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.

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.