It was only recently that I’d appreciated the work that I do and the skill that I have in writing.  I’ve been writing for as long as I know, and a lot of the work I’ve done the past five years of working had a lot to do with writing.  Case studies, project reports.  Articles, press releases.  Reviews and e-books.  I used to define myself as “a writer”, practically because it’s my bread and butter.  And modesty aside, I know I’m pretty good at it.

For the longest time “writer” has been my default endpoint or telos or what have you.  I’m good at it, I thought, so this ought to be my focus in life.  Mark Ponce, the writer.  I know that one of my friends, Mo, sees writing in this light; she loves writing, and she’s really put in a lot of work refining her style.  A number of her fiction’s been published in magazines and she’s attended a lot of workshops.  Plus, unlike most of the people I know who spent their early twenties jumping between jobs, Mo’s been a copywriter since we graduated, working for the same company.  She loves her job and she loves writing–it’s what she’s always wanted to do.  She’d probably continue working even if she didn’t get paid for it.

I think I’ve gone far along with work and employment to realize that I don’t have that head-over-heels love for writing the Mo does.  There were a couple of attempts on my part to see if “writer” is what I’d want myself to be defined as–I got one of my stories published in an anthology 3 years ago, and there have been attempts to get into workshops which Mo attended.  Then again, it’s never been something I wanted, and it’s never really been a priority.

Mo has never stopped bugging me about taking writing seriously.  She says that I write well and that I’m wasting the “talent” that I have.  But again, it’s never been my priority to get into the whole “writer” thing she’s in.

Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean it’s what defines you; take a look at Zohan–the Mossad super-spy who actually wanted to be a cosmetologist.  It’s not that I’m not happy with my job.  My job is terrific–it just requires me to work two hours a day at home!  The point is I’ve long realized that my job is not where I derive my happiness from.  My skill in writing and my current job are ennablers, tools I have that I use to get me  the things I want and where I want to be.

For example:

Last week I used the cash I made writing a couple of articles I did to buy my sister some nice pricey running shoes–in an effort to give her a push towards the healthy lifestyle and to get her to quit smoking.  That bunch of articles just took me around three hours to make.

I’m planning to take up a Master’s course, hopefully in two months time, to help me review for that next year’s Foreign Service Exam, just in case I don’t make it through the written exam I took two weeks ago.  I can afford to do this because I’m not stuck in an office the way most people are.  (I didn’t push through with a nice USAID job because I’d be leashed to an office if I did.)

I’ve started salivating over some really expensive toys, which prompted me to look for some writing to do.

When I feel bad, or if my thoughts are all a-jumble, I write.

Writing.  It is not the end, but a means to my goals.  It’s the vehicle I use to get to my destination.   I’m good at it, but it defines me not.  I like writing… I may even love it sometimes, but it isn’t something I’d see as a career or something I’d see myself doing in the next five years.

The skill is like a piece of sky-metal that I was lucky enough to find.  Sky-metal with magical properties to turn into a particular tool to suit my current need.  When an Orc comes my way it turns into a battle-axe.  When the garden needs tending, it shifts into a spade.  As I fall from a cliff while climbing to the top of the world, it becomes a beautiful pick-axe.

I do not worship the sky-metal, nor am I under its thrall.  I am however fascinated by it endlessly as it helps me conquer the world, one phrase at a time

***

Let’s talk about Orcs.

Like I’ve said, I spent the whole day looking at job postings for home-based writers–potential sources of good money.  As I went along I found myself shocked at the rates foreign companies pay for articles;  some go as low as P30 for 500 words.  I know they’re looking for cheap labor, but those rates are preposterous.  I pity those people who even bother to work at these rates–it reeks of desperation and, I hope I’m mistaken here, a disregard for quality work.

I was paid a pretty amount of P1000 per 300 word article by some American guy putting up a site.  I know I did my articles in record time, but damn, every word was worth his penny.  I would also like to argue that that was his proposed rate to begin with… not mine.

Anyway, I was looking at job postings today, sending out my CV and sample work, as well as my rates when its asked for (which I based on the abovementioned rate)–when I run into an Orc.

There was a site owner who wanted articles done for her site who had asked for my rate, and apparently she was surprised with the amount I typed in.  I figure this is a normal reaction considering most of the people who post job ads in the site I went through offer to pay P50/400-word article (again, the amount is just inhumane).  I think she’s American since she asked me to convert the peso amount to its dollars equivalent.

So what happened was, the site owner consulted her Filipino co-owner, probably to confirm the rate that I gave her.  Which again, I believe would strike anyone posting an ad at the site as incredibly overpriced.  On my end though, shit I’ve been paid that amount before so am setting that as my baseline.  If you don’t like my rate, nobody asking you to hire me, right?  I’ll leave it to laissez-faire, thanks.

Anyway, the Filipino co-owner writes me an email, addressing it to “Mark Ponce from Ateneo.”  Here’s what he wrote:

Hello Joshua,

I am Raymond, the owner of the business. I find your price very steep and insulting. I am a Filipino also and I know the on-going rate in PI. Your articles must be floating on water to get paid by this price.

If you wanted to be a part of my team, Ivy, my co-owner will fill you in on the things we needed. We have a fixed range of fees and we don’t just accept applicants, we do screening first if you were to pass our standard.

Thanks,

Raymond

The sky-metal warps into a battle-axe, and I reply:

Raymond,

“I find your price very steep and insulting. I am a Filipino also and I know the on-going rate in PI.”

I’m not trying to swindle anyone as you seem to be implying.  I just got paid a week ago at a rate of 1k for a 300-word article.  I wouldn’t give anyone false information, regardless of whether I’m talking to a non-Filipino or not.  I take pride in my work and I believe in an honest day’s work.

Just because you haven’t encountered such a rate doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.  That’s rather poor reasoning, friend.  If you can’t accommodate the rate, just say so.

Thank you for your time!

Mark Ponce

I was really tempted to place add the “from Ateneo” suffix after my signature, but I decided against it.  I don’t know what it is about some people and their acute tendencies in basing their perceptions and arguments on whether this or that person went to this or that school.  It’s annoyingly typical and just plain jejune.  I mean, get over your insecurity, man.  That “school” yardstick stinks of pre-adolescent hang-ups and a pitifully narrow perspective.

I’m proud of being Atenean but that doesn’t define me.  Studying in Ateneo doesn’t mean you’re the sharpest tool in the shed or the best human being out there.  It just means… you studied in Ateneo.  I love it that this Raymond person only chose to notice that one line from my resume that identified which school I went to–rather than look at what I did the past five years or where I worked (which was all discussed extensively in my CV).  Point is, there are just people who can’t get over the whole school thing–and you can pretty much tell what kind of people they are from this fact, really.  Am surprised I even bothered to reply to such a person.

Ah well, that’s what I love doing, educating people.

Anyway I can’t wait to see his reply tomorrow.  Even if this guy had the money to afford my rate, it’ll never work out.  Based on the way he argued his point it’s going to bother me to pieces how I ended up working for someone who hasn’t got any depth (Mark is so kind he chooses to go for a euphemism when he has the license to say hurtful albeit honest things since its his personal blog anyway), and a poor example of a human being, to boot.

I just hope Raymond’s American co-business owner will see this much when she opens her email tomorrow–I made sure to CC her email on this.

[enter piano]

I like these quiet, productive evenings where I just let my mind wander and cruise  steadily with no particular concern in mind.  I’m nearing the end of Rhoads Murphy’s A History of Asia, which has been a fantastic read.  I can also say the same thing about R. Constantino’s A Past Revisited despite the heavier content.

The written exams are coming up in less than a weeks time, and I’m just doing some “clean-up” reading, just filling in on issues I haven’t covered or events that I haven’t formed concrete opinions on.  I was very much on edge when I took the same exam last year, and that was probably because I went through the first two in the series right before taking it.  This year I’ve had a lot of time to do some relaxed reading, and it’s not much different from swimming a relaxed, steady pace.  You can go on for a long time without feeling tired.

Nothing is at all certain about my plans for the future, but for some reason I find myself in this mode of invincibility–like I can go through my tasks and goals with impunity, an unstoppable force.  Inside my chest I feel this strong rhythm beating out the path before me, a steady gong powered by an endless fission of good things: hope, cherished epiphanies, treasured knowledge.  I remember having this kind of perspective the year before, interrupted by that terrible summer filled with overwhelming heat, dissolution, despair, self-doubt and bad vibes.  That was a tough one, and while I’m glad I’m finally back in the game, it’s really hard not to laugh at that past self who dealt with all those things rather poorly.  Ang hina naman nung taong yun, I smirk smugly.

Smugness.  Now that I’ve finally gotten out of that rut and see things (more like making things) go my way again, there’s that inevitable feeling of smugness and superiority that comes with the “invincible” mode of thinking.  I bet the individuals who had woke up in the Matrix had that same smug feeling, seeing the rest of humanity trapped in digital chains–that must be the reason why they dress up in screaming black leather instead of making an effort to blend in with the rest of the sleepers; they make themselves obvious targets for the Agents.  People who have awakened feel so invincible they think they can take on the world.  And for the most part, it does feel like that.  I’m not a big fan of the high-nosed part but I’m really liking the invincibility.

And I get surprised with how differently I react to situations these days.  I’m normally a creature of compromise or a bystander, doing typical Pinoy behavior of preserving the status-quo, avoiding conflict, giving way even when it isn’t right.  Not that I’ve turned war freak or anything.  I’m still rather inclined to giving way–yesterday I got into an argument with some guy at the mall, and I was willing to give up what he was after, but not after pointing out to him that his reasoning wasn’t valid–which he conceded to.

I guess I’ll have to attribute this renewed perspective on the 30-day project my life coach assigned to me two weeks ago.  The assignment requires me to do one action per day that would benefit someone other that myself.  And for the past week, I really had to go out of the way, out of my established routine to accomplish that.   I went out to buy my brother toys, I saw a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile, I emailed my sister in Boston, and all sorts of other actions that I wouldn’t have done if not for assignment.  (Most of which had, curiously, led to interesting situations and contact with interesting people.)

I don’t know if it’s proper to try and lay down the particular point the 30-day assignment is trying make on me while the 30 days aren’t over yet.  For the most part I believe in the Zen principle of keeping learnings undefined–being able to describe the lesson point by point defeats the essence of it, and is besides, not the point.

But what I think the lesson is teaching me has got me thinking about concepts, particularly for the Greek word techne.  The woodcarver shapes the wood, but the wood at the same time is sculpting him.  One acts on the world as much as the other way around.  A lot of people (including myself) are often trapped in the idea that the relationship is one-way, that they’re on the receiving end of the forces of the world–which leads to what Berns calls ‘victim mode’, or the belief that one is a pawn of fate, or destiny, or events and circumstances one feels is external to himself.  It’s so easy to fall into that trap, and realizing otherwise once is no guarantee that one cannot get caught in the Matrix once again.  How help(hope)less one feels in such a state!

Most people interpret it as an admittance to sloth and a predisposition to somnolence but the handle tuloglagi is meant to be an expression of that need to awaken, because it’s so easy to take fantasy and nightmares for the real thing.  They say the only way you can control your dreams is to realize that you’re sleeping in the first place–which means you should never stop asking yourself whether all this is a dream or not.

I feel so invulnerable knowing that anything is possible–that I could make anything possible.  That there are toys and books to collect, exams to take, people to connect with, tasks to finish, dreams to fulfill.  And as I take on all these things I am given the opportunity to hone this mind and this body to perfection, to achieve the ideal.

My heart beats the path, powered by fission, the infinite sun.  I can relate with James Gurney’s Tyrannosaur: It makes its own road.

I was watching a news feature about P-Noy singing 2 songs at a concert in the Quezon City Memorial Center after his inauguration, and the video clip showed this gangly, awkward-looking guy singing out of tune.  The idea was cute, but it didn’t turn out to be cute at all.  It just felt awkward, and any attempt of the President to turn his bad singing into humor seemed to fall short.  But the crowd seemed to enjoy everything anyway.

The seeming lack of charisma doesn’t bother me at all, though.  In fact I find the idea of an “uncharismatic” president quite refreshing in politics that have long ran on the lines of patronage and personality.  Of course, you could easily attribute P-Noy’s win to personality politics–I need not expound on his pedigree and his surname, or how his parents (and younger sister) are household names.

But the point is, maybe it would do the country some good to have a leader who is unapologetically shy, awkward and… uncharismatic.  As an immature democracy, our politics and its processes have long revolved around the culture of patronage.  We follow the people we know, vote for the people we like, personally.  Mabait siya, gwapo siya, action star siya, anak siya ng mga bayani.

There is no discounting the fact that P-Noy’s win is a result of personality politics.  But the President’s apparent lack of charisma negates this kind of culture.  We watched him on TV yesterday, listening to an inauguration speech that left the nation in a hopeful buzz.  Because the general message was:  I’ll do things the right way, no matter how difficult it is. A lot of what he wanted to straighten out in this country are culturally ingrained and embedded in the system, and no doubt he’ll step on a lot of toes and hurt a lot of feelings to push his reforms.

And this is where his lack of charisma becomes priceless.  For the longest time, Filipinos have been following leaders because they are charismatic, because they are likeable, because they’re popular.  I like that idea that for the next six years, we will have to follow a President not because we like him, but because what he’s doing is right.  We won’t give him our support because he’s easy on the eyes or that he’s a likeable fellow–but because the principle dictates it.  I know it’s a long way off from scrapping out patronage politics, but it’s a start.

I just hope the new guy will stick to his promises.  Big words, and big dreams–medyo exciting.

* * *

And yes, medyo exciting na pala.  At least from what I picked up in the inauguration speech, there’s at least one guy who is out to change the way things are run in this country.  I have been, for the most part, filled with with a lot of fear and apprehensions with my decision to pursue a government post, because of the corruption, the mediocrity, and the despair that seems to surround it.

That speech gave me the hope I needed.  Maybe our government can be changed after all.  And I want to be in it, helping out, in the sick of things, when change happens.

I’m studying to become a diplomat.  And I’m a writer on the side (it feeds me on so many levels).

I am also a big fan of Naruto manga.

January of this year I met a beautiful, nerdy girl who looks like the Manuela Velasco (the actress who played the role of the protagonist reporter in the Spanish thriller [REC]), and awhile ago I dreamt about her for the first time.  She was telling me to wake up.

I will become rich soon, according to my timetable, and due to my sheer force of will.

These all seem like shallow words to you, but like many people I aim to transcend.  :)

Yesterday, on Earth Hour, two of our friends came by to catch up and drink. I cooked my signature dish–fried tokwa–which they liked. We shut the lights, lit candles, talked and chilled out. I like hearing how they were. I liked how it felt, talking to Gyobs after a long while–he gave me news on other people. He wasn’t able to keep himself from telling me about some things that people thought was doing (some talk about me liking someone and doing something about it), and despite it seeming petty and juvenile like some high school thing, I’m glad people are able to find things–true or not–about me while I was away on “hermit mode”.  (Man, that sounded narcissistic.)

Highlight of the night was having Raf walk in with his work clothes on. In our circle, people had made a big fuss about him having been unemployed for the past 5 years–since we graduated. And now, well, he’s been a line cook at a European restaurant in Greenbelt for two weeks. It’s great hearing him talking about work, and food. And that he thinks my tokwa is OK.

Gyobs made my weekend by bringing in my Naruto forehead protector–which I had lost last year when I got raving drunk at a Halloween party. I wore it all day today and I’m very pleased.

I made a lot of progress on my woodcarving, and finished off Top Chef Season 1 (my heart goes to Tiffany towards the final moments of the show). I also watched Frost Nixon, which was beautifully done. I didn’t think the guy from Shaun of the Dead could play a role like that of Frost’s.

Anyway. Studies. Two months. Focus.

I had a couple of rough weeks after a considerable amount of responsibility fell on my lap without preamble some weeks ago.  I would normally dodge complications in the past the way I usually do, but this thing involves family, and it just so happened that no one other than myself could handle things.  For a time, I felt pretty disappointed since I had to sacrifice certain things I had worked hard to put together—to be able to find solutions to a more important priority, I had to face a lot of NOs which, after awhile gets rather depressing.  Relative to someone who has been living the past months mostly for himself, creating and working towards personal YESes, I’d guess you’d understand why this really did me in.  I now realize the kind of life my mother had been living during the past years, and the unbelievable amount of worrying it entailed—which can cause anyone to lose a grip on life’s upkeeps like work and happiness and basic peace of mind.  And that, while she is away, I’ll have to find a better way to manage things rather than just keep things from falling apart.

After sorting out last of those loose ends, I move back to the flat—ready to hole myself up and pick up where I left off.  I have a big exam coming up in two months, and I couldn’t afford to lose focus now.  Yesterday, I made a schedule and wrote it down on a huge piece of paper and stuck it on the wall beside my worktable.  I tried to stick by my sked today, with moderate success.

I missed this place.  I felt a huge grin work its way from the stressed tightness of my stomach to my mouth the moment I walked through the gate, carrying all the stuff from the other house so I can get back to my old life properly.  My sanctuary, with my toys and my music and my room and my privacy was waiting for me.

*             *             *

I don’t like the way I deal with stress, or problems.  I have a tendency to avoid people so they won’t have to see me not in my usual happy steady mode.  I don’t really talk about frustrations or “vent” the way most people deal.  I figure I could always sort things out on my own—and I most often do.  But doing things this way has this unhealthy effect.  I’m still bothered by the way I feel about things even after everything’s sorted out.  I feel like a totally different person from whom I was—the happy steady person who seems immune to any sort of bad vibes—and from then on my mind would work itself to exhaustion trying to rationalize why I couldn’t go back to that old self.  Gregg and I call it “The Black Hole”—that tiring, endless din caused by a mind chiefly concerned with self-consciousness and introspection.  It isn’t a good place to be.  The more you want your old self back, the more distant and non-existent that possibility becomes.  Parang namamahay ka sa sarili mong katawan.   The more you try to act like your old self, the more alien and contrived it feels.

*             *             *

I could barely hear the girl speak over the din of my own thoughts.  She had a lot of stories to tell.  I’ve always admired people who could carry on a conversation when all I could offer as input were nods and general grunts of assent.  She made all these vivid gestures and punctuated her stories with imagery, which my old self would have appreciated had he been around.  Thankfully, my body and facial expressions could go on autopilot and seemed to know the all the proper responses in a conversation.

The girl talked mostly about her lovelife, then of work, of her friends and family, all in great detail and flourish.  Inside, I felt so frustrated that nothing—not one thing—seemed to connect.  People say I’m a good listener, and I think it’s mostly because I enjoy stories, and I relish the process of personal information being relayed to me, the way some people relish the rich marrow expediently fished out of bulalo.  But that passion to listen, that genuine interest in another person—it all seemed to disappear from my body.  All I could see was myself inside myself, and all I could hear was the rush of thoughts in that personal blackhole—a despairing realization that I didn’t feel like myself.

The Old Spaghetti House.  I ordered their special, sundried tomatoes and pesto with grilled chicken, and she, pomodoro. We came to one of my favorite topics—Ondoy—and I found myself unable to describe my favorite stories and scenes the way I used to do.  The flood and that rich experience that I’ve found myself treasuring seemed lost to me—it’s as though the data containing those precious life experiences became corrupted, and all I could come up with were these lame, fragmented details that didn’t mean anything.

She hinted at “Alice in Wonderland”, and I said I’d rather watch in 3D.  Next time, next time, I smiled.  I did not feel too guilty when she pouted in an exaggerated way in an effort to hide her disappointment.

I was not going to watch a Tim Burton film under these conditions.

*             *             *

I noticed her fight a sting in her eyes when we came to the topic of her father.  My body, still on autopilot, pressed her on the arm and asked her if she was okay and she said she was.  She seemed to appreciate the gesture.

Still, nothing was connecting.

Pets and I once talked for almost twelve hours, after only taking a two hour nap in between.  I relished every anecdote, every witty quip we would come up, segues that kept the conversation smooth and made meanings much, much richer.  We talked about the good things, about great friends, failed loves and our families.  We talked about the bad stuff, the heavy shit that came along secrets kept too long and encountered raw emotions that were preserved well enough to surface in their original forms.  I relished everything about those ten hours, and I felt as if I was prepared to dive into bottomless wells and the molten cores of planets and come out not only unscathed but more powerful.

*             *             *

It was around midnight when I began to listen.  I don’t know how it came about.  Maybe my mind was simply tired of working itself and worrying.  Things still weren’t connecting, but they were coming in, at least.  I lie back on my chair and let her speak to me.  From her stories, I picked up on her street smarts, that tough attitude one gets from being an only child.  She was very honest and open about sharing her experiences, even the ones people normally keep to themselves since it could be too embarrassing to lay out in the open.  It did not make her feel vulnerable; c’mon just try and laugh, her eyes said.

We had coffee.  I ordered myself something vanilla, and she got tea.  She talked, and I listened more.

*             *             *

We were going home.  It was the only then that I had noticed her heavy laptop bag.  She did not fuss when I reached out to take the bag’s strap off her shoulder.  She looked relieved and seemed to sigh.

I was walking her to a taxi stand when I told her about the first genuine feeling I’d felt at that night.

“I’m really glad we met tonight,” I said.  “I had a tough time for awhile and I think it was good for me to hear someone else talk about her life.  I’m glad you shared all of this with me.”

It sounded like a lame, general statement.  An watered down, uninspired summation to wrap up the night.  A polite ending with the complimentary dose of appreciation thrown in.  It did not matter, I felt it, and I was happy to have said it the only way I could.

“I’m glad you listened.  I feel much lighter now I’ve gotten all these things of my chest,” was her reply.  “They don’t bother me anymore.”

*             *             *

I got her a cab, and she went home.  I did not take the shortcut to the jeepney stop and took the long way instead, taking my time.  I saw the quarter moon and the clouds.  I saw Serendra for the quiet place it was named for.  I listened, and listened, and when it was quiet I let my mind rest for a bit.

I had e-junkie classmates in high school, who, at the peak of getting high would jump into the swimming pool, disregarding any consequence and danger of drowning.

“That’s insane,” I told one of them. “What if you drown?”
(Of course I was a goody-goody kid back then. I also had serious water phobia, something I would only overcome when I reached 20.)

“The stuff we take is about touch, man,” my classmate explained. “Every sensation multiplies a hundred times. Nothing better than hitting the pool right?”

I understand him now. I have been regularly doing laps for the past week, and for the past two days I’ve doubled the time I’ve spent in the clubhouse pool. It becomes addictive. Not anywhere else can you feel more aware of your body. Every inch of your skin pushes back against water. When you’re submerged the concept of volume applies and reinforces your physical existence. I could almost hear Arundhati Roy say:

The Mark-shaped hole in the universe.

I have some strange musings while doing my laps. They say you can think about everyday things while you’re swimming, but really, everything I can manage to think about is related to water or swimming, or oxygen or losing weight or the muscular system. Or whether or not my shoulders will be as nice as that of my friend Lyn’s (she’s a girl but she has man-shoulders to die for). Awhile ago, I was thinking about how the crawl was just, really, a glorified dog-paddle technique. It’s basically the same technique of paddling water behind you, only more systematic. I’ve seen a couple of people nearly drown and their dog paddle reflex kick in at the moment they panic. In fact, when I was nearly sucked by the current during Ondoy, I reverted to the dog paddle. It’s a default skill everyone has. I guess it’s just a matter of realizing that the crawl, or some other style is more efficient.

I suggest you try playing this fascinating game I discovered awhile ago, while practicing the proper form of looking facedown during freestyle. I imagined this entire city and buildings below me, laid out on a convex surface. I’ll be looking at bird’s-eye shots of Manila, and other cities too, to help future visualization exercises. It’s great, you really feel like flying.

Come think of it swimming should be a skill parents should push their kids to learn. Forget piano, singing, acting or leadership lessons. That can come later after you throw them into the pool. A lot of people say that it’s a life skill, but it’s really a survival skill. If climate change is really going to do what the experts say it would, then people should start thinking about living in the water. Everyone, especially children should know how to swim. We should begin swimming a lot so we could start mutating gills and fins and learn how to ride the ocean currents, outswim the sharks and fight giant squid. You’ve seen how Ondoy affected us. We clung to our homes and so many died, and even more got displaced. We’ve grown so soft and comfortable, clinging on the earth’s crust, where there’s practically more water out there to live in.
The future. Waterworld. It will be like coming home. Don’t we drown our sorrows in drink? Or float in happiness in drink? Aren’t our bodies composed of 3/4ths water? Did we not begin a priori as single celled organisms in pre-biotic soup?

* * *

Living alone and away from home is like being submerged in water. I have never felt more aware of myself before than now. You can only breathe as much as you surface, you can move only as far as you can paddle in the water. You carry your own weight. You cook your own meals, you manage your emotions, you make your own bed. You work. You think about what has happened today and process it. You exercise and protect yourself from sickness, knowing there will be no one to care for you and you must be responsible for your own body. You stick to your routine, there is no one to tell you to get up from bed or if you’re remiss in cleaning up after yourself.

It’s a selfish setup, a wonderful life. Awhile ago, coming home from doing groceries in Market Market, I suddenly decided to swim some more laps before the pool closed. I didn’t have a towel with me, so I walked back to the unit in my trunks, carrying my groceries and my clothes and my shoes, dripping under the moon. Walking barefoot on in the middle of the concrete road.

I’m so glad to be far away and responsible for no one but myself, and basking in these simple pleasures, I thought.

It felt so selfish, yet so right.

Pasta Run

Just finished sneaking into my old office of Mabuhay magazine people to deliver some baked macaroni that I cooked (spending part of my birthday cooking has been a ritual I’d been doing for the past four years).  It was a bit stressful since I got there a little before 9 am, and I was worried that I might bump into the fresh-grad I used to work under who, until a week after I quit my job was still telling me to do work and had actually wanted me to stand by in the office “in case she still had questions to ask me.”  On hindsight I guess it was my fault for politely offering to help out even after my resignation.  It was a good thing she was late for work .

Later in the day I received messages of how they like my pasta and was very pleased at this.  During my three week’s stay in the company I did not really get to know many of the people in the office but I miss them anyway.

Makati

I liked how my birthday went yesterday.  I started it off by dropping my resume at a bookstore with the hopes of getting myself a nice second job as a “book associate”, which I think involves mainly reading and ordering the supply of books for the store—a swell job don’t you think?  After that I met up with Gail, whom I haven’t seen in a long time.  It was nice of her to take time out to have lunch with me despite her being sick and in the midst of some problems her office was having.  For the most part I was very thankful that the work I do didn’t require me to slave away at an office.  Most of the people I saw at the mall taking their lunch seemed so stressed and in a hurry—practically zombies in corporate attire.

I spent the rest of the afternoon looking for toys and comics.  I’d never been good at negotiating Makati-space (I’d always end up at the wrong end of Ayala for some reason), and it was a good thing Gail helped me out with the directions.  I ended up at the Makati Cinema Square, a place which I remember being brought to on weekends when I was a kid.  Back in the 80′s it used to be a big thing for me and my siblings to be taken there or Greenbelt (which was just Greenbelt 1; nowadays there’s 5 of them already) since at the time it was the high-end happening place against Greenhills, Virramall or far away SM North EDSA.  I was surprised how run-down MCS is nowadays.  Conversely though, it’s the dilapidated places that has more character and contains more finds than pretty malls.  I loved Virra Mall that way when it used to catch fire every so often and how it used to have this dark labyrinthine character—where getting lost can actually bring you to secret shops full of rare treasures.  MCS was like that but 57 times worse.  I liked the sub-level shops best—the gunshops and their shiny ware (who would ever think such pretty things actually take life?), the shop with stacks of boxes filled with records that were probably older than me, and the stereo shops that sold refurbished but rich-looking, wood-paneled sound systems that churned out old jazz music.

Geekdom

On the geeky end, false alarms went off when I found some Naruto figures of the set I’m collecting, only to discover that they were the usual bad copies: they’re the mass produced types that were probably made with the same molding machines as what’s used to create the originals, but used inferior plastics for the job that wouldn’t hold up the casting very well.  The end result is a figurine that’s warped at some areas (sometimes they don’t resemble the characters at all), which also means the detailing doesn’t turn out well.  The paint job they do isn’t at all spectacular, you’d see all these errant streaks all over the place—which also reminds me of some badly accomplished coloring books I owned as a kid.  Most people would be content to own copies, but being a Virgo I’m very detail-oriented—those little things stick out like a mushroom cloud.  I mean, who wants to own a Sasuke figurine with a sword bent out of shape?  With clothes painted in a color that’s not the right shade?  Or with toes and fingers fused together?

And the annoying thing is that the copies also come in copy-boxes that makes you think they were the real thing.  This is very tricky for me, since I’ve always thought that when the figures come in boxes, they’re the real stuff.  In any case, I found an original Ban Dai figurine of the Last Exile at the same shop, and I look forward to that line getting restocked.  I want a miniature version of the Van Ship for my desk.  I also found out that there would be another Toy Convention this year on October, at Robinson’s Malate.  They normally hold it annually (I attended the previous ToyCon last June), but apparently they’re holding another one this year due to public demand.  Am very excited at the prospect of getting myself more figurines and manga.

Late in the afternoon I got my biggest treat of the day: not one, but two original Japan-grade Naruto figures of the Kyukyoku Shinobi Takei line.  I got a Naruto doing his signature shadow clone jutsu pose, which I’ve begun seriously collecting (worth mentioning is my SD gashapon phone keychain, which is also Ban Dai, and hangs from my desk lamp).  Ban Dai places the different figurines in identical boxes, so you wouldn’t know what was inside; if you want to collect a particular figure, you’ll just have to hope that you chance upon it by random, which also means you have to keep buying till you get the one you want (an effective, but cruel marketing strategy if you ask me).  JJ correctly guessed the Naruto in the box she handpicked herself.  While I trusted her clairvoyance, I decided to make sure I got the Sasuke figurine for my next purchase by having the store clerks open the other boxes to take quick peeks into the contents.  I got the Sasuke one drawing his katana; both figures had AMAZING detailing, which made me very very pleased.  I made a promise to hold off opening the Sasuke box until I got hold of his brother Itachi, both of which will be great pieces to start off the collection of “brother” sets I’m planning to get into (think Allen Schezar and Dilandau, Iroh and Ozai, Solid and Liquid Snake and so on).

Cineuropa

Cineuropa runs until the 20^th, and am making it a point to see all the movies that I can (I intend to hang out in the malls and do my work there this week).  JJ, mum and I saw “Blindgangers”, a film about blind kids in Germany and how they wanted to resolve the problems of a Kazakh runaway by earning some money playing as a band.  I have the impression that European education requires students (including the blind ones no less) to learn playing at least one instrument, which reminded me of my own plans to master the guitar.  Like most German films I’ve seen it was very simply done and efficient with its storytelling, something that I rarely see in local productions, which puts a premium on hysterical wailing when a character dies and is still very weak in the use of subtext as a powerful tool to establish plot or character development.

Today I walked out of a Romanian film which I found boring and typical that I just decided to work on my articles while waiting for the next film.  “Rec”, a Spanish horror film made up for that disappointment, which, to quote JJ’s friend was “sick” since it was shot from the perspective of a cameraman following his reporter, forcing you to partake of the terror as if you were there, trapped in an apartment building full of zombies.  I found this first person experience rather obscene, but also very effective as a technique.  I could never tire of zombie-epidemic movies, they’re so trite but it just gets you hooked once you start watching.  I only wish characters in zombie films had actually taken the time out to watch zombie flicks so they’re more equipped in handling their situation.  Like: stay together, and don’t run around screaming.  That loved ones, when zombiefied will not think twice (or think at all, for that matter) biting you or making you one of them.  Or keeping calm and composed on the moment of truth when that cute little girl in her PJ’s comes into view with her mouth dripping with red stuff.

In any case my sister and I were screaming along with the rest of the theatre and came out of the cinema quite stressed and thrilled to be alive.  We were so shaken by “Rec” that we spent the next hours wandering around the mall just to immerse ourselves in the normalcy of reality, and talked endlessly of what we’d do in a similar situation.

“My weapon of choice would be that steel pipe we have at home.  You can use it to butt their mouths away when they lunge at you, and it makes for a very effective swing.  I’d cripple the zombies first so in case they come back to life at least they won’t come at you as fast,” I said.  “You can also break doorknobs with it for easy access to locked rooms, then you can use it to bar the door from the inside.”

“A steel pipe would be a very realistic choice, since you have a lot of those lying around in the debris,” my sister agrees.  “Pero kung ako yung tatanungin, magdadala na ako ng flamethrower.”

Flamethrower amp.  Ahylavet.

I always get a bit scared when I begin my laps.  I think this is a residue of a very strong fear of the water back when I was a kid.  I was the poor guy who stayed in the boat while my sisters and my cousins jumped into the sea, or the little boy whose idea of swimming was doing a perimeter lap while clinging to the ledge of the pool.

At some point today I thought: if I push through with my water rescue, I’d be required to swim a mile’s worth of open sea.  Shit, that’s around 1.6 kilometers, I computed, 16 laps of this 50 meter pool.  And I find it even tough to do a half-lap crossing the entire length of the pool.  I guess I gotta get used to that kind of length.  I try not to think about the prospect of looking into the depths of the sea as I do this.  I don’t think I will like that part.  (Not to mention, my irrational fear of sharks lurking down there.  Not even Phelps has a chance against those guys.)

Today’s going to be a pretty long day.  It’s market day (I’ve been in charge of cooking and buying food in the house since I began my work at home setup), and afterwhich I’ll be heading to Tagaytay to visit a farm that uses hydroponics systems to grow their stuff.  Am just planning to do a lightning quick survey of their hydroponics setup, the materials they used and the tools I need.  According to my timetable, I have the last quarter of this year to build my prototype NFT, and I should be able to get it to work.  It’ll require a lot of tinkering, but am very excited to be able to finally apply the stuff I learned at the seminar I attended November last year.  I’ll see if I can drag Gregg and Mo for this adventure.

I’ll be hitting the malls after, to look for a Naruto volume #1 manga; I missed out on buying the collector’s edition, and I was pretty bummed out about that.  It was disappointing to find the thing I’d be saving up for suddenly gone, and to saleslady explaining how someone had already bought the item two weeks ago.  Hmn, today would also seem like a good day to have a haircut.  I’d like to look decent when I attend an orgmate’s party later at some Italian restaurant at Makati later.

I love Saturdays.

I’ll be leaving in a bit to work at Tiendesitas on my articles, where the wifi is pretty good.  The DSL here at home has been down for more than a week now, and I’ve had to head out for some mall to mooch free wifi since then.  Like yesterday, I’ll probably be heading for the Philsports Complex (formerly known as ULTRA) to swim for 30 minutes to a full hour, and maybe run a couple of laps around the track oval.  I ran for 30 minutes with Mo yesterday, and had begun running with Jaynee only last week.

I’m really into the whole health thing nowadays, especially now that I’ve given up smoking for almost a month now.  Cigarettes have been trusty companions while I reviewed for the Foreign Service Written Exam, and I promised to quit after it’s done.  My record isn’t really so clean, but apart from a couple of puffs, I’ve been a steady, cold turkey about it.  Whenever I find myself running out of breath while running or swimming, I remember all those alveoli in my lungs killed in the past and resolve to preserve the ones I have left.

I’ve only started running again this week after my legs had finally healed from that the mountain trek I came from last weekend.  I climbed Tarak Ridge in Bataan—the first mountain I’d climbed since 2004—along with the Loyola Mountaineers and the experience filled my reservoir of happiness up to the brim.  I was teamed up with Jason and Mansy—Team Daga—and in the midst of a tiring trek, a cold wet and dirty campsite and stormy weather I found myself really bonding with those two.  I still remember how warm and clean it was inside our tent, while the storm raged outside.  Jason’s funky LED light swung above our heads, and Mansy and I huddled together under my warm Ilocos blanket as we waited for our food to cook.  Mansy’s angel hair pasta and tomato sauce didn’t turn out very well—it was like eating Maggi instant noodles with ketchup—but we were all polite and happy about it anyway, and were very thankful that the food was warm.  In the middle of nowhere I found home.

I think I will be climbing a lot more in the coming months.

*              *              *

Am just waiting for JJ to come in from her last day of work before I leave.  She’s been quite the workaholic since she began working 2 months ago.  I rarely see her these days; she leaves for work with mum early in the morning and comes home past midnight.  It’s good that she’s getting off work.  She still has to work on her unfinished thesis, which will be bringing her up to Baguio maybe next week.  I think I’ll be coming with her to spend some time in Baguio.  Thank God for my kind of work.

Since I work at home and have been generally managing my work in a way that frees up so much of my time, I’ve been looking at doing second or third jobs.  I tried out working as a researcher at a local travel magazine, a stint in which I lasted a mere three weeks.  The workload was okay, and the office was full of really cute girls, but eventually I found out that the place was being run by some old guy who had a really big ego.  It also turns out that two of the cute girls were the boss’ daughters.  The people were all pretty cool by themselves (my favorite among them would be Pai, a girl who reads a lot, likes the Strokes and collects Batman comic books), but as a group the dynamics were dead—seemingly because the boss and at least one of his kids wanted to run things their way, and nobody really had the rights to speak up anymore, and even if they did it was all futile.  I don’t mind family run businesses; I’ve seen a lot of those that are pretty functional.  The things is, this one doesn’t actually own the business… they just run it.  Beyond that, I’ve been hearing a lot of bad things about how company money is spent.

Whether these things are true or not I noticed that I’d been absorbing a lot of negative energy at that place and I decided to get out as early as I could.  I noticed that I had a hard time getting up to cook breakfast for my family (which I always enjoyed doing), and was always tired and grumpy since I had to work on more articles for my original job by the time I got home.  I found myself sinking into unhappiness and after realizing that, the decision was easy.  A lot of people were amazed when I heard what I did, and personally, I don’t understand their surprise.  Friends of mine say they’re not “brave” enough to leave their jobs even though it turns them into the walking dead.  Why do something you don’t want?  Why stay at something that eats at you everyday?  It reminds me of something Martin told me a year ago.  When you’re doing something you don’t want, or doesn’t figure into your own plan, it just takes you farther away from your dreams and goals.

I like the fact that I know where I want to be.  It doesn’t matter if my goals are so far away.  One step at a time, I’ll get there.  Knowing what I want is my piece of security, a secret inside of me that burns like a star, and it makes me very happy.  It’s like being in my own warm, dry tent with good friends as the storm rages on outside.

*              *              *

Speaking of dreams, I had a dream about the written exam again.  They appended the exam with a “culture” test which gave you a list of literature and art, and from that list you had to identify which ones where “high art”, “mid-art” and “low art”.  It was so tough that as the time began to run out, I decided to pick things out randomly.  Later on, when I woke up, I figured there was no right or wrong answer for that kind of question, only that you had to give an answer.

I’d been having those dreams about that written exam for quite awhile now.  I’ll write about the exam sometime soon.  For now, it’s really all about waiting.

But as always, I’m focusing on other things.  I’ve been accomplishing a lot of things I’ve wanted to do off my to-do list, there’s signing up in an Aikido dojo, seriously taking up German or Chinese, getting a scuba license with Joanne, and studying my business plan.  Yesterday, I just finished signing up for a Red Cross First Aid and Basic Life Support training, which is a prerequisite to the course I really want to take: Lifeguarding and Water Rescue—a tough course that in the end, will test you by getting you to swim for a mile out in the open sea.  Looking forward to that, minna-san!