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.

unburdensome

I've gotten used to wakes. There's always one if you had the mind to look for it. With enough friends, you'll always be invited to one. After a certain age, you'll always be begrudged to attend. And being the kind of guy with lots of friends, lots of old relatives, and who's also part of a certain chorale-by-the-coffin type of choir, I've seen my fair share. And yet, being the guy in white, the guy that's learned the fine art of sleeping on monobloc chairs, the guy who's now receiving all the condolences, I have to admit the view from the other side is quite unexpected.

For one, I didn't know that there's a clock ticking once the last breath escapes. Also, I didn't have any funeral parlors on speed dial. I have yet to get used to hospital officials quietly referring to my dad, prefaced by a guarded pause, as "expired". There was no time to grieve, it almost felt like a luxury to sit in a corner and worry how much life would change and how much one has lost after such a tragedy. The real tragedy is how the world still turns, albeit bleaker and darker.

But the funny thing is, death, with its uncompromising constancy and unwavering finality, seems to elicit from people unexpected kindnesses and a sort of tacit expansion of acceptance and patience. All is forgiven for the grieving; all is tolerated for the bereft.

For someone, like myself, who likes standing on his own feet, who never capitulates to unbidden charity, who humbles himself into thinking that the kind efforts of friends are better spent on someone poorer, weaker, needier than himself, the experience of being lifted up by the warm outstretched arms of bosom buddies and family bound by blood is freeing.

I've lived my life and built my relationships around the ideal that what I owe my dear acquaintances is my conscious effort to be low-maintenance, facile. It ain't so bad on the other side after all.

To all who visited the wake, the blood-donors, or even just those who texted/messeged/ym-ed/pm-ed: thank you. I owe my calmness and so much more to all of you, thank you.

looking back, looking forward

A friend of mine got his planner today. It's the Starbucks one, the one everyone keeps dissing since we all remember how great a deal it was before. The one that had its "buy 1-take 1" stubs replaced with monthly discounted coffee bags. The one that isn't leather anymore. The one that grew pale and drowned in the inundated market of mimicry and sticker-books from shifty competition. The one we look at, contemptuous, from the perspective of the past and whisper quietly to the nouveau coffee-fiends, "We've seen better."

But, to my friend, it didn't seem so shoddy. It was tastefully packaged in red, wrapped in thin muslin, precious and new and so full of blank pages brimming with invisible opportunities. To him, it was his first planner, the catalogue-to-be of his first year at work, recorder of the dream that is his life right now.

And maybe that's the truth in all things that shift and change in the river that is the life we all live. That in our flawed humanity we, in our ingrained disdain for failure and disappoint, tend to focus unconsciously upon the lost endings instead of burgeoning beginnings. We get so obsessed in the should, we make the mistake of missing all that could.

We fascinate ourselves, I think, with the horse's mouth's every detail in the utter folly and misplaced faith that all of life's unintended prizes lies within them an explanation, a rationale on why we're so fortunate or unfortunate. I say rub its neck, listen to her whiny in consent, claim her and journey further into the mysterious valleys destiny has to offer.

Room 912

At last, at long last, I am heading back to Manila again. For a moment there, I thought I never would. Not because I couldn't go home, or because some part of me wanted to stay, it was just because time passes strangely in room 912 at the 9th floor of the Mita Kokusai Building. In ground zero, there was no concept of days. The shades were all drawn up against the sun and Tokyo Tower's shadow. The only measure of time was the occasional chime and, more indicatively, the constant tick-tock of weariness. And though it was an office to most, for the managers and the people with the burden of responsibility tying them down, it was also their bedroom. their transitional quagmire for the course of their stay.

But I'm a few miles apart from it now, and furthering. I'm being thoughtful on the last transfer to Narita Airport. This Keisei line will be taking its time stopping at every station in between and I have about 60 minutes to appreciate the view and finally wind down, finally get the chance for some much delayed retrospection.

And I could say now that it wasn't such an awful time--joining this much-bemoaned mission-impossible project the Japanese managers are hurling warm bodies at. Though it definitely wasn't any fun either, or at all something I'd jump into again, no. It's a lot like your first take at sex. It's such an awkward affair at first though you know theres a lot to be appreciated as it goes on but you can't because your trying so hard to get it right. Your partner, of course, depends on you and your performance. Extend that feeling over a month and you pretty much have an idea of how my stay has been--though I had to use an orgy-at-work metaphor to do it, but it kinda works out.

The next time, I'll be prepared, learning from all the terrible mistakes of this stay. Namely, being more available and consciously avoiding the tendency to shut-out the world and shut the pain in. I do that a lot, bearing everything on my own on the noble intention to lessen the burden of others. But looking out at the expanse of blue skies and small, quaint Japanese homes dotting the docile countryside as my train passes by, I have to conclude there's a lot of good in the world and whatever tortures I endure I could just as easily share and, in turn, dissipate into that calm immensity.

I was such a wreck last week. I get the work done, but wow, it felt like I wanted to barf my rotting soul and watch it fester in the gutter. Things were happening back home that I was trying to handle along with the pressures here and I wasn't a happy trooper about it. I just tried to get by day-by-day, task-to-task, dream-to-dream and thought I couldn't afford to talk to people and risk discovering another mishap, another problem, another concern.

But talking helps, to anyone. Vocalizing concerns and risking discovering more with someone is a hell of a lot lighter than alone, curled up in the darkness of my unheated hotel room. In the end, that's what kept me sane in room 912. Who knows when I'll be back there again or which dark, distant place I'll find myself stranded in, but, as my Japanese senior Hasegawa-san advised, I'm bringing something with me to make me stronger(with flashy hand movements, he suggested a bazooka). I'm dropping by Manila for it: the renewal of friendships forgotten and love denied.

the Garden of My Dreams

Autumn visits my garden tonight. She bears a mantle, rouged and bloody, and in her wake the trees weep bitter leaves. She glides with purpose through the untended grass and sets her steely gaze upon my two prized trees.

Her eyes fall upon an ornate tree straddling the eastern most edge of the grove, where the gliding branches stretch out to salute the sun first among his leafy brethren. She pauses and allows her eyes to take everything in: the dizzying height and lofty grandeur of the tree, its dark, rigid, uncompromising bark, the delicate leaves that seem to just barely hang-on in mid-air. She imagines this tree blossom in its ripest season with eruptions of varied fruit of myriad colors, the buds explode and sparkle with bright lights and scatter an aroma of a distant alien sweetness, while the branches sway and creak a strange language among themselves.

Autumn's face is grim, cold, yet endowed with a certain serenity borne out of constancy. She keeps her facade, as she averts her gaze and lets her lashes blink a sudden eternity, before they part and unveil the vista of my second prize.

He sits in the heart of my garden, and his massive girth speaks of his roots that have permeated the very being and soul of this garden. His boughs widen and curl around and twist to shield a swath of soft grass underneath, then curl downwards to embrace the very earth. His complicated branch-work is strewn with the greenest leaves and plenty of fattened fruit that is easily picked and ripe not unlike blessings from the gods. In his core is a hollowed retreat shielded from the cold wind and the harsh world where one could fall asleep tuning into the ebb, flow and warmth of his rich sap.

She approaches each and touches them briefly with an open palm and fingers splayed. She communes. And at once she sees the toil and tragedy that beset and have been overcome by these mighty giants. The earth they've grown from is rich with my blood, sweat and tears and it has only strengthened them further and made them greater, memorials of great deeds, terrible sacrifice and grand rewards.

And suddenly she turns back, and before the crimson curls of her hair settle, as her face gazes away to other gardens, the trees shake, and tremble and the leaves spark and catch fire and the garden's usual mist parts in this wild blazing of treetops. Leaves, now tinder, rain down and form bloodied pools of murky red, the remains of what was once verdant, now dead.

This is autumn in the garden of my dreams. The trees know of this story, ingrained in their very fiber: seasons come and seasons will go. But this time, this moment, for these two monoliths, the warm seasons, their fairness and enriching presence, may never come. For it is not change but, instead, judgement that visits tonight, and now there may be no more blossoms, no more green shoots, no more clear morning dew or fragrant hush. For these two dreams, planted earnestly and nurtured with good intentions for long days and longer nights, there may be no waking.

And I weep for it, for them, for myself, as Autumn's cadence becomes distant. I continue to weep, and my mangled heart prays to whoever is listening, to whoever cares, to whoever at all, that Spring will be more merciful. In the coal-black remains and strewn and streaming bark, I plant the fragile seedlet of hope and water it with my tears.

takeout

We stood around, underneath the twinkling lights of Tokyo Tower waiting for tonight's dinner. It was a humble one this time, not the usual 2-train-stops-away ramen, nor the once-a-week karaage(fried chicken) that we always look forward to at the end of the day. Instead, tonight we set our palettes to simpler tastes and more practical appetites. We dine on take-out bento this evening, the one in front of our office, the one you eat when you're in a hurry, too much rice and too little meat, pedestrian.

But we have to since we started running low on funds, a direct consequence of an unscheduled project extension and unforeseen hotel charges. This 390 yen bento meal will be the first and last thing I'll be eating today. The excessive rice should fill me right up after the long, productive day we had today.

I've been dreaming of the tender, succulent meat I'd bite into since I sipped my budget McDonald's milkshake this morning across a man biting deep into his steaming Big Mac. The wafting smell of the precisely cooked patty would keep me going while we tried our best to comprehend our boss' rapid, but still polite, requests.

The freshly prepared vegetables would be crispy and tell my tastebuds of the green fields where they were picked and the morning dew that would collect upon their leaves. I'd feel them burst in my mouth while I concentrated on finishing the assigned test items I should complete quickly, and precisely.

The katsudon's golden shell would easily break open between my teeth and from them escape flavorful juices and an aroma of the fires of the kitchen and the richness of the earth. And on I rapidly got everything done and headed out of the test site for home, stopping by this bento place to catch our breath and realize slowly the day is over.

We stopped by the office with our boss and bento to wait for tomorrow's instructions. We sat around our desks and I carefully pried upon my dinner. The rubber band twanged brightly with a pull and as the clear lid came off, an invigorating aroma freed itself and settled in the room. It was beautiful, the golden breaded fish slathered in its teriyaki sauce would be a joy to sink my teeth into. The vegetables were cheerfully placed on the side while a layer of fresh nori covered the rice underneath the fish. And, oh, how the rice glistened.

Hasegawa-san, our boss, stooped over the table and suddenly dropped a sizable chunk of karaage and said he was watching his weight. I wondered if this was a Japanese custom first, then bit into the tender chicken and knew it also embodied gratitude for a job well done. Unlike all the other nights I spent so much and travelled so far to find the culinary delights that Tokyo promised and our overworked bodies deserved, tonight my stomach will dine a pauper, but inside me now dwells a heart that knows the satisfaction of kings.

Let's Pretend

The solace of the night is something I seek often. A good friend of mine who shared this fascination put it simply that we're "night people": heightened productiveness and an unearthly wakefulness as the moon climbs through the sky. "Something biological," he says, "and nothing more." when we were once kids stealing a few more hours before sleep to do things I could only justify as youthful exuberance then.

Thoroughly enjoying a plane flight is also one of my unexplained quirks. Most people would get all giddy at simply the thought of arriving, but I enjoy the journey more than the destination in this case, as the old adage goes. The first few times, it was simply because I've never ridden a plane before, and then it was because I've never ridden in this particular plane before, or lately, I've never ridden a plane this often before. The novelty didn't die as it should once I've memorized the flight protocols and that funny hand gesture the stewards always use for exits. It didn't.

And being older has a habit of unmasking those parts of us we forgive as idiosyncrasies. There is a root to all things, it says somewhere, one must simply have the nerve to dig deep and live with what he's buried and forgotten for himself.

I dug, all those nights that I holed up in my room, and all those red-eyed hops among clouds, and somewhere in the linens and the trails of stars, I understood but had yet to confront why. But tonight is a night for revelation. I'm 24 and the world as I know it is changing, is darker, stormier(literally), and pretty much no play-land anymore. I can't afford to be ignorant anymore. I can't afford to pretend anymore. Because that's what I've been doing all along, in the 4 walls of my room or on the gilded wings of airplanes.

I play this wonderful game in planes, you should try it. You can get away with a lot when your anonymous, and it's easy to be nobody on a plane full of passengers. What you do is, you pretend to be yourself on plane. Not just you right now, that's boring. You, for the extent of the trip, are the richer, successful, all-around bad-ass version of yourself you hope to be soon. Dress up, be pompous. Frown at the overly enthusiastic kids with the camera at the back row if you're snooty in your head. Read a thick book and leave the personal light on when you want people to consider you this smart, young thing that's going places. Grab your bags and hand-carry's like you're going somewhere like Europe, like you're important, distinguished, a necessary member of society. When people talk to you, feign an effected humility the accomplished wear around themselves when they know they've done it all and there's nothing more to say.

Pretend in the middle of the night, in the loneliness you share with only yourself, that the world is only here in this room and that unreasonable place outside your door is unimportant, irrelevant, moot. You watch the world through the eyes of your computer monitor and you are but a spectator, a critic. Your opinion reigns here and the night wind whispers no refusals. With only pillows as your mute witnesses, you can be whoever it is you really are when no one is looking, when all things are forgiven, when the shape of this temporary world curves upon your own.

The moon will descend and the plane will follow suit. All things must end and no darkness, no dizzying altitudes can escape the truth of the world. I look forward to it, the day I am who I am and that guy's one helluva guy. And just as much, I dread the end of my innocence. It's soon, I'll grab my luggage from the conveyor and walk out the airport, I'll step out for breakfast and rub my sleep-crusted eyes, and realize, I haven't changed at all.