted an invite to another person's house for a marathon of Jackass 1, 2 and 3, which turned out to be just A Movie (Jackass: The Movie), some mindless watching of MTV because
apparently the rest like TRL and Pop Inc. ("Denise is so skinny what the hell!!!1!"); and Silent Hill 4 ("[a lot of screaming]!!!1!"), but anyway.
Watching Jackass makes you think what goes through these men's (and woman, in one case of stuffing hard boiled eggs while trying to barf everything out at the same time) minds. Eating
your-own-urine flavored snowcones, swimming in faeces, sticking a toy car (inside a condom) up your ass, having a baby crocodile bite your nipple, getting papercuts on the webbings between your
fingers and toes, your eyelids and the sort-of-webbing that is the two corners of your mouth.... Seriously.
Although I must say, Bam Margera and his 12:42 a.m. Firework Alarm Clock on his parents was hilarious. It helps that his parents are incredibly odd people.
A trip to the mall afterwards broke my abstinence from Starbucks. I also treated myself to TIME magazine and a movie to take home, and a Jamaican patty. Poverty is a bitch. As of New Year's Day
am currently saving up for a Creative Zen Vision:M, bye bye iPod Video, because besides the apparent mechanical shortcomings, you don't come in green.
Of late I have been thinking a lot about the concept of Missing. Not Missing as in Incomplete but Missing as in You Are Wanted Back. Does everyone, regardless whether they have knowledge of it or
not, have that one person that misses them? A quote: "We are friends and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn't mind washing up beside you, dusting beside
you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often." Does everyone have that? I thought the paper bit was
incredibly adorable.
Imagine the stories everybody doesn't tell.
But just stick to imagining, I feel it is better that way, makes life a little more interesting. Okay, fine, quasi-interesting, but who lives in reality anymore now anyway, si?
( *represses urge to digress about "reality" a la The Matrix, for commonweal* )
In school, I pay special attention to those I dislike, and try to think what their Person would be thinking. This did not work very well for me because I can be terribly biased in judgement sometimes and
thoughts are loaded with animosity. Observe:
On Hazel - "Oh I miss your big fat stupid lies! Tell me again how you got that GUNSHOT WOUND in your perfectly functioning arm!"
On Clarissa - "Really, how marvellous, oh how I've missed the stories of your ESCAPADES with MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE. Gerard and Mikey fought over you?! Again?!"
On Kevin - "That laugh, I've missed it! It makes you look so much like Miss Piggy, sans the gold curly wig of hair!"
If I died I'd like to be able to open my e-mail inbox, thanks. Just to see. I remember a similar question in one of the letters in my letter box, something like, "what happens to emails when its owner
dies?" given that the account did not have an inactivity limit. Here is another answer.
When I was doing research for my paper on adolescent depression, I landed myself on a page in which published was a love letter to someone who had taken his own life. It was beautifully written and
it crumpled me.
(Excerpts in gray from
My Precious Friend: A Letter to a Loved One Lost to Suicide)
If. What a useless word! A ticket to an eternal preoccupation with the past - and with how it could have been. It was the way it was. It is the way it is. And that is that. We make the choices we have
to make. Yes, we may look back and realize how wrong or foolish we were to have taken the route we did, but the fact remains we can only make today's choices with today's information, wisdom,
and providence. I realize all this now - but heaven alone knows how I have stretched the tape of my mind's eye, rewinding and re-playing those last few conversations, imagining what would have
happened if...
Your e-mail inbox will be the end of imagining. In here would be the stories they don't tell. In here would be an epic of What Ifs. People would pour out every possibility. What was imbedded in other
stories would stand here, stripped. If my memory serves me correctly, Mr. Erdogan had said something (this is paraphrased) like "I like you means I will write the possibility of us everywhere." Stripped,
but unseen. They would tell you how they watched you breathe, watched the wind in your hair, how many laughs you had, the way the morning light beautifully brought out the contours of your face.
It has been ten years since you made the split-second decision that was to change the world. It certainly changed mine. For ten years I have stood mummy-like in the centre of a spiral of questions that
bounced back off the stars to return unanswered, just the same questions ringing ever louder in my ears.
They would ask questions, they would ask themselves, conducting monologues in front of you. Why didn't I tell you earlier? Maybe, at one point, they would ask you, almost blame you. Why had you
given such security that we would have all the time in the world? But this monologue would help them realize that if anyone should be blamed, it would be them. They thought it could wait. It did, for a
while, and during that while they made plans, so many plans, they would tell you these plans. Plans are everything, plans are everyone's future. They would tell you You were in my plans, you know.
You would wonder why everything you chased after, the sense of importance you were looking for, only showed itself to you posthumously.
That girl on MySpace, Anna, I still check her page from time to time and it always breaks my heart. They tell her about their day, how they like the way the song on her profile still plays, how
MySpace is so fucked up that it shows her status as Online, and how they wish it wouldn't do that. They tell her how much she is loved and missed and how certain things and places remind them of
her. She had given so much to all these people, instilling herself in their lives and everything else around them. In a perfect world people would not die, not like this, they would not change lives this
way.
----------------
If that bit about My Chemical Romance piqued your interest...
A girl in school is declaring her personal relationships with the band members of said band. Apparently, they tutor her in Chemistry (Chemistry! Chemical! Can you detect the
sarcastic prodigious
tone here!) over the phone and have invited her over to New Jersey last Christmas and that Helena was written for her and jesus do I have to continue, I'm sure you get the picture.
I sat atop a six-foot tall stack of chairs and as I listened to this I nearly fell off. Deducing from what I have heard, she is the passive-impudent type. As in, "Oh Gerard sent me an expensive antique ring
that was from his grandmother for Christmas,
but it got lost in the mail."
----------------
So, why has no one told me to see the film I Am Sam?
"P.S. I love you like in a song"
Awwwwww
It only got better when I recognized Rufus Wainwright and Ben Folds on the soundtrack, which is completely of The Beatles covers. Also, you cannot Not love Sean Penn in this, his acting is everything
acting should be. Dakota Fanning's talent is most probably primordial. I loved how Sam made so many references to the Beatles, especially in the court hearings:
RITA
But don't you ever think it would be
better for Lucy if she lived with a
permanent foster family and you could
visit whenever you wanted?
SAM
The Fosters don't know her. Why can't
she live with me and they can come visit
if they want to. I'm firm on this. And
I'm getting firmer. Lucy belongs with
me.
RITA
Why?
Sam puts his finger to his chin and starts his "Let me
see..." Rita gives him a look; he lowers his finger and
starts talking very fast from the coffee. The stenographer
desperately tries to keep pace.
SAM
Paul wrote the first part of the song
"Michelle". He said to John, "Where do
I go from here?" John had been
listening to Nina Simone. There was a
line in it that went something like, "I
love you, I love you, I love you..."
They put that into the song. It
wouldn't be the same song without that.
It made the song complete. That's why
the whole world cried when they broke up
on April 10, 1970.
-----
MISS WRIGHT
No one doubts that you love your
daughter, Mr. Dawson. But the
Department of Social Services contacted
us. They shared with us that your
records show that your intellectual
capacity is around that of a seven year
old. Our concern is what happens when
Lucy turns eight?
PRINCIPAL
Mr. Dawson, do you understand what Miss
Wright is trying to tell you about Lucy?
SAM
No one wanted The Beatles to break up.
But you can hear it on the White Album.
They were going in different directions.
-----
And I loved the fact that he named his daughter Lucy Diamond Dawson, after the song Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds ("What's her name?" Sam looks at the clock. "Let me see let me see let me see.
12:17, March 2nd. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Recorded March 2nd. 1967. Lyrics by John Lennon, music by Paul McCartney. Lucy Diamond Dawson."); and how they used the book Stellaluna in
the film, which I remember reading when I was younger. Now I want to read it again. I love how Lucy asked so many questions, like "Are lady bugs only girls or are there boys, too. And if there are,
what are they called?" (To which Sam answered: "The Beatles." Charming!) I can't even produce two coherent paragraphs praising this film, for fear that I will make it sound mediocre. Um. I'll end with
"you will CRY."
----------------
This Monday my father and I trooped to Las Pinas Post Office to get the package. "We're commuting," he said, "because it's really hard to get a parking space in that area." And it was, the side alley
where the post office (a bungalow) was was small and crowded.
"Commute" here meant the cheap jeepney - an ugly ensemble on wheels; what with the several layers of peeling paint, worn out synthetic leather seats, red circular lights on the ceiling dimmed from the
dirt and age. "Only exact change in the mornings, please," said signs in Tagalog, behind the driver's seat. Passenger seats were just like two long ones against the wall, so people face each other. My
English teacher once told a story of how the jeep he was riding was held up by robbers. A man in front of him was shot. Be suspicious when there are big burly men in the jeep, and a big empty bag,
and anxious-looking people. They took his wallet.
Disturbed by this story, paranoia was in full blow as my father and I made our way to Last Pinas. But, no, no bullets through bodies, although there was a great deal of dust and very bad odors around
the wet market area. I got home and realized I had a pimple, that's how much dirt was in the air.
The package contained the 2005 Crescent Yearbook, the Notre Dame de Paris programme, a clipping of a Jude Law for Dunhill ad, a Westlife poster, drawings (Tania, yours was very cute!!), a warm and
fuzzy, a jazz Christmas CD, Ben & Jerry's paraphernalia, a letter and notes. Bernette is love.
On the trip back I looked through the yearbook and nostalgia hit as I recognized the familiar faces, friends, acquaintances, strangers, people-hated-for-no-justified-reason, et cetera. And how different my
friends look like now. And how fat I was. Most have more matured looks now. Most thinner. Different hair. Et cetera. I hope I am keeping track, because I want to. Let me, yo. This is me doing subtle.
Sort of.
Turned to the softball page and read the article. One word screamed in my head:
BOWDLERIZATION
(I had learned the word about a week ago, thanks to Zoë Heller [book: Notes on a Scandal, being turned into a movie, I can't believe it had to take an article on The New York Times for me to start
reading it, it's indispensable.], but it never occured to me I would be finding use for it so soon.)
The article was unrecognizable. Surely I wasn't That much a boring writer a year and a half (already?!) ago? It made me want to steal everyone's yearbook to tear my name off the bottom left of the
page.
----------------
Our CVE teacher was out today and could not attend class, to my pleasant surprise; his pompousness is so legendary it takes me a great deal to tolerate him. Several weeks ago:
"If you caught your best friend cheating on an examination, what would you do: ignore, confront him, or report him?"
According to him, the "CVE Way" is the last option, and his support for that answer was "Justice must be served!" and "At least your conscience is clear!" Both of which were nice big holes for me to
throw him in. Which I did, the whole class was on my side but he was The Teacher so although his English was almost completely incoherent and his reasoning did nothing but chase its own tail instead of
getting to a point, he was Right. Thankfully we are all at least fifteen years old and everyone knows better than to follow that. Several classmates had congratulated me on "stumping the teacher" (best
translation of
tinabunan mo siya!), which was nice, although what I hate about these things is that they always, always always have an aftermath. It is called
l'ésprit de l'éscalier (wit of
the staircase), and it is like that person who is always late for an appointment. I like the Germans' term for this better, "treppenwitz" because 1) the Z! and 2) it is verily easier to pronounce.
Anyway, the more pleasant surprise was that my English teacher was the substitute, and while we had to answer questions ("Who of these people would you choose to be locked with in a bomb shelter
for a month, and why?"), he sang. "Baby, baby, if I touch you like this, and I kiss you like that, it was all long ago, but it's all coming back to me," and this was all very nice to watch, especially on a
gloomy morning that started with Math Electives. He caught me smiling at him, and smiled back; and observation has told me that this was a real smile because it was different from those terse,
acknowledgement smiles people give in a glib (I'm not like a stalker or anything, I just observe a lot). He's a real character, he actually said in response to the exchange of smiles "You know, Adrienne,
you're beautiful," (shock on my part) "I like your face, it's unique. You're cute. You're cute." He said this looking straight at me, still donning The Real Smile, and it was such a nice gesture fortunately I
caught this one just in time, I did not stumble over it and did not break it into a million pieces like I did the pizza delivery man's, and said Thank You. It is rather different if it comes from him, one day I
will come up with the perfect description of his character.
Post anything that you want. A secret, a confession, a fear, a love, your opinion about me...anything, but be sure
to post anonymously and honestly.