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.