Hibernating and Singing

I am standing on the thin line that separates slight restlessness from calmness. I'm in my room, my sounds are turned up, I'm ignoring all things legal, and I'm writing down whatever comes to mind. This is a pretty good place to be, and I think I shall park myself here for a while.

* * *

So the fall break comes to a close. I wish it could go on for just a few days more, but I guess it's best that it ends now. I did my fair share of hibernation this week. I need to hibernate a lot to stay sane. And I don't mean this in the sleeping way, although, of course, lots of sleep is an essential part of it. I like traveling to Dreamland, and that's one place you can't visit if you're awake. I mean hibernation in the being alone way, with good music, books, and writing paraphernalia. When I was in Manila, I could spend hours and even days all alone in my room. I'd watch TV for a while, then read, then write, then think, then do the whole thing over again. It's the same thing here. In that regard, nothing has changed.

* * *

Because of fall break, my sleeping schedule has naturalized. And that's not really a good thing. If I weren't a social being or if the world revolved around me, I'd start my days at 1 PM and end them at 3 AM. Maybe I'll do that when I get a bit older and have money to burn and power to wield. But right now, I guess I'll have to exert some effort to be normal.

Earlier today, I got in bed at around 1 AM. I was hoping I'd sleep right away, but I stayed awake for a while. As I spend a whole lot of time in the library here, I started thinking about my library days in the Ateneo. See, while most people would hang out at their benches or org rooms, my course friends and I would stay at the Rizal Library.

Three things, in particular, came to mind:

1) Cokelover, Richard, and I were in the Filipiana section. Cokelover had just gotten his laptop, and we were taking turns listening to music through the headphones. And then it was Richard's turn. When he had put the headphones on, Cokelover turned the volume all the way up, and Richard roared, "Hoy, ano ba?!" People turned to look, and the librarian with the moustache and the big eyes was so scandalized that he was turning maroon. And I folded my arms on the table and put my head there, but not before I saw Cokelover shaking with laughter and Richard smiling brightly at everyone looking at him, as though to assure them that, yes, he had been possessed by an evil spirit but that he was fine now.

2) Richard, Comic, and I were in the second floor, reviewing for an accounting long test. Richard went to the bathroom and told Comic and me to watch his laptop. His table was about a foot away from ours. A few minutes after he had left, his laptop started belting out the Marimar theme song. People were starting to look and point and snicker. Comic and I looked at each other, and then I looked at my accounting book and shook my head and bit my lip. After glaring at me for a while and jerking her head pointedly towards music table, Comic got up and started jabbing at Richard's keyboard, trying to get it to stop, but it wouldn't. And finally, Richard came, and Thalia's concert ended.

3) Cokelover, Comic, Caro, and I were in the third floor library one afternoon. We were the only ones there. Then Richard came up carrying a box of chocolate cupcakes. "Oh, friends, kuha kayo!" So, of course, we crowded around the box and picked our cupcakes. Just when I was about to put my cupcake into my mouth, I saw the librarian walking towards us. I said, "Oh," and carefully returned the cupcake to the box, as did all of my other friends. We did it very seriously, as though the cupcakes were floating around and we had taken it upon ourselves to rid the library of stray food. The librarian said something, and we nodded meekly, and then she turned away, and we packed our things quickly and rushed out of there before she remembered that she was supposed to get out ID's.

* * *

And since I started thinking about funny things, I went all the way back to fourth year high school, when Jac and I watched "Hamlet" together. I was and am a big fan of theater, and I was looking forward to watching this play, as we were studying the book, and I identified so closely with Hamlet that I felt like I was his female reincarnation. Anyway, it was time for the "Oh that this too, too sullied flesh" speech, which is supposed to be anguished and impassioned.

I leaned forward in my chair and gazed intently at the actor. He paused for a moment, and then started singing an impromptu song - "Oh - oh - ohhhhh", each syllable about an octave higher and a few seconds longer than the last, complete with oscillating notes. I froze. And then I glanced at Jac who was already smirking and shaking. I slumped back in my chair and covered my mouth and then my face. I was laughing so hard that I couldn't breathe, and, since I didn't want to make a sound, I think I was close to hyperventilating. People started to notice Jac and I writhing in our seats, and I tried but probably failed to look as though I were crying because I was so moved by the actor's delivery. I wanted to crawl out of the theater, but I couldn't do that cause we were near the front. Those were the most mortifying moments of my life. I felt like Hamlet had betrayed me.

* * *

Because I started thinking of singing, I remembered the concert that Miyan gave during the fourth year retreat in Baguio. For our retreat, the whole class stayed in one big room that had steel bunk beds lined up in two rows with a makeshift corridor in between. Lights-out was 10 PM, I think, so we were all in the room. And then Miyan got up and started singing "On My Own" from Les Miserables, which we were studying at that time. She was swinging from bedpost to bedpost and sometimes dropping to the floor and lamenting there for dramatic effect. All of us were watching her and cheering her on. And then the silhouette of Mrs. Yoro appeared at the doorway, and Miyan dove in someone's bed, and we all slammed our heads back onto our pillows and closed our eyes almost gently when the lights were turned on.

* * *

Before I forget, I saw a piglet lurking near the Center, which is like the village office where I live. Or maybe it was a baby wombat. I also saw a fat black cat a few days back. And, of course, the squirrels and I are friends, even if I step on their food everyday. But I still don't mind the chipmunks because they look like mice, and the spiders and worms here are just gross. But yeah, animal farm, much? Holy cow.

* * *

More funny memories are coming to mind, but I'm tired of sitting down. And this is the part where I curl up in my bed and laugh by myself before going to sleep.

* * *

Next morning question: Does someone know whether oolong leaves grow after they've been dumped in hot water? My flatmate gave me some last night, and I didn't finish the tea, so I left it in the fridge. I heated it up this morning and, aba, the leaves increased in both size and number! If this keeps up, I think I'll have an oolong bonsai by tomorrow.

New Harry Potter Trailer

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire Trailer 2

Tonight

I have a phone, I have a phone card, I'm ready to call, but the Philippines is asleep.

What a day. I started with light music - Hootie and the Blowfish, Goo Goo Dolls, Gin Blossoms, and John Mayer, got into pop - Kelly and Justin (Letters to Cleo, Marion Raven, and Lindsay Lohan would also have fitted my mood then), drifted into classical for a while, and then ended up with Linkin Park. Don't ask me why, please. I do not have time to speculate on one of the greatest mysteries of the universe.

If the trip to Manila took just five minutes, I would be very happy.

You guys have to see 2046. I watched it last Friday with friends from school. It's amazing. I want to write a screenplay like that one day. And I will.

Hay, enough. My journal is jealous because this blog is getting more and more personal. I guess I'll have to make some adjustments there. I'm thinking of turning this into a study aid. I think I'd have fun writing it that way, even if it won't be about me so much. That was, after all, the plan. But we'll see.

Next soundrack? Broadway, this time. Les Miserables. On my Own. Play

Epilogue:
I capped this evening with a mass. The girl who led the choir had the clearest and strongest voice I have ever heard, and I felt like the Gospel had been written specifically for me. I'm calmer now and ready to face what I know will be a challenging week.

I love the Lord.

Past Posts

I felt like writing tonight, so I logged on to blogger to type something up. And then I came across two drafts that I didn't put up because I thought I'd add to them at some future time. But I was wrong about that; I left them and never came back, and I didn't even say good-bye. So I decided that I'd post them anyway. I'm not touching them anymore, so I might as well set them free.

Here they are:


17 September 2005

I had planned to get some work done tonight, but I don't think that plan's working out too well. I'm mildly annoyed about it, but my mind's too detached to care. It's funny, really - my state of mind tonight. I'm not thinking about anything in particular, but my eyes seem exceptionally alert. I see colors in a brighter way, and I'm noticing details about ordinary things that I've never noticed before. My eyes are high tonight, they are. I don't know why, but they are. This could be the onset of my supernatural powers.

* * *

It was the first home game of the Fighting Irish today. Man, do people here take their football seriously. Yesterday afternoon, I was at the library, trying to get some work done before setting off to look for family friends who had driven up here for the game. All of a sudden, trumpets started blaring from somewhere behind me. I looked through the window and saw the Notre Dame Marching Band. This is a 300+ member band that is apparently the oldest one in American colleges. I watched them, as I used to watch those "marching bands" that went around our villages for association-sponsored fiestas.

And then I sat back down and glared at my iBook, willing it to produce a case brief without me having to type anything. The next thing I know, I hear cheery male voices. A guy in a yellow Zorro mask and a blue spandex suit was leading his roaring minions to war. And after that, I hear high screeching, the type that would give Mel, of the AC High Pep Squad, the perfect example of how "loud and low" should not sound like. Dorm groups, they were. (And what is with me and these inverted sentences? I sound like Master Yoda. And I don't even like the gremlin. Is he a gremlin, by the way? Or just a wise thing?) Anyway, I digress.

I was saying that those people were part of dorm groups. The dorm culture's really alive at this school, apparently. A few days back, I was at the South Dining Hall, which is a mix of the Hogwarts Great Hall and the Enterprise Food Court, when I saw a werewolf running through the tables. I was, like, oh no, I can't do my slaying duties here, everyone is watching! And then I thought, maybe this is the unshaved leprechaun that graces most ND merchandise. I'm still not clear on what exactly a leprechaun is, but my take on it is that it's a bearded person (think, Abraham Lincoln) who wears a bright green suit.

* * *

12 September 2005

I woke up this morning determined to be super productive today. And I was, really. Until just about an hour ago, when I started feeling that familiar sense of sluggishness that tells me that my mind has gone on sleep mode and that anything I try feeding it would take about twice as long to process. And so I did what I always do when that feeling hits - try to be principled and stick with the reading for a few more minutes and then, predictably, I get annoyed with my slowness and give up. I don't like struggling to understand something that I'd normally breeze through.

So I thought I'd post in this blog again. I'll ramble on and on until my iBook finishes charging, and then it's off to the South Dining Hall for dinner. And here comes the difficult question of deciding what to write about.

* * *

Present time

I was planning on rambling tonight, but I'm not going to do that anymore. Instead, I am going to sleep. I don't have a bedtime, but I know that I should sleep now. And then I will dream and wake up and maybe you'll wonder about what I'm up to and then you'll find out when I next put something up.

Hurricane Me

You'd think I'd have a lot to say after a month of being away from home and three weeks of law school here. But funnily enough, nothing comes to mind. Well, okay, some things do come to mind, but I don't feel like writing about them because that'd take too much effort. That's another way of saying that I'm not in the mood to ramble. Which begs the question of why I'm typing this up, actually. And I guess I'm not in the mood to explain that either.

So guess what - hurricane Katrina is pretty much the talk of the town here. It's at least as visible as the hallowed football team, and that's saying a lot, believe me. Anyway, I just found out that there was a hurricane Camille some years back. Both were dreadful but great. I don't think I'd mind if people said that about me. It's meant to be insulting in a flattering way and flattering in an insulting way. So yeah, that's my interesting thought for the night.

I'll be sleeping in a few minutes. I'm not that sleepy, but I know I had better sleep now. That's part of this holistic discipline thing I'm trying to impose on myself. It doesn't seem to be working at all, but I'll see it through. I will not let me conquer me.

And I wish I'd have nice dreams tonight. I used to dream a lot back home. I'd have a different dream every night, and it'd vary by theme (i.e. friends this week, family the next, then places next). I promise that I'm not dreaming this up - pun regrettably intended. Then when I'd wake up, I'd be happy that I'd dreamt. If it was a good dream, I'd feel my hours of sleep were worth it. If it was a bad one, I'd be happy it was just a dream. But here, I don't think I dream - in the sleeping sense, that is. In the real world sense, my dreams are as bright as ever. But I said I didn't want to exert myself tonight, so I'll let that statement be.

I'll let this post be, come to that. Bye.

Still Thinking

I sometimes think about how I can get so fickle - so undecided that I pull my parents, siblings, and some friends into the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that accompany my decision-making process.

I have some answers for this, answers that range from the plausible to the barely imaginable. I'll share them with you:

• I am a perfectionist. I have a highly sophisticated mind that prides itself on being able to arrive at, if not formulate, the perfect solution for every problem. Since I believe that I can achieve perfection, then I am not willing to settle for imperfect solutions, even if I may concede that they have merit. I may sometimes be forced or fooled into settling for them (after all, the Greeks showed us quite clearly that even goddesses are not infallible), but I am always courageous enough to prioritize my search for perfection before shallow notions of saving face and courting convenience.
• I am a brilliant logician. Because I can argue any point with hypnotizing convincingness, all hell breaks loose when I am forced to argue with myself. It's sort of like what happened in Ken Follet's The Third Twin, when two out of eight clones were about to have a go at each other, and Dr. Ferrami decided to take matters into her own hands because a fight like that could go on forever. Whew, that was a long analogy that I hope makes sense even to those who have not read the book. Also, because I am fair, I cannot give the victory to one side for arbitrary reasons. And if I do so, I am woman enough to admit such a mistake and attempt to rectify it by deliberating some more.
• I am egotistical. I think (and I am probably right in this) that I can excel in anything I set my mind to. Because of my complacence that I can succeed in a myriad of scenarios (just please do not expect me to do those traditional female duties - cooking, cleaning, planting, worshipping the men or even picking berries, for goodness' sake), I do not pressure myself to find just what is right for me but instead rely on my God-given ability to worm myself out of any situation I get myself into. Please note that 'worming out' was used in the most flattering of ways.
  
• I am a Covey drop-out. I have failed the course on beginning with the end in mind. Because I have not done enough research on what the end in mind is for me, as I am admittedly a horrible person to plan for, then I'm having a difficult time figuring out where I should go and what I should do. Lack of a benchmark, in simple terms.
• I am a biological sport. I have the genes of a willow.
• I am a Libran. I never put all my gold bars on just one plate.
• I was born in the Year of the Dog and am therefore barking mad.
  

All possible reasons. Which do I think is true? I can't decide.

* * *

Fickle as I can be, there are some things that I am sure I want. The latest one is a fully furnished cabin right beside the ocean.

I like being near the ocean. It find it calming to be in close proximity to this natural vastness that resembles me so much - no light can penetrate its deepest recesses, no one doubts its potential for overwhelming destruction, and nothing can stop it from hemming and hawing even if it's not really going anywhere.

Hey, if the ocean hems and haws, then I will not be ashamed to be doing exactly that.

* * *

I was in the Northern Philippines for the whole of last week with my family.

The drive to Vigan from Manila was around eleven hours. I like long drives. I understand why some people wouldn't, but long drives never really bothered me. I remember the bus ride to the retreat house, which was about a year ago. Ange and I spent the whole eight hours to Baguio talking and catching up and saying things that we weren't able to say during the schoolyear. The trip didn't feel like eight hours at all; it rather felt like we were carpoolmates again, being driven home after an eventful day at school.

[On a sidenote, this bus ride is memorable for another reason: on one of the stops, Di knelt on her chair, turned around, and bellowed her million-dollar question for the whole Tarlac to hear - "How is your Meteor Garden marathon going?" My goodness. And the bus was full of fellow Ateneans who had before then regarded me as a reputable person.]

This is not to say, however, that I need good company to make a long ride enjoyable. Even when there is no one to talk to or, more accurately, when I do not feel like talking to anyone, I like looking out of the window and chasing thoughts in my head. I do that all the time, probably to a fault. I remember the preparation for the Baguio retreat where we had to meditate on some Bible passages. Since I was at the height of my Buffy marathon (I had finished the Meteor Garden marathon and gone on to BtVS), I associated everything I read or heard to that show. For instance, there was this passage about restoring one's soul, and I immediately thought of Angel and then Spike. It rather horrified me actually, but I think it amused the group I shared this with.

* * *

Sometimes, chasing thoughts can get very tiring. I almost always start thinking about pleasant things, like what Filipino versions of the Anne of Green Gables characters would be like, but my thoughts stray to more serious matters, like how I think I'd like to die and what people would say about me when I'm gone. Everything is connected, see; there are links to everything from everything. And if you go on thinking aimlessly, it's inevitable, at least for me, to live through mini-cycles of thoughts and emotions that would otherwise be unconnected.

* * *

I like being in the province. I like seeing green fields and mountains instead of buildings and billboards, which is what I see when I step out of the house and look to the distance, and also when I get transported from place to place as I go about my life.

I liked Vigan a lot, especially the old houses of sturdy kamagong and wide rooms. I bought two pieces of furniture for my room when I was there - a wooden writing table and a wooden chest. The table is much like what I would imagine Jose Rizal used. It's not as tiny as that of Jane Austen's. Hers, which resembles the old hectagonal table that we used as a telephone stand, had just enough space for an intermediate pad of paper. I would never survive with a writing table like that. When I was in high school, ballpens and rulers kept falling off my desk, and my desk was already wider than I was. I think my writing table will suit me perfectly.

My wooden chest looks like it belongs under the sea - filled with gold coins and guarded by some skeleton of a pirate who sings about bottles of rum. Or it could belong to Harry Potter. On second thought, it'd suit Ron more, as it's antique. I wonder what I'm going to end up putting in that chest. Oh yeah. I could put my swords there.

* * *

Pagudpud was fantastic. We had a generous portion of the beach all to ourselves. We ate fresh lobster cooked in different ways. When we didn't feel like swimming, we either lay on hammocks or played Taboo. And when evening struck, we spread towels on the beach, laid on our backs, and stared at the stars that stared right back at us.

Such is the ideal life for me.

* * *

The only constellation I know is Orion. My brother tried pointing out the Bermuda Triangle to us but that didn't really count because we saw triangles all over the sky. He also tried showing us the Big Dipper, but while I saw some semblance of it then, I don't think I'd be able to call it out anytime soon. Not that it matters.

When I am in Manila, I seldom look at the sky anyway.

Confusing Me

This blog has come a long way from what I had initially meant it to be. I never intended to write this much about myself or ramble on in this incoherent fashion about my days and how I spend them. I wanted to write about world issues, movies, books, and personalities. Yeah, pretty much everything but myself. But it's boiled down to me writing about me.

Not that I find this problematic. I don't. It's just funny sometimes how things turn out in ways you least expect them to. It's weird and unsettling. I don't think I like it that way.

* * *

I wanted to write about something other than myself for this entry. After all, it's not everyday that I get the chance to update my blog just the day after posting something new. But there's nothing to write about. All I can think of is me.

Narcissistic much? Not really. I am very much annoyed with the me I am right now. I wish I'd grow up soon.

* * *

Age is a funny thing. I'm 22 years old, older than the Wakefield twins, the Baby-sitters' Club, Nancy Drew, and even Elizabeth Bennet (can you believe she's just 20 years old?). And yet I don't feel old.

Well, okay, I do feel old. Or it's more like I know and think I am old but I don't really believe that I should be old. It's as if, in the school that is society, I keep getting accelerated, year after year on the 19th of October, even if I don't really deserve to be moving up just yet.

So is it possible for the soul to be frozen in time even as the body continues aging? And yeah, some wisecrack would say (and honestly at that) that the soul is not bound by the rules of time or space. True. But the soul (or whatever you'd want to call that non-physical aspect of the self) does change, so that what it is now is not what it was a couple of years before. I daresay that's how it is. But it's not like that for me.

Who I am now is no different from who I was before. Essentially, I mean. Is that good? Is that bad? Is that true?

I don't want to continue this anymore. I am confusing myself. I will read my Archie's now.

But just a short note before I do that: something tells me that tomorrow, which marks the 5th month of my stay at Chica Teasa, will be even more confusing. And that's not me being negative about things. I'm just being realistic and honest. And a tad fatalistic.

Full Circle

Do you know how it is when you feel the urge to write about stuff - some of them trite (i.e. strange encounters with random people in the elevator) and some of them not (i.e. the February 14 bombings) - but then things happen and you never get to writing about them? And then a few days after, you end up not writing about those things that you wanted so badly to write about for the simple reason that the urge to write about them has gone?

I relate those questions to my whims, yes, but more to time and how it's defined - its being able to heal all wounds or transform utterly horrying experiences to rather amusing ones. I feel that time has that power to pry the subject of the experience and the object of it apart, so that capricious memory is the thin thread that binds both together. That makes sense, methinks. After all, the journey towards the future can only be undertaken by subjects. Objects are lugged around for a while but are eventually abandoned. People can have only so many baggages. If they bring too many with them, they'll soon get left behind.

Philosophical waxing aside, that's how I feel about writing. If I allow so-called literary urges to pass me by, then I lose them forever.

And it's not just about writing. It's about everything I've done so far. Take debating, for instance. It's no secret that I've been rather 'if-fity' about debating. When I'm in the thick of tournaments, the passion I feel for it is palpable. I openly announce (to my teammates and friends, anyway) my noble intentions to start training and matter-loading. And while I'm saying that, I actually believe that I'm going to see my promises through.

But when the tournaments end, it's as they never happened. They, and the raging emotions that accompanied them, would be shoved centuries back in time, and my commitment to debate would be remembered but ignored. It's as if whole the debating experience was a momentary high that I thoroughly enjoyed but now feel very little need or desire to return to.

I'm not sure what this characteristic is called. Fickleness? Maybe. Laziness? Possibly. Whatever it is, I'm not proud of it. But I can't exactly say I'm ashamed of it either. It's hard to be ashamed of something that hasn't really done you serious harm.

But I do envy those who can sustain their passion for something, anything. Indeed, it's one thing to be passionate; it's entirely another to have the diligence to see that passion through. My mom always tells me that she'd rather pick a diligent person of average intelligence over a sharp person who's lazy. I see the point in that.

And to my credit, I find it rather sad that I can be both but am not.

* * *

Being a DCA for the IIDC 4, which ran for the last five days, is just what I needed to cap my debating career. I'm not saying that it's the last tournament I'll ever be attending. It may very well turn out not to be. But if it does, then I'm fairly confident that there is nothing more that I'd go scrambling back to.

There was just something about the whole thing that gave me closure. Call it the debating to adjudicating transition, which began in last year's Australs and which ends now that my scores and, most especially, my margins are pretty accurate. Or maybe starting and ending with a national tournament. I don't really know.

In any case, closure's not a bad thing to have in that one part of my life that I just know I'll have difficulty leaving behind.

* * *

Charmed unpredictability is how I'd describe my debating career.

In high school, I always felt that I was seen as that club member who was around all the time but had no real talent in debating. Case in point: I joined the Forensic Guild as a freshman but only got to debate competitively when I was in third year. And that was just one time. In fact, I think it would be more accurate to say that my debating career began only when I was a high school senior. And even then, it was a career that showed every promise of ending soon.

In the Ateneo, I started out as an unknown debater from a Tier 4 debating school. I knew absolutely nothing about the ADS. I signed up for that org anyway. During the first general assembly, I saw those people who had viciously wiped the floor with me in high school tournaments. Needless to say, I did not particularly like any of them. These people know that, as they are now my friends.

I even remember how I didn't know about the whole Phase 2 thing (training for the more advanced debaters) until Joelle called it out to me while we were on separate elevators in Shangri-la. And that was the day before the Phase 2 try-outs. But I went and qualified, joined the interclub tourney and made it to the finals, and somehow found myself with varsity status.

The rest, as they say, is history. Pretty interesting history, actually, but I won't go into that now. I'll leave that for the piece on my debating career that I'm planning to write soon.

* * *

Where debating is concerned, I have often felt that someone other than me was directing where I would go and what experiences I would have. For instance, a significant number of the tournaments I've attended were those I intended on skipping (i.e. 2002 NDC) . And while strong personalities abound in the ADS, I have never had issues with any of my teammates.

It's been a charmed life, really. It could have been better, true, but it could have very easily been so much worse. Truly, I have a lot to be thankful for.

* * *

RK commented during the IIDC 4 that all he remembers me saying during both the Oxford and Cambridge tourneys two years ago was that I wanted to sleep. Is that true?

I am sure that's what I said during the first round at Oxford. The wooden benches were just so cold, and it was around four in the morning then, Philippine time. I'm sure Ollie would have danced the lambada for me to wake up and absorb the mumbo-jumbo of matter he was so kindly acquainting me with. But as it turned out, he didn't have to; I found myself more awake during the succeeding rounds.

The point here is that I can't remember enough to deny having said that. It could be true. The Goddess of Wit and Eloquence. The Goddess of Prevailing Persuasion. The Goddess of Dreams. The Goddess of Sleep. Yep, all me.

* * *

Sometimes, I disappoint myself with how much I like sleeping. Not sleeping exactly, but what it stands for. I mean, I'm all for passion and wanting to do great things. But while I think of the passion to do something great as good and inspiring, I sometimes find that the urge to just break away from the real world and lose myself in either the unconsciousness of sleep or the world of imagination, whether mine or someone else's, is a whole lot more appealing.

I am like Walter Blythe in that way. He's the second son of Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley, for those of you who haven't read the Green Gables series. As Leslie Moore put it, he had the face of a genius and looked as if he belonged in another world. Now I'm not sure if I have the face of a genius. I'd say I have the face of a panda bear (especially because of my eye bags) more than that of a genius, but I sometimes feel like I belong to another world. How can I not feel that way when I'm so fond of escaping this one?

I read somewhere that if you constantly feel that the Earth is not your home, then you may be an alien of sorts. Am I an alien then? Or is this the thirst for transcendence that is essentially human?

Writer?

I totally jinxed myself by posting that last entry.

A few days after I published the "Writer,", my youngest sister went on her Christmas break. This meant that I didn't have to go in so early anymore, which was fine really, as this translated to more sleep, less stress, and better hair.

Now that the new year has come around, I have begun spending mornings in the ultimate torture house. Here, my every step feels like my last, and slumping in the steam room and taking a hot shower are the only two things I look forward to. So yes, 2005 has brought out the sadomasochism in me.

I still do find myself in that cafe, though. It's the venue of my weekly SATC lunches with the Goddesses (those who are free, anyway), and my officemates and I sometimes go there to hang out. But things are obviously not the same.

Sadly, the nursery of poems has become just another coffee place, and the writer in me has once again disappeared.

Writer

Two months into my job in advertising, and I am more artistic now than I have ever been in my entire life. It's not that the job provides me with venues for creativity. It does not: I am not in creatives, so I am not supposed to be creative. But I don't know. The whole working experience has somehow rekindled the passion for writing that I had long feared lost. And here's when I realize that there might be some purpose to me sticking out this job after all.

Every morning, before I step into the office, I spend an hour or so in a coffee place, scribbling disjointed words on the office-supplied intermediate pad that has become indispensible to me. Last week, my regular companion was a tall cafe latte in the Starbucks two blocks away. When my dad learned of this, he pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that it was not economical to spend, on a daily basis, that much money on a mug of coffee and a place to write my thoughts down.

Upon his suggestion, therefore, I decided to look for another place. I settled on this quaint cafe that is right across my office building. Jackpot. The ambience here is terrific. The tables are clay orange, and the bare cement floor is sprinkled with dull Mediterranean tiles. The waiter is attentive but not pushy. The songs, and there are only four of them, are Christmas-y and mellow without being annoying.

And speaking of songs, it's a bit ironic that I spend my mornings with melodies and my nights with rock. For the past how many days, I have been basking in Green Day's "American Idiot." Favorites there are "She's a Rebel," "Holiday," and "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." "Jesus of Suburbia" is cool as well, but I'm not quite sure if it's blasphemous, so I'm suspending my preference for that. But I digress.

On the coffee place again - the best seats in the house are mine. For two days now, I have been parking myself on a table for three that is right beside a floor-length window that allows me a full view of an almost quiet street. And the best part is that my ticket to stay (also known as the bottomless cup of coffee they serve) costs me just 50 bucks. Not bad at all for a place where poems are written and poets are born.

Well, I'm not sure if the poet in me has been born yet, but I have written a few lines. Mostly haiku (don't ask me why), but I've also started work on longer poems, as well as essays. I'll be posting them up here eventually or having them published (I wish!), but, for now, I am keeping them to myself. They're little children who can't stand alone just yet, so I've got to keep them close.

I am so glad to have finally settled on this routine. There's something almost romantic about playing the part, if not actually being, the budding poet who scribbles stuff down just because it feels right to her. After debate, this is the next instinctive thing that has inserted itself in my life. It's about time too. At this point, I desperately need something to look forward to.

Life does work in mysterious ways- in this most routine and uncreative setting, I am starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, I was born to be a writer after all.