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.

Red Flag

I'm of a strange mood tonight. It could be about a number of things. It could be because of this tenacious case of the colds that punctuates my every motion with a disease-ridden sniff. Possibly, it might be because of a debilitatingly embarrassing pimple inconveniently/strategically/comically spawned right beneath my leaky nostrils. It could also be because of the sound beating I got while playing Dissidia a while ago. But I know the real culprit here is a great deal more damning. It's by his merit that my resume sits on-screen on the desktop across the room, and on this document's stark blacks and unforgiving whites is the issue brought forward.

Today, I planned on ditching work. The aforementioned colds wasn't as lonely last night when it was merrily joined by fits of racking coughs. Over warm lomi and burgers at the only local branch of Mushroom Burger, Joms advised me a day to recuperate. I said I'd be alright, in spite of a headache and a spreading blush across my complexion, and sipped my warm lomi gingerly.

"You don't have anything to do tomorrow so you might as well take the time to rest," insisted Joms. I slurped, tissued, and looked at him straight, "That's true, but that's even more reason for me to be at work tomorrow. If there's going to be new work assigned, a new project to join, I'd like to be there to hear it."

I went home early that night, 9pm, which is early by our standards. And I slept at 10, unprecedented, by my standards. I looked forward to whatever this week will bring, seeing as it started off splendidly on a holiday and had only 4 more rewarding work days to go.

And it was a going to be a great start to a week. I finally decided on a name for my pet project and successfully grabbed the appropriate domain and completed a sort-of proof of concept. A great milestone for me and my future and today was pretty much set to be a great day for me. But my premonition held true for that day and it came in the form of our Japanese manager looking to have a short talk with us.

He was a bit hasty, though polite. In a word, he seemed edgy like most Japanese are when beset by a deadline or a major decision. This was the latter, a decision that isn't his to make but ours. We were offered to be sent back to Cebu, which from the previous experience wasn't a bad notion at all. But according to him, if I understood his understandable, though disjointed, english correctly, meant we'd be staying for a much longer period and for a much less tempting incentive.

Extremely minuscule, at about 10% of the previous arrangement, the new salary augmentation was next to spare change compared to our previous compensation. Plus, it's 4 times longer at the projected minimum of 2 years. And, no more free flights back. As the Japanese boss said it before, "Cebu is your final home."

We were a group, the five of us, who came back recently from Cebu and were now asked whether the returning was at the least, worth a second thought. There were more and they shared the consensus, and the consensus wasn't agreeable. Personally, I think it's a workable deal, but because of the time factor, I really can't join this time around.

The thing that broke me down was the casual mentioning, and horrible realization, of a fear of mine that has lurked ever since we booked the flight heading back to Manila: there are no new projects in Manila. Even if we chose to stay, we didn't have anything to do here either. In a business viewpoint, this is the company's way of validating our employment. And if we don't bite, we are, in the extremest and most cynical case I can imagine, expendable.

So tonight, I open my aging resume and tweak, stylize and subtly exaggerate the accomplishments of 2 years. I wonder half-consciously what I should wear to the interviews, if I should shoot for that formal-attired work I lust for, and if I'd settle for a plain-clothes company if that was the only one available. I wondered how much of a salary bump I should say yes to, how much my salary has grown and I project will grow in the next year if I stay, and if I deserve more.

I feel kinda derailed and, though I'm not scared, I am disconcerted. Stability is a fickle commodity in these trying times.

Over the phone, Joms asked me how I can leave the company I purportedly love. "When the office fails to find something for you to work on, that's not a good sign," I said. If they can't justify your employment, you have to make sure you have options. "I know a red flag when I see one," I concluded.

A Schemer with Good Intentions

I've always wondered about the ways of the universe. If she, it always does seem so much grander to imagine nature as daughters of Eve, were a person, I'd think she'd be this beautiful presence that floated far above everyone. She would be distant yet conspicuous, like a glow of a distant star, cloud 9, or the assuring presence of the clear sky. She'd be easily obscured and forgotten when the lights of the city blind us and the heights of civilization suffocate us. But she will always be there, a being of a will, though imperceptible, that stretches and ties together each and every one of us. A schemer with good intentions is how I'd picture a God would be.

And the schemer's schemes came to fruition last night, in another random happenstance, in some form of aleatory serendipity. I came from a fabulous party where it seemed everyone I met were people I should, if life could be grander, have met before. It was a party of a friend of mine, though I still think I don't have it in me to earn in my life such precious things, who celebrated his birthday in one of the many lofty floors of Linden Suites, Ortigas. He, like me, had a different bent when it came to relationships. And like me and him, had stories to tell and adventures to recount, but he had a richer life and such humbling experiences that he banked on these things and made these stories public--online. This availability to the populace made him... popular, and his party was peopled with the famous and the fabulous.

But it wasn't about the glamor at all, it was the fact that I was in a room filled with people who were also... bent, so to speak. It was awkward at first, as most social things go, as strangers repelled each other and moped behind their wine glasses, among acquintances and empty humor. But unlike parties I've been to, the underlying commonness among us won out eventually and I got to meet people wonderful not just because they really are, but because we could talk about our strangeness. And, even for a single night, fully display its fantastic shade not against the prejudiced and unforgiving blacks and whites of society, but among the argent, gules and azure strokes, and vert, sable and sanguine tinctures of our varied personae. We were different, but in being together, we found our uniqueness a quality to celebrate. We brandished our coats of arms and reveled in it. Being stuck in that room, I found out I was special not just because of my predilections and preferences, but simply because I was who I am.

I've always been comfortable about being gay. But last night taught me that that wasn't all there is to know about me. In that wonderful, rare place where gay is the norm, I was still special after all. A swan in a flock of ducks would think himself unique simply because of his separate lineage. But in the sky among fellow swans, only there can one truly see how far he can fly, truly see beyond the feathers and discover the uniqueness tucked away in the heart.

And among these many meetings, a few stood out brighter in the evolving portrait of the party. Star-crossed, much like moons and stars whose orbits and trajectories align once and for a moment share energy, momentum and what other magical things science has yet to discover, I met old strangers again. And in the time between our first meetings, and last night's auspicious circumstances, these amazing strangers became my amazing friends. "Meant to be," I'd say more often now than ever.

Until the next time you pull your invisible strings and send me to another unknown joy, I'll live everyday knowing life has something more to offer, oh lofty universe. As I said out loud last night with all my heart, more towards the cynics of the world than to the people I was talking to, "Life is Good."

Photo: via Mountain Gull Trading Company
BGM: Nakajima Ai - Neko Nikki(Cat's Diary) from Macross Frontier

Sitting Down

He was sitting down as he reached for the phone and dialed my number, breathing in the air thick with office-chatter and the click-clack of work getting done, a nearby xerox spews documents with no end. The meeting was scheduled this Friday, his birthday, a meeting he was meant to supervise, a meeting in Manila, while he was supposed to be in Cebu. He heard the phone ring on the other end, and he caught me in the middle of work that Wednesday afternoon. With no hint of insincerity or wavering, he tells me he won't make it tomorrow night, and if I would, reschedule his flight to the night after. I put the phone down and stared at the work staring back at me from the monitor, planning a short stopover at the ticket office tomorrow afternoon.

He was sitting down as the hidden speakers announced the preparations for take-off, a well-dressed stewardess walks down the aisle inspecting the coloured, though somewhat pale, passengers of tonight's red-eye while a dainty scarf strangled her neck. It was 4:30 in the morning, and the flight taking him to Cebu was also taking him away from the remains of last night's birthday bash. This rescheduled flight didn't make it before last night's festivities, an unavoidable circumstance of the deluge of weekenders making the most of the long weekend and booking every flight in sight. It was either this or risk his job and go at it with the boss for a few rounds. This will do, he thought. I had promised him a weekend getaway at the idyllic island of Bantayan, and an hour's flight away, I was thick into another stare-down with the unblinking monitor.

He was sitting down as youngin's and not-so-youngin's ran around a vacant well-maintained lot of grass in Cebu's greeneried IT park. His eyes drooped a bit but settled back open taking in the sight of tall, yet separated, buildings nestled among easy shrubberies and palm trees tilting along with the gracious wind. He ended up on an empty coffee table in front of the deserted Figaro. The fact that Starbucks was also closed, unsettled him, when he recognizes the economic virtue of keeping a coffee shop open at 6am in the morning. Bothering him more is the rough start to this relaxing weekend. The eat-all-you-can breakfast promised previously was closed for a private affair, and it seems that there wasn't anywhere else to go, even for the simple necessity of a warm cup of joe. I received distressed messages as I gave-up the staring contest at the office and walked out, wondering how much a sleep-deprived man could go for the promise of caffeine.

He was sitting down as a movie of leaves, landmarks and locals played on a mistakably unending loop outside the bus windows of our prolonged and bumpy ride to Hagnaya. This magical bus will benevolently take our persons and our accompanying baggage across the northern wilderness of Cebu and drop us off just before the land ends and the sea begins. But it punished us also, mostly our asses, by finding each sharp crevice and jarring hole on the beaten road and communicating through savage movements its delight in travel and tenderizing our rumps in the process. I was fast asleep beside him and didn't notice a large oaf-of-a-man steal an undeserved share of our bus seat, squeezing the life out of my companion as well. A white lady, a cement-made tube and blinks of buses appeared outside, witnessed the transgression, and stood/whooshed-away unaffected. They've seen worse, perhaps.

He was sitting down next to me, on a rickety bench on our rickety ferry ride across the blue sea towards Bantayan. A certain restlessness has started to spring from him and neither the whimpers of the shimmering sea below or the stolen-kisses of the lofty winds above could quell this quaking within. He was anxious and tired, travelling for too long for a weekend that's too short. He put on some shades and slunk into dejected silence wondering how far we've gone astray from the normal and humane implications of a "restful weekend". I noticed his unusual stillness and knew from his declamatory statements previously that he was quite unhappy. I looked at the shadow of distant Bantayan and hoped.

He was sitting down, beer in hand and, having most of tonight's Nilaga safely consumed, was eerily thoughtful. Even with sobriety aside, there was still a pallor settling between us that neither the quaint surroundings of bamboo or the warm laughs of locals could color. He was quite disappointed. The room I booked was exactly what the advert said: the cheapest air-conditioned beach-front room on the isle. I had assumed you can't go wrong with that but obviously the place glossed over the slight details about the room's "bodega" motif and an alarming proximity to the tinkering of plates and diners at the neighboring/conjoined restaurant. Miffed though he was, he put off his frustration jovially but with deadly precision and each joke felt like gaily colored sea urchins jumping merrily in my soul, prickling all in its wake.

I was devastated. This was meant to be a reprieve and though things were far from stellar, they were still bearable. I thought, "Hey! We're roughin' it!" But he glibly asked me if a "restful weekend" entailed "roughin' it". It was due to poor planning. True that, since I only had the week to plan and only managed to steal a phone-call or two while placating the alarms of our delayed project schedule. But, I didn't settle on making an excuse I knew hardly justified this bad a weekend. Instead, I wondered how a person can be so set to not liking something. How can a person hold on to such prejudice and dislike so fervently. I thought these pernicious thoughts and interpreted his quiet demeanor as manifestations of my predictions: quietly heading in and out of the room, or sitting up in bed on the laptop minding his own business. "He's shunning me," I thought and just as quietly licked the bruises and welts that thought left inside me as I curled up on the bed beside him.

I confronted him a little after, telling him what else could I do to salvage "the weekend that will forever live in the annals of worst weekends ever, exclamation point." He said, "Let go." "Whut?" my head thought. Is this you washing your hands of the whole thing? Escaping from the chance to save all this? Giving up, are we?

I napped a bit and some of the self-loathing must've been swallowed by the sea or one of the diners outside because when I woke up, I knew differently. I told him how I felt and he looked at me strangely and explained himself.

He had gone out to check the beach and took a short swim, noticing that the water, though refreshing, was too shallow and not really meant for swimming. He instead read a book and read the passages of "Wicked" to the tune of kids playing along the shoreline. Where have I been this whole morning? Wasn't it I who was letting go of the consolations this placed offered?, locked up in this cold, shadowy "bodega"?

Shocked, I stammered to say something but instead just became very still. I finally listened to him; finally let go. Everyone is entitled to their innocent irreverences and glacial potencies. The key to understanding them is not to judge their emotions but to believe in their intentions. I was trying so hard to please him, that I've forgotten that he was here not just for a weekend, but also for me. And as he said, "That's enough for me." Behind all the sarcasm and half-meant chides, there was still in him the hope to spend a weekend with me, and he's been making the most of it. I lost sight of that, but I know now.

I slept on the way back, somehow the bus wasn't as sadistic and I managed to doze off quickly, settling my head and sinking into the shallow dreams and warmth
of his lap. He later said this was his favorite part of the weekend, my mess-of-a-hair around his arms, dreaming.

He was sitting down for that final time and I was sitting with him, together on another nameless road across the savagely beautiful landscapes of Cebu.

break;

Prompt the GCs and notify the threads,

this is the last increment,

the final iteration,

and yonder,

the break statement looms,

for today is the day the loop ends

and the control flow returns

to the inundated,

but much preferred default,

stack frame of my life.

My heart thread awakes

and inner recursions

dance to the rhythm

of destiny's circuitries.

Takemoto's Tower

Lately, work's been feeling like an extended show of "Deal or No Deal". From time-in to time-out, every moment brings with it a parcel of choices and it always seems that each progressive decision I make is just as half-baked as the last. It is disconcerting, and I can be honest with myself now and I admit that here in Cebu, I'm a fish out of water.

And I've been here for 4 months, that's a long time to spend with Kris Aquino and that faceless banker of hers, egging me on and dangling all sorts of wonders in front my CRT-scalded eyes. But it keeps me going, and at some point somewhere, though just as witless as the last, I've been making better decisions. Shovel-fulls of effort for teensy increments here and there.

But the growth is there--I'm growing. Putting together something sizable, something news worthy, something for everyone to say "Deal! Deal!". And yet, I'm holding out for this intangible prize I've always hoped for from the start.

On faith, I'm holding on, for the shiny suitcase at the end of all things. May Lady Luck be there smiling as Destiny shrieks, "Buksan na!"

awkward in-bed positions and other excuses

I haven't been writing for a while--just saying it out loud and finally admitting to the world at large that I, of sound mind and body, am bumming.  Here's some pretty clever reasons why:

Besides that fact that the desktop's LAN card is shot, I've been fulfilling all of my online needs on my mom's shiny new laptop.  And since I don't have a proper desk and chair to sit the laptop and my hiney on, I've been getting along splendidly on top of my spacious bed, which is fine for typical surfing and the random click here and there.  But for writing, the bed doesn't really offer anything ergonomic at all and my back's the first to tell me "Son, Sohachi Yamaoka was not done on your stomach and with a laptop for good healthy reasons".  Later that day he'll include a rebuttal through various aches and groans.

And then there's the matter of time, of which I don't have time to explain or bore you either.

Plus, I haven't been reading as much as I want to.  I've always felt the urge to scribble something most whenever I feel very passionate or after a very absorbing read.  An absorbing read for me would be something like a leaf-blower through my brain, where the act of leafing through the pages sends the words and thoughts and ideas flying about in my head.  Usually, really old stuff gets my juices flowing but lately all I ever get to read are japanese documents and advertisements.

But I think the numero uno reason why I've been putting off the creativity is because the primary role of writing for me has been fulfilled, elsewhere.  And what is that magical role that makes my muse live and breathe and whisper her musings into my ear, through my heart and gush forth from my very fingertips, you may so predictably ask?

It is this: communication.  I write most of the time to express certain feelings and concepts I consider either too personal for everyday smalltalk or too weighty for friendly discussions.  Most of the stuff I narrate here are things that I definitely enjoy wondering about but I find too uncomfortable and awkward to broach in everyday conversation.  Case in point, would you really appreciate me raving on a 20 minute rhetoric on how much I LOVE Joms?  I didn't think so (though I'm sure Joms would feel otherwise).

Writing it down though puts things in a more conveniently paced and unrestricted atmosphere where I can pretty much say anything and everyone is inclined to agree, disagree or not comment at all.  And the best part is, they do so on their own terms.  I've rarely encountered this freedom in face-to-face conversations before --plus most of the time people keep interrupting me, haha-- so I've gotten used to escaping to my keyboard in the dark.

But now, I've learned to open up easily to everyone and be more vocal about how I feel and what I think and this has somehow disarmed the writer in me.  Before anything literary congeals and erupts into an actual work, I instead participate and enjoy everyday dialogue in excess and the ideas seep-out slowly until, when I come home, I just sleep.  As Ranier Maria Rilke said, "There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself..."

Then again.  I'm writing this post, aren't I? So maybe I just forgot how good it feels.  Hmm, so much for excuses!  Consider this the re-start of something not so new!

homeward

I'm coming home at 11 tonight: slip out of work a little early, get the weekly gym fix done, brave the blue-collar infested roads of mall-closing time, and drop by a friend's place to offer a hand.  It isn't perfect by all means but I think it will work and I've committed myself and it made me feel proud to.

And you called wondering what I was up to, insisting that I continue to do what I have to if I had things to do, instead of telling me outright that you really wanted to see me.  This I discovered, hanging on to a rusty railing as my crowded homeward bus sped too far from where you are.

But even then, I thought you'd still be alright, flurries of texts running alongside my hurtling bus.  You told me you wanted a little affection, and I said I've got places to go and things to do, but tomorrow I'll see you, if only for a second, and the day after I'll see you again, if only for a meal.  Such will be our tango until we find a common place we can both return to after a long day's toil, enjoy the abundance of time in each others company, and call that place "home".

And I fulfilled my friend's deed, while worrying about how you were doing or what it was you wanted to talk about.  And you did want to talk, about the hidden cues and the ardent longing to see me tonight.  I didn't know, being the kind of guy who likes to hurtle from one task to another.  I really didn't know, though I felt something was amiss.

I guess it just frustrates me that I'm keeping to my commitments as best as I can, doing as much good as i can, make a dignified man of myself, and earn as much honor and respect as a few young years could.  I do these things, these multitude of tiny quiet sacrifices, because I feel that it's me destiny to continually fling myself as far as i can and help as many as I can.

But though I never tell you, all this I also do for you:  to be the kind of guy that offers a time and keeps it, who's a friend to those who need it or don't, to be a steady force that moves consistently through life with clear eyes and sound judgement--just to be someone you deserve, because you really do deserve so much more than I have gathered and built for the past 23 years I've lived in this world.

I try really hard, and I'm past the point of thinking I can try harder.  This is me and my jumbled-up life, it's a mess, but I built it out of goodwill, my dreams, determination, and sheer love for my family and friends.  It's a selfless vortex I consistently put myself and I've been happy so far.

But tonight I stepped inside our home at 12, skipping out of critical work, shortcutting gym, and barely finishing a task for my friend, and then cutting off your call that should have lasted longer.  I'm not saying I'm a victim here, I'm just saying that maybe this is how the world wants me to play my cards, and five bets down, I feel like crap.  I really just wanted to say that.

The Spirit of Giving

The gifts have been opened, and the crowds of the world can now breathe a final united sigh of relief, as the crazy holiday wave to go out and find something nice for people has finally crashed into their unsuspecting victims(plus their paycheck fattened bank accounts) and is now slowly settling back to that deep, strange place where insidious marketing gimmicks and earnest human interests cuddle.

And there are the few who never managed to send out(or even purchase) these treasured trinkets of appreciation before the roads emptied and the night realized in every home the merry-making of the holidays. For them the gesture is more of a resigned shrug, a satisfying abandonment of the curious hassle so many people seem to get wrapped up in.  I've been a faithful member of this club for a few years now, lending to the fact I've only started working now and haven't got cash to trade trinkets with.

But this year, I'm exercising my right to suffer along with the crazies who dive into malls on holidays and commute on roads reduced to speeds never before seen except among lines snaking from gift-wrapping sections. And dutifully, I've struggled my fair share.

And when I wrapped up the last of my gifts, I fooled myself into thinking it was over.  Lo and behold, the delightfully tragic cycle of giving too much and giving too little was, by and large, never over until you start opening your own gifts.  Where if the whole act of exchanging presents were graphed by the amount of drama involved, the sounds of wrappers unwrapping would signal the climax like rending cymbals and glibly cue some introspection: an attempt to judge the value of your friends by the gifts they give, and, most painfully, why I couldn't give them better gifts--gifts they deserved.

And since I love making math out of things that shouldn't, there were 3 types of gifts I encountered underneath our Christmas tree in the sleepy silence of Christmas morning.  I've ranked them by how I felt about them: emotional impact, drama, pathos, from sucky to smashing:

gifts gone or just as good as

... bitter, bitter, bitter: these are pretty much composed of all those gifts you would have gotten if you sent out your gifts earlier and bothered your monito/monita with holiday guilt.  Or maybe, these are the gifts that never made it due to the financial crisis, logistics or simply because there wasn't anything to send out.  Or perhaps they did reach you, but for the same sad reasons, came in as nameless mugs and dime-store picture frames--which still took some appreciable effort(recycled?), but is still just as unsatisfying.

I pretty much don't mind not receiving presents from people--heck, it's easier on the conscience. Though it would be nice if I didn't have to spend most of Christmas morning unwrapping my mom's stacks and stacks of umbrella's and planners with corporate logos plastered all over.  The exception applies to all my godfathers and godmothers out there, I'm dreadfully disappointed--15 years and counting.

gifts of equal exchange

.. a lot more satisfying than not getting any gifts, of course, is getting gifts.  These are the instances when whatever you send out, you get back; the machinations of Christmas succeeding.  Like our forefather who made a trade of shells and shiny rocks, the most economical of gifts are the ones we appreciate most.  Everyone's happy, nothing to see here.

gifts undeserved

... and then there are these kind of gifts that leave a tangy bitter sweet flavor in the soul.  Being the type to play it safe and expect nothing of people, it devastates me whenever I receive an unexpectedly nice gift, an unexpected person gives me a gift, or worse, both.  The cynical voice in my head whispers bribery, which is why I avoid giving gifts to people who don't expect it. But when I get gifts, it's like "Whoa, somebody cared enough."  I'm emo that way, and chivalrous enough to try and make some kind of recompense in the form of belated New Year's presents.

I appreciate those unexpected gifts best because I learn from them the most and they often lead to new friends and, of course, new goodies. But in equal fashion, these gifts bother my conscience in hefty measures.

So for next year, I'm orchestrating a retaliation. For next year's resolution: start looking for gifts as early as next week--packages of desire and delight that I'll send out not because I feel indebted, but because I want to let people know I care, too.