Ang Pinakamahabang Lunchbreak

Nakasanayan na sa amin ang kumain nang magkakasama. Pagkapatay ni manong guard ng ilaw sa hapon, tatayo, uunat ng konti, at magtatanong kung sa opisina kakain o sa labas. Relax lang. Hindi palaisipan. Ganoon madalas sa amin. Ang biglaan ang natutuloy; ang hirit, nagkakatotoo. Kaya din siguro masaya ang lunchbreak namin sa NEC. Lahat napag-uusapan. Lahat posible. Lasingang Friday sa Thursday? Sige lang! Isang bulubundukin ng french fries? Order-in na natin! Kasalan sa Davao? Tara!

Sanay na din ako sa ganun. Madali um-oo sa mga bagay na malayo pa.

Ayaw ko pala, naisip ko, noong gabing nagiimpake na ko. Sa huling gabing maaari pang tumanggi sa 4 na araw sa dulo ng Pilipinas, wala pang disenteng tulog, at may baon pang trabaho, nagimpake ako at nagtaka kung bakit ako nag-laan ng pera, nag-paalam ng leave, at nangarap ng makatakas sa buhay Maynila pansamantala. Siguro dahil um-oo ako at kelangan panindigan--at syempre, sayang ang ticket.

4 na araw din yun. Nag-whitewater-rafting, nag-lasing, nagtiwala sa tibay ng tali ng zipline, nainitan, nagpaka-sasa sa prutas, nalunod, nagpatugtog ng Lady Gaga sa dagat, nag-cartwheel sa bundok, umakyat ng puno, natakot, nangitim, sumayaw, nagpapicture sa kasal, nag-lagay ng garter, nabusog, nag-lasing uli, at oo nga pala, nagkuwentuhan din kami.

Nagkuwentuhan kami, ng mga kuwentong patanong, ng mga tanong na nagiging kuwento. Tungkol sa buhay, tungkol sa trabaho, tungkol sa isa't-isa, tungkol sa mga tulog, tungkol sa mga naiwan, tungkol sa mang-iiwan, tungkol sa iiwanan. Parang lunchbreak lang uli, naiba lang ng lokasyon, ng oras, ng nakalatag sa hapag-kainan. Pero gayun pa man, hindi pa din nagbago ang usapan: masarap, casual, walang pag-iimbot at hindi nalalayo sa katotohanan--nang madalas.

Marami sa mga bagay na napagusapan sa hapag-kainan na iyon ay hindi ko na gaanong maalala. Ang naalala ko na lamang, ay ang ugong ng electric fan, ang tahimik na tulog ni kuya sa labas, ang bungisngis na pahabol sa bawat shot, ang ngiti ng puyat pero masaya, at ang tinig ng kuwentuhang nagtatapos lamang sa pagod.

Naalala ko din na nangarap akong sana'y hindi na matapos ang masasayang gabi, hapon at umagang iyon. O, kahit magkaroon ng pagkakataon maulit muli lahat ng ito. Sa pagkakaibigan namin, sa tatlong taong nagsama at sa 4 na araw nabuhay sa Davao, parang posible pa rin naman. Lahat naman napag-uusapan. Lahat din natutupad.

right here

I haven't written anything in a while--for two distinct reasons. The first is to avoid irony: I knew that if I would be writing anything again, it would start out with "I haven't written anything in a while"--totally lame. The second is for sanity: the last 4 months have been all about the work that must be done, that was done, and I am currently doing. I knew myself well enough to know that the writing I mostly do is the spill-over of whatever it is I am currently ensconced in. And writing about work, while I'm not at work, might just be, I predict, the last thing I do before the inevitable trip to the nut house.

So I won't talk about work, at least not consciously. I'll make the extra effort to talk about everything else in my life outside work. Give it the focus it deserves, give it tonight's spotlight.

Like my commute, have I mentioned that I stare at other commuters now? I do. It's my new hobby. Whenever I'm not unconscious in the backseat of the shuttle to Makati trying my best to make up for the lost sleeping hours, I take the time to examine my seatmates. The varying measures of disinterest, the fiddling of a watch or cellphone when we near 10am, the eyes that stare out but whose attention is caught inwardly.

I study these things not because I'm trying to usurp the position of resident creepy commute guy. I study the people in the van in the hopes of gaining some insight of my own. I, who am so helplessly embroiled in the heartache that is my job would like to know if I'm alone in this relentless crusade. Am I the only guy who's sinking in the sea of corporate life? Should earning my keep day by day by day really be this hard?

I'm still wondering today. The people I see on the street don't seem too overwhelmed about their lives. They walk around not worrying when the next deadline is, or whether they got the job done right or not. They just walk. One foot in front of the other. I worry-walk. The brisk pacing I now do is indicative of the rushed mentality I bring with me to work, like a security blanket.

But it's just a job, right? I could quit my job and I won't die. I've gotten pretty far in my life and I have no regrets. I'm proud of myself actually. But then, why do I feel like shit sometimes when I step out of the office?

I just want to know if I'm the only guy struggling here in Makati. I struggled to get here and now I'm struggling to simply stay put. I am aware that I earnestly want to be here. And I'm sure most other people struggled to be where they are now, too, just because they wanted to be there, with their whole heart and sheer strength of will.

And some of us have made it. So now we put on the face of the accomplished, the strut of the succeeding, because we got exactly what we wanted and we've got only ourselves to blame.

After that fateful first interview, plying that now too familiar route from the office to the shuttle center, I discovered something walking around the hustling and bustling men and women of Makati. They bore the face of the city. And though they wore expensive ties, sharp suits, and slick dresses, the city looked pretty glum.

So do I.

on the 18th

"I think I'm gay." I said, in the homeward car filled with my family of 4, away from the fancy restaurant we celebrated my 18th birthday. It was dark outside as well as inside the car where we were all too quiet ourselves.

My mom asked again, "What?"

"I think I'm gay." with a finality that was borne more from a spirit of confession than declaration.

My sister was quiet beside me. She had curled up to sleep but now was wide awake, listening to every word. I was glad she was.

"Are you sure?" my mom rejoined, a bit of a waver in her voice.

I didn't answer immediately. I stared at the back of my dad's head and wondered if I can stare hard enough to see what he was thinking. Or at the least, make him say something.

"I think so."

Quiet again, and the lights of lamp posts whirred inside the car as we headed home. I imagined my mom sighed before she replied.

"You can't be sure now, you're just a kid. It's not an easy life, you know. It's going to complicate yours for sure. Maybe it's just a phase."

"It's just a phase." she repeated, a little softer, as if in suggestion.

"Maybe it is." I didn't want to say anything more, hoping to leave a gap of words in the air where my dad could fill it with his reply, or even his reproach, anything.

"Dad, are you ok?" My sister's hand was on my dad's shoulder. He said he was ok, and not much else.

a Sense of Direction

I remember a time when tasks where something that would be done quickly and without much thought. Inordinate jobs that required only a bit of resolve and time to complete. This was mostly in school when all the burden a student has to contend with were the expectations of his professor, which was usually ignored, and those of his parents whose daily work afforded the education and warranted some form of appraisal. Grades, for that matter, was the only issue for me. And soon, it wasn't as important either.

What became important was getting things done. The goal that I yearned for in every dark evening of toiling over physics books, and devoted study over a buggy slice of code was the encompassing feeling of completion. The well-earned emptiness that sits in the minds of those who have crossed the finish line, the catharsis.

I also enjoyed learning a thing or two about how electrons go about their unseen dance, or the sheer joy of rewriting that miscoded line. But above all these little triumphs, it is the triumph of checking out an item in my mental list and looking ahead to new challenges that fuels my constant work. The proof of progress, and the measure of movement.

I've kept to that ideal in my work. A clear list of things to accomplish. The unclear chopped into finer pieces that make more sense. Rinse-repeat with every task and never worry about the overall picture. Because in any job, we all work as a team, and doing your part well is enough if you would do at least one thing right.

Somewhere along the way, that changed. I worry now about the big picture. Work isn't something that is done for 8 hours a week and put aside for a while on weekends. Work, the accomplishment of day-to-day duties, is now not only a measure of movement. I've come to question as well the overall direction.

A friend of mine always advised, "Never work hard"; instead, "work smart". I may have become a victim of the former, like rowing a boat with no rudder, endlessly circling. Pointless movement, and wasted exertion.

Maybe that's the biggest difference between school and work. Correctness isn't as clean cut as a percentage of correct answers, but resides more in the confirmation of invested trust among colleagues, as well as fervent faith in your sense of direction.

gauging distances

It's been 3 months in the new job, 2 months since I've turned 25, and a week when I talked to Joms about my Japanese separation anxiety. Anyway I look at it, I've found the first of many crossroads in my life. One life-changing decision must be made here, in the perpetually shifting landscape I tread on. I'm going to slow down a bit and catch my breath, and gaze a bit into the distance and remember where was I heading again.

Where is everyone heading again? I hung out with some old buddies last Saturday in their mercifully air-conditioned room(though he didn't turn it on) and asked the question, "What are you dreaming about lately?" One of my friends was set. He rested his head against the bed and stared at the ceiling saying he's dreamt the same way he's been dreaming as a kid. From his bookshelf, we checked our gradeschool yearbook and confirmed it, word for word.

My other buddy had a strange twinkle in his eye and I asked him his piece. He said he didn't know with a shrug, and that they've been fussing about it, his girlfriend and him, for a while now. The yearbook, upon consultation, spouted "To be an engineer." That's kinda vague, we all agreed.

So I went on an extended process of finding where this man's compass points: "If you were about to die, how would you complete this sentence: 'I wish I had more time left to...'?", "What thing could you do that, once done, you can say you can die happily?", "What task must be completed for you to say you've had 'a fulfilling life'?"

He didn't know, and my other friend said it was alright. I couldn't help myself and said, "It's not wrong, but it's a symptom of something wrong." It was uncalled for, I realize now. People each have their own paces, in the same way they have their own paths, to take. I guess my friend was taking his time with his. He's the more solemn and patient type among us friends. I was pushing him for an answer because I wanted to find my own, hoping his decision will yield a clue about mine.

I can't help pushing myself harder. A writer I follow, Micheal McAllister, summed up my emotions perfectly:

"Most of the time I worry. I live in tomorrow... I struggle with impatience, full of ambition and thwarted by doubt. I think that I should have met all of my goals by the age of 25. And now I am 39."

I've got to act, act, act. A war-song of action plays in a loop inside my head. The music I've started picking fit the part of a movie when the main character is doing something lengthy and important, the scene where no one talks and we just see multiple shots of the protagonist in varied states of progress on the plot-defining task. The seasons shift swiftly behind him. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Happy ending.

I know I'm heading towards a happy ending, I'm just not sure which ending it should be just yet. The crossroads I've encountered before branch-out in straight lines and I'm used to sneaking a peak from the junction how well life could be down the left fork and down the right, I also peak in advance when reading 'Choose Your Own Adventure' books.

But for the first time, I can't see that far. And in these instances, I judge by picking the path that I'd regret least. This works great in situations where I don't feel like braving weather and traffic to meet friends somewhere. Or, when I need to try something for the first time. Especially applicable, when I have to do something health related.

But now I've come to doubt that measure. Regret is such a vague concept, too. It's just an awful feeling we feel when we compare how much less we have now from how much more we would've. The regret of fun missed and sleep lost are easily weighed. But when we talk about regret cultivated after years lost and relationships compromised, how do you pick?

I'm taking a different take on this one. Maybe regret is just the effort it takes to walk back to the junction. The distance and time lost by going back to the start, picking up on a new trail, and trying again.

In that case, how much effort does it take to rebuild a dream? How much work must be spent to rescue a relationship?

Lucky are the Confidants

I found some time tonight to read this pink-lit book I've been putting aside. I hoped to read it through. Perfect, since there's been a lot of sudden rain creeping about and what kind of book-lover doesn't enjoy an easy read in a storm. I had to put it down immediately to write this out, though. This was when I was struck by a recurring method the author used to explain the motivations of one character: Jackie.

Jackie is an African-american lesbian who just turned 40. Recently single, all she has left in her life is her bar, the place-to-be in ol' Provincetown, and her empty home that's been growing colder day by day. The bar was bequeathed to her by a lady named Franny upon her death, her sort of lifelong mentor and sponsor, wherein the bothering matter begins. The author drew on Franny's image and raspy voice in Jackie's imagination to provide counsel and guidance in the critical moments of the plot, a sort of plot-device from beyond the burial-plot (sorry, pun).

It was refreshing to read these exchanges. Must be great to have someone older and wiser than you to tell you what's wrong and right in the world, I wondered. It suddenly hit me that I've never had these kinds of confessions. The truth of it is, I've never had anyone older to confide in. Whenever I do have some weighty issue at hand, I usually just throw it into the melting pot of the next conversation I find myself in, with friends or acquaintances, whichever's on hand. It's usually something mundane. The last was, "What's a nice brand of umbrella to buy?" The brooding topics that usually involve a lengthy story (usually about love) are up for public critique, too. But this tendency to be open I've only lately learned to do.

Before, in moments of inquisitive bankruptcy and desperation, I imagined in my head a one-on-one session with myself. I first imagined the setting to be an empty train running/flying across the clear orange sky of sunset. Later on, it turned into a dark room with no walls and a single light above me and myself. The other me in my head stood straight, wore dapper clothes, and in the eyes of the young me, this was the imaginary equivalent of someone mature, someone who knew all the answers.

The mature version of me stood and talked little in these psychotic episodes. Instead, he communicated his wisdom physically: in the brief, sharp contact of his knees and my stomach, the jarring right-hook across my face, and the forceful kick to my sides as I tried to get up. I know it must sound really emo, and also a little masochistic, for a teenager to imagine beating himself up, but I did. It was my way of trying to get over mistakes which, at the time of my youth, were the only things that ever provoked thorough opportunities for introspection.

I guess I was a lonely kid. Parents were out nightly and since all I had were friends from highschool and gradeschool, there was no safe harbour of advice and guidance to be found nearby. I just learned to trust my gut with things. And when I fouled up, since no one was ever there to tell me I did my best, I just made an appointment with myself again, fight-club style.

My mistake is I never had the heart to tell anyone of my problems and give them the opportunity to care. But now that I'm older, I have no regrets. I feel I'm tougher after all those years of roughing it up with myself, forming emotional callouses that have protected the things I've held most dear about myself: like blatant naivete and optimism.

I can't quantitatively admit that I'm a better person for it though. But I can vouch that nothing else makes you grow mature faster than coming up with your own answers in life, and finding out the hard way if you're wrong or right.

Pangarap pa rin

Joy joy joy joy! Parang ang dali lang maging masaya noon. Ang yabang yabang ko pa, meron pa akong nalalaman na "Happines is a choice." Pero ngayong nagta-trabaho na ako ng 3 taon, nakalimutan ko na kung panong maging maligaya ng basta-basta. Hindi na kagaya noon na gigising lang ako sa umaga at ang maiisip ko ay "Ang sarap-sarap mabuhay." Ngayon, sa pag-gising ko, bubuka ang aking mga mata, titingnan ang dilim ng aking kwarto, papakiramdaman ang init ng mundong ibabaw, at pipikit muli.

Ganun ba talaga yun kapag tumamatanda? Siguro. Naisip ko din dahil meron na akong trabaho at salapi, mas matindi na ako mag-ambisyon ngayon. Umaasa na akong magka-kotse na pula, magtayo ng bahay sa may SLEX, makabili ng condominium sa Makati. Noon, mabili ko lang yung napaka-gandang pantalon, makakain lang ako ng sapat, makanood ng magandang sine, sulit na ang buhay ko. Pero dahil 25 na ako, kelangan nang maglevel-up ang naipupundar. Sa edad kong ito, dapat yung mga pangarap ko nang pagkabata tinutupad ko na.

At ano nga ba yung mga pangarap ko ng pagkabata? Madami. Ang dali talaga mangarap, at ang dali maging masaya dahil alam mo lang na yung mga pangarap mo matutupad din balang araw. Puwes, dumating na ang araw na iyon. At sa pag-sikat niya, ang mga pangarap ay pangarap pa rin.

Hindi naman ito kasalanan. Mahaba pa ang buhay, bata pa naman ako, sariwa pa naman siguro. Pero nakaka-pressure na. Kelangan na ng direksyon, ng patutunguhan. Hindi na pwede yung basta-bastang pag-gawa ng mga araw-araw na responsibilidad. Kelangan nang mag-isip ng "long-term", mag-isip ng seryoso.

Nakakatawa, pero yung mga laos na tanong noong highschool guidance class, yung mga "Where do you see yourself 5, 10, 20 years from now?", tinatanong ko na uli sa sarili ko. At mas lalo pa, inaalala ko kung ano yung mga sagot ko noon. Sabi ko, kapag 25 na ako, dapat lawyer na akong pasado sa bar, kumikita ng 50k at ang kalahati nun ay iniipon para makapag-milyon pagdating ng 30. At dapat nabili ko na yung buong Harry Potter na series, dapat hard-bound.

Yung Harry Potter ayos na, pero yung lawyer ay matagal ko nang ipinagpaliban. Sa suweldo, malapit na din; pero ang ipon, huwag na natin itanong. So medyo ok pa ako, medyo "on-track" kung ganun ang usapan. Pero kahit dito pa lang, kahit wala pa sa totoong ginugusto ko, ang hirap na pala makarating dito. Masaklap pa, kahit nakarating nga ako, parang kulang na kulang pa din.

Ramdam ko na ang ikli ng buhay at ang pagod na kasabay ng pagtahak ng mga landas nito. Ang dali noon ituro at pagnasahan ang mga destinasyong nakakalat at nangaakit. Sa aking pagtanda, hindi na lamang ang malayong kislap ng patutunguhan ang nakikita ko, kita ko na din ang mabato at masukal na daan patungo. Kung iisa lang ang pwede kung marating, kung isa lang ang maaari kong makamit sa buhay ko, ano yun? Nasaan yun? May panahon pa ba?

*photo credit from Palipasan which, in a sudden spate of irony, is a post about never giving up on hope.

Japanese Separation Anxiety

I haven't done anything Japanese in 3 months. A long time for someone who's worked at a Japanese company for 3 years, geeked-out on Japanese anime in school, and dreamed of living in Japan one day. The new job doesn't have Japanese bosses, Japanese classes, Japanese documents, Japanese emails, nor Japanese firewall warnings(they block a lot of sites there) and the culture is radically different. The freedom is shocking. I kinda knew all this beforehand, and 3 months in, I all but confirmed my predictions. But I never would have predicted I'd change along the way, too.

I thought it was a caffeine thing, so I drank more coffee. Then I thought it was an exercise thing, so I gym-ed a little more. Then I thought it was a work thing, so I put more heart and time into my job.

But whatever I did, I just felt sadder. I still accomplished things, but it all felt like goals outside of myself. I spent a lot of effort, and still I felt I wasn't getting anywhere. I got even more dejected, and then just focused on work instead. Started to feel numb and thought this is what working in Makati is like. The hurrying pedestrians, the constant roar of traffic, the cold, sterile offices. This is business, after all.

But this weekend, I got a Sunday all to myself, and decided to clean out my pc clutter. Sifting through old pictures, installers, and porn, I found I had a copy of Nodame Cantabile. I indulged and watched it.

And BAM! It was a one-two punch: it was Japanese AND it was about music. I remembered how I love watching an anime begin. The anticipation and the excitement is overwhelming as the intro music roars the typical happy Japanese gibberish. As a kid, I jump around, ecstatic. I remembered how wonderful it felt to play in an ensemble. The music envelops you and somehow, among all those instruments playing their own tunes, you find your spot in the melody and play your own, leave an impression, and complement the whole, become a part of a living thing that resides in everyone who listens.

I'm back again, I'd say. 3 months into the new job, I've come full-circle back to the awkwardness of growing, the innocence of budding dreams, and the rush of finding my own way in the world. I said once the new job feels a lot like high school, I didn't know my metaphor was so truly spot-on.

I Live in a House with No Vases

I brought my mom flowers one day, a stalk of linen-white oriental lilies. They have yet to to bloom though, still encased in their green sheaths. The florist assured me though that they'd bloom in time for Valentines.

So I headed home quickly and thought to present these blossoms well. I sought for a vase, something slender to compliment the stalk. Something plain and without hue, so the white of the lilies could stand out.

After a long search, I salvaged a vase shaped like a woman and her hair, also green, bending over. It was very art deco and it had a hole which made it a vase somehow. I placed my one stalk inside and it looked a bit awkward, the lilies jutting out at a sharp angle to accommodate the curved posture of the green artsy lady.

In the afternoon light, I stared at my attempt at being emotional and thought this is how it is in this house.

In the earlier days, my mom and dad have made it a point to always stick to essentials, and have cultivated a culture of scarcity. My parents reinforced this by placating my childish wants for shiny new things with tenets like, "Not for now dear, we're a little short," "We don't need that right now," and the ever popular, "When it's your birthday or Christmas, I promise we''ll get it for you."

In time, I've learned to rely on myself for my own needs and wants. My parents provided everything I needed in school like books and pens and notebooks, new ones every school year. And I enjoyed these times because I could pick and because I didn't have to feel guilty since there was a set budget. But for impromptu necessary expenditures like field trips and projects, I drew from my own purse. In my youth, I dealt with absolutes and only now have I realized I could have still asked these things of them, that they could afford it and would probably condone--and eventually did in later years.

But it stuck, and I always made it a point to be independent of my parents, especially financially, in all things. For frivolous things, like designer perfume or sweet flowers, I've only lately learned to indulge in those and I have my friends to thank for that.

But in this moment, I've come full circle. I have fresh flowers in a house that have never known any. The only fresh blossoms to ever step inside are the sampaguitas my parents buy off the street kids. Here, today, I am confronted by the humility my parents brought me up with and the resulting growth in my character.

The improvised vase was leaky. The green lady was old and it was never meant to hold water--we've had her since we moved in 15 years ago--so we placed the lilies in a large clear water-glass. My mom found them in the morning and--though they were unnecessary, do not contribute to paying any bills, nor fulfilling any pending needs--they bloomed, and they bloomed beautifully.

My mom was happy that Valentines.

Hovering

Welcome back to Manila. Back to the frowning masses, back to streets awash with cars. Back to each disappointing sunrise and the endless wait for sunsets. Welcome, friend welcome. Lay your head here awhile, to the side, rest its weight upon your own shoulders and worry about stiffness later. You've left too late and come back to soon to your own life, the one you've been working on for so long. And though it's the only thing you've ever known, the only thing you're good at, you wonder if, out there, there's still some other life you could live.

I've been tempted lately by thoughts of disappearing, but not in the kidnap-gone-awry-then-suddenly-cadavers kind of sense. Instead, wandering off unexpectedly and getting lost to the world seems like a lovely plan. I'm starting to feel like most of the things in my life are things I agree to do but don't feel entirely compelled to pursue. It's like playing the music of my instrument on someone else's beat and cadence.

Mind you, I'm not resentful or frustrated. Things are actually good. Not great. But relative to genocide, sudden unemployment and elections, preferably a-ok. The recurring thought that pokes some mischief into me though is that I feel that if you left me to my own devices, somewhere far away where no one knows me and no one cares, I'd be making completely different decisions. Somewhere out there is a life I could have if I just decide, wholeheartedly and completely to abandon this one.

This has nothing to do with the friends I've known, the family I've grown with and the people I've discovered. There is no individual repellent. It's just that I like playing with odds and, lately, I've been playing it safe too long. It's time to walk out that door, commute towards the opposite direction, and make things interesting.

That's the last thing Jesus did if you remember, the great (though inconsistent) disappearing act that culminated with a certain heaven-bound hovering. I guess for Him, gravity was just a suggestion and, just like me, it may seem absolute now, but hey! He did it anyway, doves and dramatic lighting included. It can be done! We have the technology! I just need some guts.

He kind of died first though. Let's just mark that milestone as "pending".

Like a Lover's Voice Fires the Mountainside

It was dark, of course, as I wearily crept up the stairs and found my seat overlooking the stage. I watched tonight's band setting up gingerly in the dim gloom on that Thursday evening. The place was still empty but I knew the crowds would come. The long-weekend starts tomorrow after all and the week's passing deserves some music, some drinks, and some unsuppressed revelry. God knows I needed some of it, too, but the reason for tonight's romp was mostly foreign. My overseas sister flew in earlier this week and she's been craving for some live music, live 80's music.

Which was a happy coincidence considering we originally intended--and I originally hoped--to watch the wonderful local group SPIT for tonight. They canceled tonight's show though. So to save the evening's festivities and with the weight of 2 laptop bags slung over my shoulder, I stepped out of the office and slowly trudged towards those neon-light infused streets just a city block away. A few minutes later, I called the family up and told them, "Yes, they're playing 80's tonight." In the background, I heard my sister's squeal in delight rise above the cellphone static. I was glad for her, it was her night after all.

I also had an hour to burn before the show started, before the family could make it through the clogged Makati streets, and before I had to meet up my friend all the way back in Glorietta. So, I started walking towards the commercial district, started to join the faceless crowds marching home, and caught up with myself and how the week has been.

The week has been tiring. But this was welcome fatigue, a sort of cherished exhaustion that came for spending every second of your life doing something you knew would propel you forward. Something you knew would define your life in hindsight, something chapter-worthy, if you'd write an autobiography. This new chapter was about the new job.

The new job deserves some talk. It was exciting work since we were, even as developers, working so close to the front-lines(the marketing people talked to US). Our work had such a direct impact on the project, and the project itself is a behemoth of technologies, constantly growing in size and capabilities. We weren't attaching little diodes or fancy fenders to this thing either. We were building it from the ground-up, attaching the arms, legs and head to what will soon be an industry changer--at least that's what marketing says. I agree, but we still have a long way to go.

"We'll get there," I thought to myself as I tried to ignore the band starting to play downstairs and my sister gyrating inconspicuously in her seat next to me. I didn't know how I'll get there, what I'd be doing in the critical weeks thereafter, but I knew I just had to trust in my own strength, in the teams strength, and in fate who hasn't let me down yet.

And then they started playing my music, my music of all things. Of all places here, in the darkness, on a random Thursday night, beneath the swirl of the disco ball and glint of neon lights, among foreign foreigners and familiar family, in this nondescript bar in the middle of Makati, my song found me.

Life taught me something that night. We live like the nightclub anonymous, distant from the throb and hubbub on-stage as we drink our lonely drinks and forcefully drown the responsibilities, problems, issues we've left outside in the night. We may have friends with us on the table, people who relate, people who sympathize, who share our drink and our fears. We stare beyond the brim of icy glasses, at life in all it's whirling colors, in its upbeat rhythm, in its perpetual dancing, and think, "Why bother."

And then they play your song, and you can't help but stand, can't help but surrender to serendipity. You start to move with the beat, simply trust that it all leads somewhere worthwhile. The music consumes you, and you celebrate, even for a short while. You spin and spin on the temporary momentum of joy. We raise our glasses in the air, in defiance against transition, in challenge against change, and shout, "Why not?"

Life's a playlist. It may be long, and it may seem like it's set at random most of the time. But our song is there somewhere, and it'll play eventually, and it'll eventually all be alright. And definitely, it'll be fun.

a short intro

On my first day at work, the new boss asked me to write something up about myself. Sitting to my left, his eyes never leaving the flickering monitor, he said, "Be creative. Use pictures if you like. Just say what you want. Who is Dean?" Another developer, 2 seats to my right joined in, "Ayos lang yan, pinagawa rin niya yan sa akin (It's no big deal, he made me do it, too)." So I did, verbosely:

I guess the best way to start job introductions would be to say a little something about why I ended up here in the first place. So, I was exposed to computing at an early age. To put things in the proper perspective, this was a time when internet connections involved noisy modem beeps, Yahoo and Geocities ruled the scene, and floppies were a respectable means for data migration. I enjoyed it and so actively joined those random Computer clubs at school that really don't offer much education besides launching Carmen Sandiego and, if you're lucky, disassemble a pc.

My sister took up an IT course in college and I--getting my hands dirty in HTML, PC setup, and Diablo 2-- followed suit, taking up Computer Science in UP Manila. And I had a great time of it, working on little MP's that showed me how much is possible with the right algorithm. By then, I've also discovered how much I love to write, probably because I love to read as well. I think the programming knack is related to writing, since both attempt to communicate intangible concepts through words, though to entirely different audiences.

So there. I spend most of my time reading(current book is H.G. Wells' "Food of the Gods") and keeping tabs on multiple rss feeds clueing me in on emerging technologies. Currently, I think Android is a great bet since it's a lot more liberal in terms of what you can do with a mobile device. I feel that when I get better at it, I'll be able to create amazing things that are a lot more practical and wide-reaching. Instead of building applications that run in some random server in some dark corner of the world, I'll be building something that can improve, or even radically transform, the way people live.

And all this from finding the right words to tell the PC. That's why I'm a Software Engineer.

I thought it was a little too intense for introductions, a little too dramatic for your first hello. But I knew this was how I honestly felt. Just be honest; I remember how simple life could have been if I stayed true to myself in younger days. I'm going to follow my own advice this time.

I received a copy of my write-up later that day. He had sent it to the company-wide mailing list, with a brief messaging welcoming me to the fold. I feigned embarrassment. But the truth of the matter is, I was filled with pride. I hope everyone's first impression of the new kid on the block is: "The new guy's passionate, and literate, too."

trespassing

I envy some of my friends who wear camaraderie like a scarf: warmly, with a suggested fondness, and most of all, an unintended overlap of proximities. They fit the same profile: always light-hearted, in both they are unburdened, and in the attraction of other hearts lured by the light of their own. I've noticed they also style themselves in ragged shades of their own sudden vulnerabilities. And I think it is this unashamed truth of their own weaknesses, this tolerance for their all-too-real humanity, that reinforces the perceivable solace of their company, and the ease of their understanding, and ultimately, forgiveness.

Instead, I wear my friendship like a brooch: vagrant and adventurous, but always sparkling in novelty. I have no qualms trying something new or meeting someone new. There is adventure there and life should be filled with those. Except, when the occasion demands other requirements, when circumstances arrange themselves favorably towards our separation, friend and mine, I confess I grieve less than others. Worn after a fashion, seasonal, and I hold no grudges. But each one is special to me, kept in the dark, comfy, suede boxes. Hidden, but never forgotten. And at the turn of fate, sparkling in the light once more.

This is business embodied in personal relations, and I thought it was of the proper conduct. People, in their individuality, are commodities that I have no right to hoard. They have their own lives, own passions to burn out, to consume, and I should simply count myself lucky whenever their lives overlap mine. And in those temporary segments, when our lifelines converge, cross and intertwine for a time, I offer myself in whole and hope that when they propel themselves onward, in tangent, their momentum was partly mine.

Friendship, in a way, is shared movement. It's like a journey through the perambulating landscape of someone else's continuing story. I find it such an easy task, this befriending, because every meeting for me is like finding a new land to discover, to stumble around in, to learn from. But for true friendship to run its course, it would be better if I became less of the tourist passing through the rolling vistas of my friends' lives, and be more of the interim settler that trespasses, and lives there for a while, experiences the warmth and the seasons, then leaves a part of himself, like a seed of a tree, to add to the perpetually shifting horizon. To leave a lasting memento behind to be remembered by, something lovingly kept, aside from worn scarves and aged brooches.

an Exposition on Exasperation

A friend of mine has started talking to me again. He probably looked for me simply because the usual ears to his stories weren't around that day. Plus, I was leaving the company soon, so these remaining friendships should be rekindled somehow if they were to last the time and distance.

For a background, he's a really nice guy, a strange mix of panache and frankness that allows him to be forthcoming always and offending, never. A genuine altruist. Not simply because he is the friend of everyone, but because he subscribes to that word's truest(dictionary) meaning: a person unselfishly concerned for or devoted to the welfare of others. He never says no to any requests and he goes out of his way to cheer you up. The world would be better if there more guys like him, or at least there would be more smiles in the world.

The obvious drawback would be that there will always be those who take advantage of this, and that's how his sob story went. The details are irrelevant--and private, too--but what struck me was how matter-of-fact his anger was. He vented his frustration vocally and in a passive-aggressive manner of the worst kind. Though the guy deserved it, I couldn't help but cringe as he narrated every snide remark and banter.

I've encountered emotions like this before, and the pacifist--wuss?--in me would, time and time again, come up with some superfluous counter-argument: maybe he was naive or socially inept? maybe the guy had family issues? maybe he had diarrhea? And facing those stunned, hurt eyes after each admonishment put my constant positivity in its place: a quiet and accommodating place.

But the rankling confused me. Though I've seen people mad so many times, I still have yet to understand why. Of course, they tell me the reasons behind their acrimony, but what confounds me is: Why do they bother?

Nursing a hot temper is a purely destructive and inward effort--lonely, too. Still, I understand that emotions can't be controlled and, in those times, I wholly agree to heartfelt outrage. I just thought that, with age, people would be calmer about these things. I mean, aren't our grandparents such wonderful examples of calmness and genteel repose? What's so different from the vantage point of 60 years ahead of us?

I submit my humble theory: In life, there are only two things that people should exert effort for, and that is the pursuit of each of their individual happiness-es, and cleaning up the mess afterwards. Imagine what could happen if you channel all your passion, all your energy, and funnel it into your heart's desire. Where would you be now? How little does all else look when compared to that vision of how happy you could be?

Maybe that's what lola and lolo had in their heads. When death is imminent and time is a dwindling commodity, they let go of all else that could bring them down too. Free themselves from those baggages--rude jeeps, insolent kids, crazy governance--and just hold on fervently to those things that are so much more meaningful: grandkids, pancakes, and another morning.

I told my friend to just chill. He asked me if he overdid it, and I said he didn't, but he shouldn't try a stunt like that again. Cheer-up instead! Smiling is such a powerful--and mostly unexpected--act in any altercation. And most of the time, the one with the grin is the one that comes out ahead.

consummate

I just found(and shortly bought) the last hardbound box set of Harry Potter at the relatively new National Bookstore at Glorietta 5. Wow, finally, I did it, commissioned by me 8 years ago!

Back in 4th year high school, our Guidance class--a class in which we talked about our feelings and self-discovery voodoo without any social backlash since the teacher was so frightfully lovable and who's very smile encouraged nice-ness and other Carebear emotions--had a special final project for us seniors to tackle: a scrapbook.

Yep, the typical "look back on ye' trodden path and remember lest ye' stumble" kind of scrapbook that was meant to manifest in photos and paraphernalia what the last 4 years meant to us. And true enough, come submission day, our teacher was treated to the milieu of mixed media memories.

Some of the kids didn't really take it seriously. When a project that involved "using your imagination" gets pitched, they tend to interpret it as "wing it". This produced a lovely collection of crap-books: clear-books stuffed with random, haphazard doohickeys that looked like Exhibits A thru Z of some crazed pickpocketing spree at the local thrift store. Not even an explanation to be found as you browse page by page, junk by junk. They pretty much just bought the clear-book, stuffed each leaf with whatever was within arms reach, and slapped a name on the front cover. Done in less than 5 minutes--including buying the actual book.

There were also those who took it to heart. They went elaborate, eked out their history through amateur typography and brightly colored Elmer's glue--t'was the rage--and brought out the last of the stash of glitter to be enjoyed by any brave enough to peruse and be a little glittery too afterwards.

Mine was done in one sleepless night. I bought a scrapbook and some paper to stick stuff to and some tape to stick stuff with and was deciding where I stand between the two extremes: make it pretty but get it over with so I can play Final Fantasy Tactics on the Playstation already.

I, as you may have inferred, did not play Final Fantasy Tactics on the Playstation that night. It could have been the overly bright blue construction paper, or the exposure to too many dust-bunnies while hunting for the right snapshot, or the effluvium of the then seemingly witty humor(mostly puns). Whatever it was, I started having fun.

It surprised me how fulfilling it felt to piece together those 4 years and make a story out of it. And best of all, someone would actually care to read it. It was vanity that fueled me that night. And I discovered scrapbook making for the selfish hobby it really is, when so much effort is placed to preserve memories only you can truly appreciate.

I worked relentlessly on it, and when it was done, I knew I've made something I'd cherish for a long time. Out of my own hands, a wonderful gem of self-expression.

I added a final note to the scrapbook, a sort of anticipative footnote that was to remind of the things I held most dear then: Harry Potter(Sorcerer's Stone just came out) and my mp3's(meticulously siphoned from a younger internet, scourging Napster, Anipike, AudioGalaxy, Kazaa, and ultimately Limewire). Mp3's were meant to be kept while the Harry Potter series was meant to be bought once I've found the means, once I've found a job that afforded me the currency for my every wish, once I had that magical credit card to swipe with.

Today is the day I fulfilled that aging dream--and at 3 months 0% interest, t'was a bargain!

At The Cusp of It

Macky and I caught up with each other finally, rekindling the wonderful hour we shared in that dark shuttle that connected where we worked and where we lived. On any other given night, I would have spent my free hours whiling away at the gym, and heading home terribly late on those notorious buses that seemed driven by the very Wind. But tonight, thanks to a disagreeable ham and peperoni sandwich, I resigned my uneasy self home.

And we talked and talked, as old friends are wont to do when separated for too long, and one of the things I told Macky--or confessed, since conversations with those bestest closest friends are always about the mundane yet somehow always turn brutally honest and introspective--was how I wasn't really feeling this new PC game.

It was an OK game. Cutesy graphics, a bit of the RPG theme in there, and most of all, lots of extravagant magic effects--which I am such a sucker for. "But," I told Macky. "I couldn't bear playing it. There was so much effort to remain interested." He said it was all to do with maturing, and I nodded. True that, but I confessed further how it didn't play out exactly that way--so to speak.

"I thought maturing, the growing out of games, was because of the growth in standards. Perhaps my more aged, experienced tastes demanded a compelling plot, elaborate visuals, something with a richer, deeper, more resounding experience. But, no. In this case, what killed my interest was entirely different. Instead, I felt that I was wasting my time on this. I wondered whether I'm going to earn money out of this? Will this help my career? I felt really guilty having fun and I think I lost my innocence a little bit."

We laughed about it at the time. Serious topics demanded a rueful chuckle as is customary between us.

We met a week later. On the same darkened ride, on the same intermediary route, we caught up again with each other. And there was much to catch up to. We had been quite busy.

He had just come back from Japan, a trip that started inconspicuously enough from one of Cebu Pacific's budget promos. He's always wanted to see Japan, and 5 months later he did, more of it than even I have. And he had such stories, about how great it was and how great everything is coming along and how great everything was once he got back. I had stories too. I was getting a new job. I told him how things were changing right now and how much change waits ahead and how much better it was all going to be.

There was so much in store for us two. For the moment, we were but humble commuters riding on the back of public transportation, squished into badly-lit compartments with fellow squishy commuters, faceless. But tomorrow, who knows? We might be the next modern moguls, fated magnates or even the tycoons of tomorrow. We will be known by our surnames, emblazoned on street corners, and mentioned when someone asks "Who owns that building?" Our children will be spoiled, but smart and wholly intact thanks to the best education money can buy. We will be the fodder of tabloids, the target of tax-hounds, and we'll be quiet in our mansions, far-above the reach of sensationalism and controversy.

We just had to stay on track. 2010's just started, and yet so much needs to be done. No wonder I felt guilty idling the time, I was riding a surging wave. So much momentum has been invested, and I've found myself at the cusp of it. It'd only take a little to fall off the brink, and yet there's so much promise waiting beyond the pregnant horizon.

So much to lose and so much to gain, life's so much more exciting than a video game--the effects really suck though.

Apples-A-Day

Don't they say it's a healthy habit to regularly look for new jobs--once a year at least? It's the professional equivalent of the apple-a-day rule, and just as neglected. Well, I, almost 3 years-strong at my current job, finally took to the streets and answered the call. But truth be told, I was going there for a lot of reasons. The most truthful of which I haven't told my family, Joms, or even the interviewer--though he did ask.

When I said "answered the call", I meant literally. Blindsided during the afternoon lull when digestion reigned and work crawled, stopped, and slept in several places, I got a call from a pleasantly voiced lady named Clave. She politely offered that I have been endorsed for a technical interview and that they hoped I could stop by tonight to start things along.

I was wearing a bright fuchsia--I googled the correct spelling several times and have now memorized it, grudgingly--collared-shirt, dark jeans, and gray sneakers. I was decently clothed, my shirt fit me quite well, but was by no means prepared for an actual interview. Plus, I had a Rudolph going on from all the accumulated late nights, and my mess of a hair was quite rabid that day.

I said I couldn't make it--next week-Monday at the earliest--but changed my tune when I thought about it a little more. One, I don't have to dress-up. No more need to go through that retarded office drama when everyone notices your unconventionally dapper look and chide "Nax, interview?" Two, I'm not exactly super-psyched to get this job. On the contrary, this is more of a diagnostic than an actual committal. And Three, I was wearing fuchsia--memorable is always a good trait to have in an interview.

So I went/walked from Makati commercial, past 6750, through Locsin and Shang, weaved past the home-journers and found myself with Lapu-Lapu. He bravely stood there. He could afford it, he's not heading to a shotgun interview across the street. With an icy tingle down my spine, I traversed the crossroads: cleanly clothed, a bit ruffled from walking, but with a bit of the optimistic gleam in the eye. Swell.

I met Clave after a I've had the leisure of observing their wooden motif and corporate ambiance. She said hello and reminded me to stay on my toes. This is a technical interview after-all. I panicked a bit and pulled out my trusty laptop, and looked up some more stuff they probably won't ask me but would help calm my nerves.

We finally talked, Joel and I, inside their consistently decorated glass-and-wood conference room, tastefully dimmed a dull yellow while the sky grew darker outside. He looked respectable in his blue-checkered shirt. He was also quite friendly, his hair tossed around casually and a bit of the stubble suggested a relaxed demeanor. But he was definitively smart as, decisively, he ran through my resume. I quickly learned we were mismatched.

He was techie, knowledgeable and condoning. Catch is, I was applying for the job to do a little something he didn't have anything at all to do with. He said it was hush-hush, so he'll just ask me the fundamentals. In retrospect, it was actually a fun interview. It feels really nice to talk with someone in your field who is more competent than you but just as equally enthused. Makes you feel, in the truest sense of the word, professional.

We concluded, and he asked me time-frame and asking salary. I proposed the humble 30-day notice, and the brazen 2x modifier. "Negotiable!" I recanted after he wrote it down. Looking at the paper, his writing looked like an appended note to a car estimate. I bulked, smiled, and reduced, citing that I don't want to come across as over-confident.

I walked out of there, remembering what I said about diagnostics and healthy careers. But I guess the snag in ocular inspections is when you see something you like. And, walking alone down the length of Makati Avenue, I afforded myself to dream a little dream where I would walk this very street every weekday with that salary in my pocket and a slick suit on to wow the ladies and charm the gents.

It is a nice dream, but that wasn't the reason I was searching elsewhere. I said in the interview I was looking to develop my skills strategically in their company--which means gimme Java--but the heart of the matter is: I am disillusioned.

There was a time when I loved NEC. And the epitome of that dream would be to be assigned to Japan for a period: a few months, 2 years, 'til I've developed Stockholm syndrome. But when it did happen, when I was at the very cusp of it, I realized I can't have that anymore. I had other priorities now that must be weighed when it comes to indefinite out-of-country transits, and they mostly weigh against.

Knowing this, I wasn't unhappy. But being in a company where I know the best it can offer, the best opportunities to be had, are now unattainable, that broke my heart. To avoid conflicts of interest, I must forever be moderate, satisfactory, menial, conventional.

I found myself in a race I can't afford to win. So I'm just walking now, down the length of another city avenue, wondering what the doctor would say with my professional malaise. More apples?

Peremptory Diagnosis

prolegomenon: This is an old post, dated September 2009, and was written when I just came back from the exhausting, yet ameliorating Cebu project, freshly displaced and looking for a breather. My dad's condition was already apparent as the post will clarify, and, as most of you know the events that proceeded 3 months later, made it a quite difficult for me to publish this finally. Dad's 40th day was a week ago, and, though we all miss him, we do his memory honor simply by remembering.

- - -

Yesterday wasn't exactly the best day of my life. I woke up to an onslaught of sniffles and racking coughs, followed immediately by the memory of my professional paradox: no work at work. I turned over in bed and let the radio announce 6 am with a religious shout of Stephen Speaks. Somewhere in those sheets and pillows, I decided I'll be doing myself and my health a favor by staying in for the day--as previously advised. I knew what was happening at work now anyway, which was meh, and I thought I needed a break. My mom of course tries to wake me up and gets a little over-concerned about my managed malaise, which is to be expected.

I texted work of course, a few minutes before 10, let Joms know the restive state of things, and swapped texts with a new friend I met at a pool party last weekend. Andy was sleeping in for the day, too, enjoying the boons of a 10-day leave. I texted back it was a rest day for me too, but I'll probably head out later that night for some gym and to hunt for a printer-server for mom's new fax/scan/xerox/intimidate Epson printer. Just errands and habits for today, nothing stressful, nothing worth staggered heartbeats.

My mom steps into the room after lunch though, starting a conversation with me with absolute disregard for the earphones I was wearing and the episode of Big Bang Theory playing on the laptop. "We're going to Manila Doctors to have your dad checked," she said, "Would you like to come along?"

The dutiful son in me took full control of my faculties and said yes, confirmed the departure time and the hospital. Good thing someone did because in my head alarms were whirring and the single question in my head was "Why Now?" It was selfish and self-centered of me to weigh my rest-day against my dad's welfare, but I can't help feel somewhat cheated. I mean, how come I get told about this check-up when I was conveniently at home?

But truly, I was quite scared. Dad's been looking sickly these last few days, but still responsive. His widening girth though made his cirrhosis quite apparent, and I thought they had it checked already. They did, 3 years ago, give or take a few months. I was flabbergasted, but instead of roaring at my parents, I instead just went along with it.

I wasn't home for 4 months and it wasn't mine to judge how they set their priorities and their needs. What was important is that I'm here now and at least we can do this together, like a family should.

furthering

I've never felt further now than I've ever been far away before. Distance, though, is not the best measure of progress. And no matter how tiring it was, how tiny and insignificant the past has become here at the edge of horizon, how endless the tracks I've made seem in hindsight, I still can't say I have moved up in the world.

Which is entirely my fault. I am the captain of my ship after all.

I guess to sum things up: I feel in myself an unwholesome difference. Sure, I've grown a tad more cunning at what I do, I've become devious navigating the hazardous straits of the urban-everyday, and some morals were sacrificed, renewed, and edified along the way. I've grown truly, it's just I've grown in a manner that feels somehow unsuitable. I'm leading a race I didn't know I wanted to win.

The bulk of the change relies wholly on my newfangled rule: if you want it, nothing else matters. It's not even ground-breaking. It's been said before, in the clever ways of the pedantic and the straight-forward-no-bull manner of the truly wise. But, it really does work. Elbow grease, time, freshly earned cash, all these things consumable when funneled and directed into exactly where you want to be, what you want to be, changes the universe.

But, here's the catch, ladies and gentlemen. Suppose you do exert every and all means to get from point A to that greener point B across the fence, laying in your wake devastation, disappointment, and, dare I say it, denial. For what? What could ever be so important that everything else falls away, so brilliantly mesmerizing we forget everything else that used to matter and, like moths, figuratively burn-out.

Love, I suppose--something old, and something awfully spectacular, and definitely epic. They don't say "fall in love" just because they can. It really is like falling, further and further down the rabbit hole.

I do it willingly though. Bottomless as the abyss may seem, it's really not that scary. I know someone is down there waiting to catch me. I just hope it's soon.

sifting

She's a mess(I call my home PC, May, for reasons I forget) and her desktop is a milieu of download scraps, photos yet to be uploaded, and my mom's Popcap games--how they got there, I can only fear for. So I worked stolidly with her, moving this and clearing that but mostly deleting most of it. Random pictures, the occasional unknown setup file, and zounds of scanned materials of objectionable nature disappeared with every button press.

But as I went on, it got harder and harder to press 'Delete'. It almost felt that I wasn't cleaning anymore. Instead, I was severing a limb I've forgotten how to use. It was so much easier outside the borders of my LCD screen, here in the real world where the old shoes and worn shirts can be replaced by better, brighter purchases off of the shelves. But here, inside her, in that olden heart of hers I've kept hidden the tatters, scraps, paraphernalia of who I am through the years. It was a virtual scrapbook of what I've been up to:

A few gigs of scanned japanese comics(just slightly intelligible now after JLPT), mish-mash of music lovingly and randomly found, voluminous applications for work and play, documents and records of college life and how hard and fruitful it's been, and in the darkness, neatly folded among digital shadows, assorted media for more banal pursuits whose size, though unmeasured, can only be felt like a hulking iceberg in the mists.

But of them all, the most prized are my pictures. Photos upon photos of everyone and everything and I can't help but feel sorry for what wonderful fleeting moments escaped the eyes of the camera's lens. There's so much joy, sorrow, guilt, and excitement consuming me and my memories and my nostalgia. In here, friends are still friends, loved ones are still breathing, and the smiles never fade.

And it is a wonderful thing, to have do this errant job every now and then, to sift through the debris of yesteryear's and uncover the beaten path, the long, sometimes lonesome, other times taxing, route we forged through the wild landscape of life--and somehow survived. I am looking at who I was and I am proud. And as I turn and look at who I will be, I am thrilled. The journey was long and longer still, but remembering and finding that pride in the strength, that constant wind that carried us through all these years, and believing that there's still yet more to offer, to spend, and to light the darkest nights and to warm the coldest emptiness, is nourishing.

Only time will tell where we end up in the future. But from the looks of my detritus, it'll be awesome--albeit, cluttered, and a bit raunchy.