You know, I told myself that I would be able to write more blogs once winter break started. It started and I didn’t write one yet. Leaning back on that procrastination again. I know now that I’m more prone to procrastination now than during the school year. Yup. It’s because now I can say, “Oh, don’t worry, I have all the time tomorrow,” because I don’t have a job. I kind of wanted a job this winter break. But that didn’t happen. I consider myself a late bloomer. Therefore, I must make efficient use of my time by teaching myself to play the drums and other instruments and stuff, like writing blogs.
One reason I’m not writing a lot is because I have other stuff on my mind. I have drums on my mind. They’re playing all the time and I can’t make them stop because I like it too much. But I also like to write, but that’s harder to do than play; actually no, it’s just that a different type of energy is required. I also like the piano. Perhaps I’m spreading myself too much?
Like the smart balance butter I put on my pan de sal, today. Hmmmm. I want one now. Butter and sugar. Back in the old days, when I was around six or seven years old, my Grandpa who used to live in the basement with Tito Joey and Grandma, would toast bread and put butter and sugar on it and dip it in coffee. Good stuff; one of the best foods to stimulate my taste buds and widen my young eyes. I’d come home from kindergarten and go to the basement and have a little merienda. My parents were working, so Grandpa, Grandma and Tito Joey took care of me, Steph and Ate Sherry and Kuya, after school. Now I eat them without the coffee. Grandpa usually drank the coffee and I would just dip the pan de sal in it. But since I don’t drink coffee and Grandpa is in Queens while I’m snuggled here in Commack, I don’t use coffee anymore. I’ll try chocolate milk, although I know it won’t be the same. You can never return to the past in the same fashion. You know why? Because you’ve already been dipped into the future. Covered by a brush stroke of the present, one can only go back to the past through untarnished memories and saved photographs, procured in times of nostalgic pulls and family gatherings or though conversations broached to busy a long ride home.
Anyway, as I was saying – drums; they’re on my mind. When I get’em, I’ll set them up in the basement in Ate Ila’s old room. My ideal drums would be a five-piece, solid black, Pearl, Ludwig or Yamaha with white drum heads. I don’t fancy transparent ones really. They would be used (and therefore not so expensive) but still considered new. I get excited just by thinking about it or just by thinking about drum sticks. I would do covers of Killers songs or Jason Mraz songs. It’d be cool if I made a song on the piano and recorded it and then created the drum section for that song and then record both of them together. Yeah, I like that idea. Of course that won’t happen in the near future – practice takes time; everyone knows that! I’m humbled by all drummers and I yearn to be in their domain of practice.
I heard of this guy who started playing the drums on house old objects when he was two years old. Imagine that – little, soft baby arms holding sticks, banging on things with actual rhythm. A baby’s mind has that capacity? Anyway, he asked for a drum set for his birthday or for Christmas each year since he was five years old. His parents finally bought him one when he was fifteen. He must be very patient – a quality I only have in selective moments (like when I’m waiting for my pan de sal to toast – yup still thinking about that; I still want one now). Props to his patience and a round of applause for his continued interest despite lack of real drums. So I was thinking that this guy made up a drum set before he had one.
Today I also looked up Ronnie Vannucci, the drummer of The Killers. He also started playing the drums when he was around two years old. He was in his parents’ garage banging on old refrigerators and pots and pans before he got his real first drum set.
Now, I realized that I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs, that I myself made up a drum set using my bed (the mattress plus a comforter make a good bass drum sound – that or you can stomp on a hard-cover text book), a pillow with a plastic bag on it (or a bean pillow) and a leather address book. I see a pattern . . .
New Year’s is just around the corner – actually New Year’s Eve is tomorrow, and I have a goal for 2010. Several goals. They are:
1. Teach myself how to play the drums so I don’t have to pay for lessons
2. Help around the house
3. Continue to do well in school
4. Get a part time job next school year (starting in September) in a local music shop
Happy New Year everybody! If we all have goals, we’re all in the same boat!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Literally, in and out
Dear blog - the act of writing, (as opposed to reader)
Inhale. Exhale. Ahhhh in sighing peace. It’s nice to be back. We have been apart for too long. I sadly say that my stay here, today, will be short, though. It is nearing the ultimate end of the semester and I have not had a well-deserved long night of sleep. Nor a writing buddy, buddy. Still, in the words, of Jason Mraz, “I wanna to catch up to you.” I’ll let you relax. No need to stand up. I've been standing and I'll continue to stand for you. Let my thoughts run around. Pick anything up and leave anything down.
These past couple of weeks have been worrying. They have not been stressful because I was procrastinating most of the time, enjoying myself in myriad ways. Some of which can be described here (if I were to be so eager to do so) and some of which should not be. Yes, indeed these past couple of weeks have been rather worrying because of the incessant pounding of the guilties, as I like to call them, on the door leading to the entrance of my conscience. They knock harder right now, as I am selfishly writing in you, needing you as an escape, as a way to enjoy myself more than you would enjoy yourself, although I am just guessing on your behalf. I could be wrong and sometimes it's nice to be. But still, for this I am sorry and for this I am also only half-regretful. Why? I am regretful that I am not doing school work. I am not regretful because, just as selfish as my need to have you is, I know you love and need to have me too. Did not Jean-Jacques Rousseau say that master and slave are both equal? Yes, indeed he did say that. And his explanation? A master is only a master, so long as he has a slave. A slave is only a slave so long as he has a master. They make each other. They complement each other. We need and love each other. Let my finger tips massage your blank pages with soothing, deep words and I shall nibble your listening invisible ears. And so we are united in mutual agreement, under the strict constraints of business.
I just came to drop off a little piece that I have been working on. For my EGL 380 class, which is The English Language: origin and grammar usage, I altered it to meet my English class project’s requirements. I would display both of them here for you, to show how much I have grown in the world of grammar, since we’ve been apart for way too long; but, that would only add more pages. What I would like to display is the short story in its bare bones.
And so here it is:
The Broken Radio
By Bernadette Tinio
“This world is full of imaginative people. Pick one to shine through a prism.” This quote was said to him in a dream once. It appeared to him four times this week. He thinks it is telling him something but before he can make anything out of it, like all of his dreams, it grew dark too quickly.
His name is Charles and he works at the glamorous Falsamort Towers - as if the name didn’t look ugly already. Charles works as an ordinary accountant. His cubicle is in the left far corner of the fifteenth floor, which is full of fifteen other cubicles, just like his. Charles wipes off the bits of scrambled eggs that had fallen on one of his balance sheets from lunchtime, into the garbage next to the window. While there, he looks out. The orange sun is looming over the busy city. Charles follows one of the innocuous sun’s rays into a window of a tall apartment building. “Oh?” thinks Charles as he looks around briefly in unfortunate confirmation. The woman Charles is looking at is no stranger to him, though they both act like strangers to each other when they are in the company of fellow businessmen. He looks over at the clock on his desk, which is unorganized with papers lying everywhere. Six thirty. She would be home by now. But Charles had chosen to stay late that night. Pity.
Her name is Tiffany, or Tiff as Charles calls her. She is the red-dressed receptionist among the hairy filthy men. Although she is independent, she represses herself at times. The fact that she is the only female in Charles’s work place creates a little tension in her work place. Tiffany knows this and it is always in her mind, under the veneer of indifference, as when she walks with deliberate footing, or when she photocopies papers knowing and not minding the fact that she is keeping up the line, or when she enjoys her salad and orange juice in front of the other men having their slobby meaty sandwiches on white bread, drinking sodas (and occasional beers). Nevertheless, she is silent most of the time.
Charles is not the brightest accountant on the fifteenth floor. He follows orders and that’s all. He does just enough work that needs to be done – not because he is lazy, but because that’s all he can do. Imprisoned by a somewhat round belly, Charles usually has a stain on his dull patterned tie from any condiments he might have used that day.
He is not married, and neither is Tiffany.
At work, they no longer talk to each other in front of other workers, unless they have to – in which case their brief conversation would be over something as non-important as their work. He still sees her though at certain times during the workday; they just don’t know when the other is leaving to go home, unless they have eye contact beforehand. Then they just know. The wonderful thing about eye contact is that it has its subtleties. The eyes imply and you must infer.
Charles was already working at the Falsamort Towers when Tiffany arrived as the new receptionist. Charles had been working there for a long time and Tiffany was just another freshman – no, fresh-woman. But it seemed, now, that it is the other way around, if one were to assume a Darwinian work place. Tiffany knows her way around the office. She knows the preferences of different men: Albert Whineback likes his messages sent to him through email, not phone while Fred Oirion loves to hear his messages streaming out of his office phone, but nevertheless does not mind receiving them through email. Tiffany knows how to work the photocopy machine and even how to fix it whenever it is remiss from its photocopying duties – as when Curt jammed it by accident because he wanted the papers to come out faster.
Charles is still at the bottom of this workplace food chain, a rather corrupt ecosystem than balanced one; and he doesn’t mind not changing his status, among the devouring men, who are competing to be the best, the winner. And yet Charles feels like he is at the top now-a-days.
____________________________
Tiffany and Charles’s relationship developed from a series of glances; that’s how it started out at first. Whenever Charles came into work, Tiffany greeted him with flashy morning eyes, from the front desk. Whenever he left his desk to get an occasional free breakfast bagel, she caught his eyes as she and Charles reached for the same one. Whenever he looked back just before entering the men’s bathroom – just out of curiosity – her eyes flitted over to his. Even at his desk; whenever he stood up to stretch, his eyes half-open in conjunction with a yawn, he would find her eyes magically appearing in his field of vision. Or was it always his eyes that ran to her?
Their relationship grew more intimate once they started having lunch together and getting to know each other.
One fall noon they had lunch out at a restaurant-bar. They knew the other men wouldn’t go there because they would usually go to the other, alpha-male bar on the opposite side of the Falsamort Towers. This divergence of lunch places, as if they were designated, only made more prominent the separation between Tiffany and Charles, and the rest of the beastly businessmen
“I’m sure none of them is here, Tiff.” Charles was eating a beef burger with a cold beer. He looked over at Tiffany. Her eyes were busy scoping the restaurant-bar for any sign of their co-workers.
“Just making sure.” Tiffany replied while settling down. Her soup was getting cold.
“Can you imagine what they’ll say if they saw us together?” Charles chuckled in his high-pitched voice; almost like that of a wimp.
“I like the secrecy.”
“Me too.”
______________________________
Over the past two months, Charles had been coming over to Tiffany’s apartment after work. Sometimes she would leave the office earlier than Charles. Sometimes they would leave at the same time. But Charles would never go directly to her apartment, nor would he ever walk with her there. That was a mutual agreement, between him and Tiffany, to protect their secret, sacred intimacy.
During those nights in her apartment, they would eat dinner together, filling up their lustful stomachs with whatever they felt like eating, plus wine. Wine was a must. Candles were a must. Afterward they would relax on the sofa watching some mindless television, holding each other’s hand, snuggling together, not really paying attention to what they were watching, or not watching. One stormy night, the television shut off unexpectedly. The storm had caused a temporary blackout in her apartment that lasted the whole night and ran into the wee hours. But Charles and Tiffany didn’t need flashlights; they had candles. Seeing that the television was not working, they migrated to her bedroom for the night.
The next day at work, they both had a little skip in their step. That had been their first night.
________________________________
The seasons were passing by without any suspicion of the relationship that was growing, quite rebelliously, between Charles and Tiffany. Their little secret was a thriving undercurrent inside of them that kept them going throughout the days. They continued to speak with their eyes, during the work day. And they were getting good at it too; they knew each other’s expressions like they knew their childhood and all of their past before meeting each other – before the Falsamort Towers – except that was then and this is now. Now they are living.
One of the reasons why their relationship did not show under the radar of the other workers was because of the image of Charles and Tiffany together; it was as if one were looking at a picture displaying an old grandmother and a macho football player. Simply put, they were complete opposites. Tiffany was beautiful. She had a seducing affect over other men that she was indifferent to, expect for the affect she had on Charles, which was not exactly seducing.
It was more appreciative, platonic but not entirely; for, if it were platonic, it would be an imperfect kind at best. No, they were both aware of their implicit sensuality and they did not say anything about it. Their love was an “in-betweener.” They just looked at each other and felt each other’s presence, their minds always landing on the same downbeat. It was a balance or a parallel dance brought on by the two in silent agreement. Outsiders were not welcomed and were thought of as threats to their kingdom of intimacy.
__________________________________
One day at work, the manager of their branch, Mr. Marplotski, asked Tiffany if she could bring in a radio. It was the holiday season and Mr. Marplotski wanted to help bring out a cheery mood. Tiffany’s radio was surprisingly old-fashioned (the unsophisticated kind of old-fashioned) for her taste. Or was it her taste? Her radio was bulky and she could just barely put it in the trunk of her car. A security guard helped her bring it into the building and into the elevator to go to the fifteenth floor everyday of that season. She did not want to leave it in the office for fear of it being stolen. Just as she needed help bringing it in, she also needed help taking it back to her car at the end of the day. Charles was there for the job and he did not mind helping her bring it to her car. Most days he did not even notice he was carrying a radio, much like when some people do not realize they are wearing glasses; the glasses became part of them.
_____________________________
The wind blew wet snow against Tiffany’s face, with foreboding force, as she heaved the radio out from the trunk of her car one drab morning, to bring into the office. What was foreboding about the force? It was like a white-lashing warning. Tiffany just wiped it off as she entered the building and allowed the security guard to carry her radio into the elevator for her.
No one else was on the elevator that morning except Charles. With his brown coat soaking wet from the pelting snow, he glanced over at Tiffany and smiled. “Good morning, Tiff.”
“I’ve had better ones. Ugh, I’m such a mess.”
“You look fine.” Charles lied. She was a mess: her make-up smeared all over her face and she had sludge all over her high-heels. With red-knuckles, she loosened her grip on the radio and let it sit on the floor of the elevator. Charles watched her. “I had a great time last night.”
“Shh! Charles, not here!”
“But we’re in the elevator; no one’s here! And you know how slow it takes to get to our floor. Anyway,” Charles looked at her attire. The intricacy of the jabots running down her red, dirtied blouse that morning reminded him of the same-styled ruffles that lined the bed skirt of her bed. Hesitantly, Charles asked, “you enjoyed last night, right?”
“Of course I did! I always do.” Charles looked at her face, at her eyes. Yes, she had a wonderful time last night. Delighted with this deduction, he leaned over and gave a quick kiss on her cheek.
She blushed and giggled.
“Okay.” She sighed in self-complying surrender. With one hand leaning on his bulging stomach, covered up in an already stained, unsophisticated collared shirt, she reached up and returned one just the same.
A couple of seconds passed without a word. Silence was their comfort. Then suddenly, a bubbling doubt reached the surface of Charles’s mind. “Hey Tiff, you don’t think anyone--“
“No, of course not . . . right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, me neither. No.”
“I just feel like,” Charles knew what to say. He just could not find the words. Speaking was a whole different language from that of the eyes. “I feel like . . . like . . . what we have . . . .” Tiffany looked at his eyes. Instead of looking at her, his eyes were staring at the elevator door, reaching far-away, futuristic, hidden places, like deep, deep into his mind or his heart. He could not tell the difference, now, between his mind and his heart, because the secret nature of their relationship had entangled them – like when people get lost or wrapped up in the pages of an intriguing novel. The words mess them up, but they find pleasure and meaning in that.
“I love it too,” was all Tiffany said.
“I just don’t want to loose it.”
“Me neither.”
The bell in the elevator rang loudly and crisply, bringing them back to an office surrounding: the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the soft, dull sound of heavy penny-loafers carelessly pounding on the rugged floor. It was as if the bell were snapping them out of a reverie in which they had been too comfortable. The elevator moved more slowly than usual that morning.
Oddly enough, the whole work day felt slow to both Charles and Tiffany, like a passing comet in the night sky: from far away, it looks like it is moving very slowly; almost not at all, as if anything can happen and one would not notice it because he or she would be blinded by its slowness. However, up-close, things were moving at light speed. That is how the rest of the savage businessmen felt whenever Charles helped bring the radio to Tiffany’s car. “Wow, it’s already the end of the day,” said one of the other workers one day when he saw Charles and Tiffany out of the window, with the radio. Perhaps something finally showed up under the other workers’ radar – a comet.
The heavy, pelting snow was suffocating.
“Don’t forget about the Christmas party this afternoon, after work. Here, in the office. Tiffany, I want you to set up the decorations. Everybody else; did you all bring your foods? There will be music and dancing!” Mr. Marplotski announced this to all the workers with the most cheerful voice he can conjure up and with good intention. A buzz went around the office with the excitement of what was to follow after work. There was even a buzz in Charles and Tiffany: their glances towards each other were not as subtle as they usually were, rather they were more careless in this anticipatory ferment. Careless of what? Well, no one is perfect; but, mistakes can hurt and beget regret.
The businessmen and Tiffany were about to start the mini-dance. That comprised fifteen men, one manager (also a man) and one woman. The question was who was going to dance with the lady – unless of course everyone would rather dance separately. However, this was not the case. The dance became a competition.
Out of all the dancing that was going on, Tiffany’s dancing was the most exotic. With closed eyes, she had seducing feminine curves and beautifully orchestrated contorted limbs. She was not shy.
Charles, on the other hand, was the complete antithesis of Tiffany. He stayed in the corner, with his hands in his pockets and his feet just barely moving somewhat to the beat of the song. His eyes were busy watching Tiffany. The only dancing he made was between his smiling lips and his gazing eyes.
Other businessmen noticed Tiffany’s dancing. How could they not? She was at the center of the makeshift dance-floor. They had to have her. Each man danced his way to her. Poor Tiffany did not notice this because she was too focused and incarcerated by her own dancing. She did not even notice Charles, who, seeing the closing-in of other men, had a racing heart of apprehension.
He was loosing and loosing it all. Pity.
Within minutes, all the men, not including Charles, surrounded Tiffany, almost to the point of suffocating her. She still did not notice a thing; but, Charles saw everything and heard the radio playing its sickening Christmas songs.
Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, Charles staggered to the mob of dancing men. He squeezed among them until he was within reach of Tiffany. He lent out his hairy arm and got hold of Tiffany’s hand. For the first time since her dancing started, her eyes opened. She saw all the men and gave a little, “oh!” She looked lost and scared, like a little child just realizing he had missed his stop on the bus. Tiffany was taken aback by what had progressed among the fifteen men. The men looked at her as if she were one of their meaty sandwiches. Her dancing feet were the trickling down of meat juice that often danced off their mouths and her dress, being a single sparkling red dress, was a red and shiny can of coca cola. Noticing the hand on her hand, the familiar feel of it, she allowed herself to be taken away from the mob. Charles pulled her out.
Then, they were the center of attention. Facing each other in a dancing position, Charles and Tiffany’s eyes could not have been more transparent to the other, connected to each other. Holding hands, they danced as if complementing the other.
The other men murmured among each other. “Hey, what the hell’s going on here?” asked Curt, staring at an apparently unfolding secret.
“Who does he think he is?” asked Whineback. “What are we going to do about this? Charles and Tiffany? Ha! Something’s not right; it’s not right!” Whineback looked around the office, at the other men’s reactions. All seemed to be on the same page as he was. “Someone shut off the radio! Turn it off!”
Two men quickly ran over to it in ardent determination and tried to shut it off. With fast, overlooking hands, the two baffled men did not know how to turn it off. Tiffany knew how to fix her photocopy machine and that was her radio. As a result, the rest of the mob of men, seeing the two men having trouble turning it off, decided to take matters into their own hands: they ran over to the radio and smashed it, until no sound came out of it.
Crashing silence took hold. The men stood still. All eyes were drawn to Tiffany and Charles who were holding hands, standing against the background of gray, dirty falling snow. The lights began to flicker due to the electrical mishap from the breaking – no, killing – of the radio. The flickering lights displayed unnecessary shadows over the floor, the walls, the ceiling – everywhere. Color was drained out of their faces. It was like the scene where the detective is questioning the suspect. Uncovering precious information. Undressing a lie. Some call it the naked truth.
Charles and Tiffany’s dancing stopped. They looked around, only to see the angry, mad eyes of the rest of the men who were in need of an explanation. Tiffany’s eyes filled with tears, instantly. She let go of Charles’s hands and ran out of the door and into the elevator and out of his life.
_______________________________
The next day at work, Tiffany was not there. After work, Charles went over to Tiffany’s apartment. Empty. She was gone forever.
______________________________
Charles still keeps the broken radio under his desk. He does not know why; it doesn’t even play anymore, let alone turn on. It just sits there, under his desk, broken and silent. And sad.
Pity.
I hope you enjoyed reading this. Feel free to interpret it.
In my opinion, I think my writing here is more sophisticated, more deliberate than my writing in my first short story. My writing here takes on a different tone from the tone I used in my first short story. It’s more terse and powerful. Playful in a way. So anyway, I thought I’d share this with you, as a kind of reward for waiting for my return. Unfortunately, my next return won’t be until around Christmas time. I’ve had many inspirations for topics and experiences I’d like to write about, but they will all have to wait. I just hope I don’t forget about them.
Until next time!
Inhale. Exhale. Ahhhh in sighing peace. It’s nice to be back. We have been apart for too long. I sadly say that my stay here, today, will be short, though. It is nearing the ultimate end of the semester and I have not had a well-deserved long night of sleep. Nor a writing buddy, buddy. Still, in the words, of Jason Mraz, “I wanna to catch up to you.” I’ll let you relax. No need to stand up. I've been standing and I'll continue to stand for you. Let my thoughts run around. Pick anything up and leave anything down.
These past couple of weeks have been worrying. They have not been stressful because I was procrastinating most of the time, enjoying myself in myriad ways. Some of which can be described here (if I were to be so eager to do so) and some of which should not be. Yes, indeed these past couple of weeks have been rather worrying because of the incessant pounding of the guilties, as I like to call them, on the door leading to the entrance of my conscience. They knock harder right now, as I am selfishly writing in you, needing you as an escape, as a way to enjoy myself more than you would enjoy yourself, although I am just guessing on your behalf. I could be wrong and sometimes it's nice to be. But still, for this I am sorry and for this I am also only half-regretful. Why? I am regretful that I am not doing school work. I am not regretful because, just as selfish as my need to have you is, I know you love and need to have me too. Did not Jean-Jacques Rousseau say that master and slave are both equal? Yes, indeed he did say that. And his explanation? A master is only a master, so long as he has a slave. A slave is only a slave so long as he has a master. They make each other. They complement each other. We need and love each other. Let my finger tips massage your blank pages with soothing, deep words and I shall nibble your listening invisible ears. And so we are united in mutual agreement, under the strict constraints of business.
I just came to drop off a little piece that I have been working on. For my EGL 380 class, which is The English Language: origin and grammar usage, I altered it to meet my English class project’s requirements. I would display both of them here for you, to show how much I have grown in the world of grammar, since we’ve been apart for way too long; but, that would only add more pages. What I would like to display is the short story in its bare bones.
And so here it is:
The Broken Radio
By Bernadette Tinio
“This world is full of imaginative people. Pick one to shine through a prism.” This quote was said to him in a dream once. It appeared to him four times this week. He thinks it is telling him something but before he can make anything out of it, like all of his dreams, it grew dark too quickly.
His name is Charles and he works at the glamorous Falsamort Towers - as if the name didn’t look ugly already. Charles works as an ordinary accountant. His cubicle is in the left far corner of the fifteenth floor, which is full of fifteen other cubicles, just like his. Charles wipes off the bits of scrambled eggs that had fallen on one of his balance sheets from lunchtime, into the garbage next to the window. While there, he looks out. The orange sun is looming over the busy city. Charles follows one of the innocuous sun’s rays into a window of a tall apartment building. “Oh?” thinks Charles as he looks around briefly in unfortunate confirmation. The woman Charles is looking at is no stranger to him, though they both act like strangers to each other when they are in the company of fellow businessmen. He looks over at the clock on his desk, which is unorganized with papers lying everywhere. Six thirty. She would be home by now. But Charles had chosen to stay late that night. Pity.
Her name is Tiffany, or Tiff as Charles calls her. She is the red-dressed receptionist among the hairy filthy men. Although she is independent, she represses herself at times. The fact that she is the only female in Charles’s work place creates a little tension in her work place. Tiffany knows this and it is always in her mind, under the veneer of indifference, as when she walks with deliberate footing, or when she photocopies papers knowing and not minding the fact that she is keeping up the line, or when she enjoys her salad and orange juice in front of the other men having their slobby meaty sandwiches on white bread, drinking sodas (and occasional beers). Nevertheless, she is silent most of the time.
Charles is not the brightest accountant on the fifteenth floor. He follows orders and that’s all. He does just enough work that needs to be done – not because he is lazy, but because that’s all he can do. Imprisoned by a somewhat round belly, Charles usually has a stain on his dull patterned tie from any condiments he might have used that day.
He is not married, and neither is Tiffany.
At work, they no longer talk to each other in front of other workers, unless they have to – in which case their brief conversation would be over something as non-important as their work. He still sees her though at certain times during the workday; they just don’t know when the other is leaving to go home, unless they have eye contact beforehand. Then they just know. The wonderful thing about eye contact is that it has its subtleties. The eyes imply and you must infer.
Charles was already working at the Falsamort Towers when Tiffany arrived as the new receptionist. Charles had been working there for a long time and Tiffany was just another freshman – no, fresh-woman. But it seemed, now, that it is the other way around, if one were to assume a Darwinian work place. Tiffany knows her way around the office. She knows the preferences of different men: Albert Whineback likes his messages sent to him through email, not phone while Fred Oirion loves to hear his messages streaming out of his office phone, but nevertheless does not mind receiving them through email. Tiffany knows how to work the photocopy machine and even how to fix it whenever it is remiss from its photocopying duties – as when Curt jammed it by accident because he wanted the papers to come out faster.
Charles is still at the bottom of this workplace food chain, a rather corrupt ecosystem than balanced one; and he doesn’t mind not changing his status, among the devouring men, who are competing to be the best, the winner. And yet Charles feels like he is at the top now-a-days.
____________________________
Tiffany and Charles’s relationship developed from a series of glances; that’s how it started out at first. Whenever Charles came into work, Tiffany greeted him with flashy morning eyes, from the front desk. Whenever he left his desk to get an occasional free breakfast bagel, she caught his eyes as she and Charles reached for the same one. Whenever he looked back just before entering the men’s bathroom – just out of curiosity – her eyes flitted over to his. Even at his desk; whenever he stood up to stretch, his eyes half-open in conjunction with a yawn, he would find her eyes magically appearing in his field of vision. Or was it always his eyes that ran to her?
Their relationship grew more intimate once they started having lunch together and getting to know each other.
One fall noon they had lunch out at a restaurant-bar. They knew the other men wouldn’t go there because they would usually go to the other, alpha-male bar on the opposite side of the Falsamort Towers. This divergence of lunch places, as if they were designated, only made more prominent the separation between Tiffany and Charles, and the rest of the beastly businessmen
“I’m sure none of them is here, Tiff.” Charles was eating a beef burger with a cold beer. He looked over at Tiffany. Her eyes were busy scoping the restaurant-bar for any sign of their co-workers.
“Just making sure.” Tiffany replied while settling down. Her soup was getting cold.
“Can you imagine what they’ll say if they saw us together?” Charles chuckled in his high-pitched voice; almost like that of a wimp.
“I like the secrecy.”
“Me too.”
______________________________
Over the past two months, Charles had been coming over to Tiffany’s apartment after work. Sometimes she would leave the office earlier than Charles. Sometimes they would leave at the same time. But Charles would never go directly to her apartment, nor would he ever walk with her there. That was a mutual agreement, between him and Tiffany, to protect their secret, sacred intimacy.
During those nights in her apartment, they would eat dinner together, filling up their lustful stomachs with whatever they felt like eating, plus wine. Wine was a must. Candles were a must. Afterward they would relax on the sofa watching some mindless television, holding each other’s hand, snuggling together, not really paying attention to what they were watching, or not watching. One stormy night, the television shut off unexpectedly. The storm had caused a temporary blackout in her apartment that lasted the whole night and ran into the wee hours. But Charles and Tiffany didn’t need flashlights; they had candles. Seeing that the television was not working, they migrated to her bedroom for the night.
The next day at work, they both had a little skip in their step. That had been their first night.
________________________________
The seasons were passing by without any suspicion of the relationship that was growing, quite rebelliously, between Charles and Tiffany. Their little secret was a thriving undercurrent inside of them that kept them going throughout the days. They continued to speak with their eyes, during the work day. And they were getting good at it too; they knew each other’s expressions like they knew their childhood and all of their past before meeting each other – before the Falsamort Towers – except that was then and this is now. Now they are living.
One of the reasons why their relationship did not show under the radar of the other workers was because of the image of Charles and Tiffany together; it was as if one were looking at a picture displaying an old grandmother and a macho football player. Simply put, they were complete opposites. Tiffany was beautiful. She had a seducing affect over other men that she was indifferent to, expect for the affect she had on Charles, which was not exactly seducing.
It was more appreciative, platonic but not entirely; for, if it were platonic, it would be an imperfect kind at best. No, they were both aware of their implicit sensuality and they did not say anything about it. Their love was an “in-betweener.” They just looked at each other and felt each other’s presence, their minds always landing on the same downbeat. It was a balance or a parallel dance brought on by the two in silent agreement. Outsiders were not welcomed and were thought of as threats to their kingdom of intimacy.
__________________________________
One day at work, the manager of their branch, Mr. Marplotski, asked Tiffany if she could bring in a radio. It was the holiday season and Mr. Marplotski wanted to help bring out a cheery mood. Tiffany’s radio was surprisingly old-fashioned (the unsophisticated kind of old-fashioned) for her taste. Or was it her taste? Her radio was bulky and she could just barely put it in the trunk of her car. A security guard helped her bring it into the building and into the elevator to go to the fifteenth floor everyday of that season. She did not want to leave it in the office for fear of it being stolen. Just as she needed help bringing it in, she also needed help taking it back to her car at the end of the day. Charles was there for the job and he did not mind helping her bring it to her car. Most days he did not even notice he was carrying a radio, much like when some people do not realize they are wearing glasses; the glasses became part of them.
_____________________________
The wind blew wet snow against Tiffany’s face, with foreboding force, as she heaved the radio out from the trunk of her car one drab morning, to bring into the office. What was foreboding about the force? It was like a white-lashing warning. Tiffany just wiped it off as she entered the building and allowed the security guard to carry her radio into the elevator for her.
No one else was on the elevator that morning except Charles. With his brown coat soaking wet from the pelting snow, he glanced over at Tiffany and smiled. “Good morning, Tiff.”
“I’ve had better ones. Ugh, I’m such a mess.”
“You look fine.” Charles lied. She was a mess: her make-up smeared all over her face and she had sludge all over her high-heels. With red-knuckles, she loosened her grip on the radio and let it sit on the floor of the elevator. Charles watched her. “I had a great time last night.”
“Shh! Charles, not here!”
“But we’re in the elevator; no one’s here! And you know how slow it takes to get to our floor. Anyway,” Charles looked at her attire. The intricacy of the jabots running down her red, dirtied blouse that morning reminded him of the same-styled ruffles that lined the bed skirt of her bed. Hesitantly, Charles asked, “you enjoyed last night, right?”
“Of course I did! I always do.” Charles looked at her face, at her eyes. Yes, she had a wonderful time last night. Delighted with this deduction, he leaned over and gave a quick kiss on her cheek.
She blushed and giggled.
“Okay.” She sighed in self-complying surrender. With one hand leaning on his bulging stomach, covered up in an already stained, unsophisticated collared shirt, she reached up and returned one just the same.
A couple of seconds passed without a word. Silence was their comfort. Then suddenly, a bubbling doubt reached the surface of Charles’s mind. “Hey Tiff, you don’t think anyone--“
“No, of course not . . . right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, me neither. No.”
“I just feel like,” Charles knew what to say. He just could not find the words. Speaking was a whole different language from that of the eyes. “I feel like . . . like . . . what we have . . . .” Tiffany looked at his eyes. Instead of looking at her, his eyes were staring at the elevator door, reaching far-away, futuristic, hidden places, like deep, deep into his mind or his heart. He could not tell the difference, now, between his mind and his heart, because the secret nature of their relationship had entangled them – like when people get lost or wrapped up in the pages of an intriguing novel. The words mess them up, but they find pleasure and meaning in that.
“I love it too,” was all Tiffany said.
“I just don’t want to loose it.”
“Me neither.”
The bell in the elevator rang loudly and crisply, bringing them back to an office surrounding: the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the soft, dull sound of heavy penny-loafers carelessly pounding on the rugged floor. It was as if the bell were snapping them out of a reverie in which they had been too comfortable. The elevator moved more slowly than usual that morning.
Oddly enough, the whole work day felt slow to both Charles and Tiffany, like a passing comet in the night sky: from far away, it looks like it is moving very slowly; almost not at all, as if anything can happen and one would not notice it because he or she would be blinded by its slowness. However, up-close, things were moving at light speed. That is how the rest of the savage businessmen felt whenever Charles helped bring the radio to Tiffany’s car. “Wow, it’s already the end of the day,” said one of the other workers one day when he saw Charles and Tiffany out of the window, with the radio. Perhaps something finally showed up under the other workers’ radar – a comet.
The heavy, pelting snow was suffocating.
“Don’t forget about the Christmas party this afternoon, after work. Here, in the office. Tiffany, I want you to set up the decorations. Everybody else; did you all bring your foods? There will be music and dancing!” Mr. Marplotski announced this to all the workers with the most cheerful voice he can conjure up and with good intention. A buzz went around the office with the excitement of what was to follow after work. There was even a buzz in Charles and Tiffany: their glances towards each other were not as subtle as they usually were, rather they were more careless in this anticipatory ferment. Careless of what? Well, no one is perfect; but, mistakes can hurt and beget regret.
The businessmen and Tiffany were about to start the mini-dance. That comprised fifteen men, one manager (also a man) and one woman. The question was who was going to dance with the lady – unless of course everyone would rather dance separately. However, this was not the case. The dance became a competition.
Out of all the dancing that was going on, Tiffany’s dancing was the most exotic. With closed eyes, she had seducing feminine curves and beautifully orchestrated contorted limbs. She was not shy.
Charles, on the other hand, was the complete antithesis of Tiffany. He stayed in the corner, with his hands in his pockets and his feet just barely moving somewhat to the beat of the song. His eyes were busy watching Tiffany. The only dancing he made was between his smiling lips and his gazing eyes.
Other businessmen noticed Tiffany’s dancing. How could they not? She was at the center of the makeshift dance-floor. They had to have her. Each man danced his way to her. Poor Tiffany did not notice this because she was too focused and incarcerated by her own dancing. She did not even notice Charles, who, seeing the closing-in of other men, had a racing heart of apprehension.
He was loosing and loosing it all. Pity.
Within minutes, all the men, not including Charles, surrounded Tiffany, almost to the point of suffocating her. She still did not notice a thing; but, Charles saw everything and heard the radio playing its sickening Christmas songs.
Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, Charles staggered to the mob of dancing men. He squeezed among them until he was within reach of Tiffany. He lent out his hairy arm and got hold of Tiffany’s hand. For the first time since her dancing started, her eyes opened. She saw all the men and gave a little, “oh!” She looked lost and scared, like a little child just realizing he had missed his stop on the bus. Tiffany was taken aback by what had progressed among the fifteen men. The men looked at her as if she were one of their meaty sandwiches. Her dancing feet were the trickling down of meat juice that often danced off their mouths and her dress, being a single sparkling red dress, was a red and shiny can of coca cola. Noticing the hand on her hand, the familiar feel of it, she allowed herself to be taken away from the mob. Charles pulled her out.
Then, they were the center of attention. Facing each other in a dancing position, Charles and Tiffany’s eyes could not have been more transparent to the other, connected to each other. Holding hands, they danced as if complementing the other.
The other men murmured among each other. “Hey, what the hell’s going on here?” asked Curt, staring at an apparently unfolding secret.
“Who does he think he is?” asked Whineback. “What are we going to do about this? Charles and Tiffany? Ha! Something’s not right; it’s not right!” Whineback looked around the office, at the other men’s reactions. All seemed to be on the same page as he was. “Someone shut off the radio! Turn it off!”
Two men quickly ran over to it in ardent determination and tried to shut it off. With fast, overlooking hands, the two baffled men did not know how to turn it off. Tiffany knew how to fix her photocopy machine and that was her radio. As a result, the rest of the mob of men, seeing the two men having trouble turning it off, decided to take matters into their own hands: they ran over to the radio and smashed it, until no sound came out of it.
Crashing silence took hold. The men stood still. All eyes were drawn to Tiffany and Charles who were holding hands, standing against the background of gray, dirty falling snow. The lights began to flicker due to the electrical mishap from the breaking – no, killing – of the radio. The flickering lights displayed unnecessary shadows over the floor, the walls, the ceiling – everywhere. Color was drained out of their faces. It was like the scene where the detective is questioning the suspect. Uncovering precious information. Undressing a lie. Some call it the naked truth.
Charles and Tiffany’s dancing stopped. They looked around, only to see the angry, mad eyes of the rest of the men who were in need of an explanation. Tiffany’s eyes filled with tears, instantly. She let go of Charles’s hands and ran out of the door and into the elevator and out of his life.
_______________________________
The next day at work, Tiffany was not there. After work, Charles went over to Tiffany’s apartment. Empty. She was gone forever.
______________________________
Charles still keeps the broken radio under his desk. He does not know why; it doesn’t even play anymore, let alone turn on. It just sits there, under his desk, broken and silent. And sad.
Pity.
I hope you enjoyed reading this. Feel free to interpret it.
In my opinion, I think my writing here is more sophisticated, more deliberate than my writing in my first short story. My writing here takes on a different tone from the tone I used in my first short story. It’s more terse and powerful. Playful in a way. So anyway, I thought I’d share this with you, as a kind of reward for waiting for my return. Unfortunately, my next return won’t be until around Christmas time. I’ve had many inspirations for topics and experiences I’d like to write about, but they will all have to wait. I just hope I don’t forget about them.
Until next time!
Monday, November 16, 2009
Confession of my first drink
As you can see by the date, my birthday had just passed. It was broken up into two parts because, as you may infer, the 21st first birthday is particularly interesting because it can also be seen as a rite of passage, legalization-wise. In just six words, I can state, “I am allowed to drink now.” With that said, there were two parts to this birthday ordeal: one with the whole family and the other one with just my siblings and oh yeah, with alcohol.
On Friday, after my classes, Ate Sherry, Steph and Mommy and I drove to Kuya’s place. This was the plan: we would arrive at Kuya’s place in Forest Hills and meet Daddy there (he took the train there from his work in Manhattan) along with Kuya and Liz. Then Daddy and Mommy would take the car we used to get there to visit Grampa in Ozone park while we have our little debauchery. We did just that. After our parents left, Ate Sherry, Steph and I walked to Starbucks because Ate Sherry fancied this chocolate smoothie kind of latte thing. I don’t really know starbucks terms. When we got back to Kuya’s place, the first activity on the list was to have my first shot – Southern Comfort. I was so nervous and I kept laughing. I was scared that I would laugh and choke on it when I finally took that first shot. I asked if it was going to hurt and they told me it was going to be like taking medicine – the one that doesn’t taste good. Ate Sherry told me to drink it but breathe through the mouth so you don’t smell it, like you would with your medicine. I told them that I always smell the medicine. They laughed. But it’s true. The bottom line was to drink it fast, and follow it with the ginger ale. I looked down at it. “What if I can’t drink the whole thing in one gulp?” There were no comforting words about this one. Liz started counting down – 3 . . . 2 . . . 1. I raised the small shot glass, which was actually a shot mug they had bought from when they visited Argentina (it had a friendly tango picture on it). I raised it close to my mouth so that I could smell it. I was intimidated honestly and couldn’t do it. “Count from ten, this time,” I said. So they all started to count. As they were counting I was swaying back and fourth like I always do in different occasions; this time it’s to drink my first shot. They got down to 3. Then 2. Then 1. I closed my eyes. My esophagus burned as did my throat. Some dripped down my cheeks and I started to cough a lot. Then I remembered the ginger ale and drank some. Then some of that dripped down my cheeks. I choked up a little, then coughed some more. The whole time Kuya was recording this. I thought of that as I felt a sharp tingle in my nose. I don’t know how they would connect. Everyone was laughing. What a rush!
Next, we prepared and ate dinner: the pasta mommy made that we brought from home, crispy pata and bbq on a skew and a spicy macaroni salad that Kuya and Liz made. We drank iced tea with it. I knew I had to eat somewhat more than usual since I was going to be drinking and you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. BBQ never tasted so good in my life.
Kuya and Liz brought out the dragon berry. “Are you ready to start, guys?” Kuya looked around at us, at me. “Again?” I began to see my first shot as an initiation type of thing. I guess in a way it was. “Bern, that was only the beginning.” Then I remembered how he had wanted me to finish what was left in the Southern Comfort as my first one and then move on to Dragon Berry. I began to get nervous, a little less than the first time though. They told me it was going to be sweeter, a bit fruitier than the first one. This time, we all took a shot. But mine was from a particularly longer shot glass . . .
What a rush!
My face started getting hot but I wasn’t feeling anything I had learned in the past. Perhaps it was still too early.
We played some games on the wii. Steph and I played wii tennis. I beat her! Coordination still there. We joked around. They asked me if I felt funny. I told them no and that I could still think clearly. So we took another round.
I still wasn’t feeling any different – just hotter in the face. Ate Sherry touched my face and my cheeks. “Kuya, look, she’s all red!” I leaned over to Steph, my right hand best friend, and whispered in her ear “why, what’s wrong with red?” She whispered back, “most Asians blush a lot when they drink,” I said, “oh, okay. Wait, how do you know this?” She didn’t answer.
Since I wasn’t feeling the effects just yet, Kuya spun me around. I didn’t fall one bit. I told them all, “I don’t react well to things. I just don’t.” But then I also confessed, “I worked out extra hard because I know that if you have more muscle mass, you can drink more.” I answered my own question, although still unsatisfactorily. There’s got to be more reasons for my lack of reacting to it.
We had another round. I was getting used to this. Steph didn’t finish hers so Kuya, Liz and I finished it for her. Ate Sherry couldn’t drink anymore because she had work the next day.
Kuya and Liz had to buy some more – not that we ran out already, at least I don’t think. I don’t remember . . .
While they were out, Steph and I played wii tennis again. I beat her! Then we played wii bowling while Ate Sherry made sure that we didn’t break anything. We didn’t. We’re still good. At least I was, little Ms. Slow-reactor as I am. To the dragon berry I mean.
While Kuya and Liz were still out, my Dad called me. They said they were already here. Steph panicked a little. It still felt like we just started this night. It was 10 and we got there at 8. I told Steph not to worry – I’ll handle it. I called my Dad (he had called Steph’s cell phone before). As his cell phone was wringing and I heard it through my phone, I had a weird thought on my mind: what am I going to tell my parents? That I need more time to drink and get drunk? Can you wait and come back so that I can finally get wasted? “Hi Daddy, we need another hour because it feels like we just started. Can you come back again? Sorry! Maybe you can drive around. Show Mommy around! Like a mini date!” I said. I decided to be honest, but at the same time careful with my choice of words. Diction never seemed so crucial as it did that moment, it seemed. Surprisingly, my Dad said “sure!” Yes, thank you honesty!!!
Kuya and Liz came back and told us about how they saw Mommy and Daddy in front of the apartment. I told them how I was able to get our parents to come back an hour later. That meant that we had to have as much fun as we could in one hour.
Kuya, Liz and I had another round.
We ate some of the Sun Chips that Kuya and Liz had bought when they briefly left. Putting away the wii, we knew it was time to play twister. I didn’t feel any different from when I arrived there. I just felt a little dizzy and light headed. But that felt tolerable. It was like a minor headache spread throughout my body, not just the head. And I kept telling them that I was tolerably dizzy. I was able to win in twister still. Steph looked like she had enough dragon berry. She toppled on top of Ate Sherry while we were playing.
I put on my boxing gloves. I brought them with me from home. Kuya and I started boxing and he was showing me new moves. Then he picked me up. I saw . . . I saw . . . this is what I saw: a blur of the floor and Kuya’s black socks. I felt a rush of blood going to my head. And then I saw something similar to the television when it’s all staticky, except it was darker and purple-ish. I don’t know if that makes sense.
But afterward, I went to the bathroom. As I was walking there, my legs felt kind of weak but I didn’t want to admit anything (until now of course). In the bathroom I bent over, my palms on my knees and stood in that position for about a minute or 30 seconds. Or was it a minute and a half? I honestly couldn’t tell the difference. I heard myself breathe. My breath smelled like dragon berry. Then I continued with my business. I washed my hands. How about my face too while I’m at it? I did and looked in the mirror after drying up. My face was red and shiny – like an apple.
I’m gonna cut to the chase here. We had quite a few more shots, Kuya, Liz and I. “Here Bern,” said Liz, offering my same long, shot mug that said tango on it. The tango picture didn’t look so friendly anymore. “Oh . . . again? No, I’m good . . . no really . . . no it’s okay . . .um.” I took the last one anyway. I felt my heart racing even though I was just sitting on the corner of Kuya’s bed. As I was eating more of the Sun Chips, I heard Kuya and Ate Sherry talking. “that’s enough already, Kuya. How many did she have? Seven, seven and a half?” “No since her glass counts as two shots, it’s really actually nine.” “I know that, but how? Oh yeah, she finished mine sometimes.”
Nine shots. And Ate Sherry said that people can usually take three or four. I felt tolerably dizzy only.
My balance was there still. Earlier on, Kuya wanted to see if I could walk in a straight line. I was confident that I would be able to still. Or was I in denial? I walked down an imaginary line. It took some effort, but I was able to walk straight decently. In all honesty, I kept thinking how I couldn’t believe it was so hard to walk straight. I had to use E-F-F-O-R-T. I remember watching a show that showed wild police chases or wild arrests and I would see these people who couldn’t walk straight when the officer told them too. And now here I was, somewhat feeling the same thing. Except without the crime.
I went to the bathroom again.
Our parents arrived at I don’t know what time. We were all packing (I don’t remember where my watch went) and getting ready to go home. Kuya and Liz would come with us to stay at our house for the weekend. My muscles were beginning to feel weak and my heart kept racing now and again. We all got in the car and I sat in my usual spot – the back left corner.
Driving home. What a mess that was for me. I had to go to the bathroom again, even though I just went. I said it out loud. “Shhhhhhhhhhh!” Kuya, Liz, Ate Sherry and Steph had their index fingers over their mouths as they looked at me and then at each other. All of a sudden I felt so sleepy. I would just close my eyes and let my body lay on the seat, like the settling blood of a person who had just died. My cheeks still felt hot. I put my books (I was doing some reading and homework on the way there) on my lap but I couldn’t stop them from moving around when my Dad made a turn on the road. One time, the day afterward, Kuya told me to squeeze his hand. I squeezed it as hard as I could until he couldn’t take it anymore. Then he told me how in the car ride home, he had asked me to squeeze his hand. He had put mine in his own and nothing happened. Or if something did, it wasn’t really noticeable. Another strange thing happened in the car. I was crying. Except I don’t want to call it that because I associate crying with an intense feeling or passion. For me, tears were just coming down, making my red cheeks glossy. They were bothersome because I wanted to sleep. During the party, Kuya had given me a small Patrick doll (from Spongebob Squarepants) that he won using the claw in the vending machine. I don’t know how Patrick got in between me and the seat belt. I don’t remember that at all.
We got home. Things only got weirder. My balance got worse and everything felt surreal. I went to the bathroom near the kitchen. My head was bent over the whole time and my breathing was kind of heavy. When I was crossing the kitchen to go to my room after I was finished in the bathroom, my Dad was standing there and said . . . and said . . . actually I don’t remember what he said. Whatever he said, I presented my cheek to him so that he would have to lean down to kiss it, as I mumbled good night. At least that’s what it was supposed to sound like. I wanted to avoid talking. It had become a difficult feat. I kept clinging to the walls and to every corner I saw just to get to my room. E-F-F-O-R-T.
I got there. I closed the door. It was dark, almost pitch black. My muscles felt weaker. I lay on the floor with my jacket still on, my jeans still on. I still wore the dragon berry on my breath. I began to think how I didn’t want my parents to walk in on me and see me on the floor. For goodness gracious, their room is right next door to mine. I got on my knees and then on my feet and I turned on the light. Whoa. Okay, that’s too bright, I thought. Then I thought how things are supposed to seem brighter when you’ve been drinking. I didn’t want the same to happen to me, so I thought, no that’s not bright; that’s not bright at all. But I remained squinting the whole time it was on. I undressed and left my clothes on the floor unfolded. I fell into my bed literally; my bed made a loud creaking noise. I turned off my light. It was pitch black again, almost. But then Ate Sherry came in. She put the garbage next to my bed. And put her hand over my head, kind of caressing it. See, if I wasn’t totally out of it how could I remember this?
She left. A second or two passed. Or maybe it was five or ten minutes. My door opened again. My head felt heavy. Someone came in. I could no longer make out who it was. “Ate Sherry?” I mumbled. It was Liz. She told me it was her the next day. She had come to give me some aspirin so that I wouldn’t have a huge headache in the morning. Thanks, it helped a lot! She said something about the glass of water she brought. I don’t really know. But I just dropped back onto my pillow and she left. I do remember her putting the covers over me. The next day she told me about how she told Kuya that night, that I was half off the bed, with my arm swinging down, next to the garbage. I just know that I was sleepy beyond sleepy.
I was able to sleep for the next four and a half hours. I woke up at 4:50 AM and had to go to the bathroom . . .
I’ll have to continue this blog on another night. I still have lots to tell about my sleepless night and what I did. To be continued . . .
On Friday, after my classes, Ate Sherry, Steph and Mommy and I drove to Kuya’s place. This was the plan: we would arrive at Kuya’s place in Forest Hills and meet Daddy there (he took the train there from his work in Manhattan) along with Kuya and Liz. Then Daddy and Mommy would take the car we used to get there to visit Grampa in Ozone park while we have our little debauchery. We did just that. After our parents left, Ate Sherry, Steph and I walked to Starbucks because Ate Sherry fancied this chocolate smoothie kind of latte thing. I don’t really know starbucks terms. When we got back to Kuya’s place, the first activity on the list was to have my first shot – Southern Comfort. I was so nervous and I kept laughing. I was scared that I would laugh and choke on it when I finally took that first shot. I asked if it was going to hurt and they told me it was going to be like taking medicine – the one that doesn’t taste good. Ate Sherry told me to drink it but breathe through the mouth so you don’t smell it, like you would with your medicine. I told them that I always smell the medicine. They laughed. But it’s true. The bottom line was to drink it fast, and follow it with the ginger ale. I looked down at it. “What if I can’t drink the whole thing in one gulp?” There were no comforting words about this one. Liz started counting down – 3 . . . 2 . . . 1. I raised the small shot glass, which was actually a shot mug they had bought from when they visited Argentina (it had a friendly tango picture on it). I raised it close to my mouth so that I could smell it. I was intimidated honestly and couldn’t do it. “Count from ten, this time,” I said. So they all started to count. As they were counting I was swaying back and fourth like I always do in different occasions; this time it’s to drink my first shot. They got down to 3. Then 2. Then 1. I closed my eyes. My esophagus burned as did my throat. Some dripped down my cheeks and I started to cough a lot. Then I remembered the ginger ale and drank some. Then some of that dripped down my cheeks. I choked up a little, then coughed some more. The whole time Kuya was recording this. I thought of that as I felt a sharp tingle in my nose. I don’t know how they would connect. Everyone was laughing. What a rush!
Next, we prepared and ate dinner: the pasta mommy made that we brought from home, crispy pata and bbq on a skew and a spicy macaroni salad that Kuya and Liz made. We drank iced tea with it. I knew I had to eat somewhat more than usual since I was going to be drinking and you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. BBQ never tasted so good in my life.
Kuya and Liz brought out the dragon berry. “Are you ready to start, guys?” Kuya looked around at us, at me. “Again?” I began to see my first shot as an initiation type of thing. I guess in a way it was. “Bern, that was only the beginning.” Then I remembered how he had wanted me to finish what was left in the Southern Comfort as my first one and then move on to Dragon Berry. I began to get nervous, a little less than the first time though. They told me it was going to be sweeter, a bit fruitier than the first one. This time, we all took a shot. But mine was from a particularly longer shot glass . . .
What a rush!
My face started getting hot but I wasn’t feeling anything I had learned in the past. Perhaps it was still too early.
We played some games on the wii. Steph and I played wii tennis. I beat her! Coordination still there. We joked around. They asked me if I felt funny. I told them no and that I could still think clearly. So we took another round.
I still wasn’t feeling any different – just hotter in the face. Ate Sherry touched my face and my cheeks. “Kuya, look, she’s all red!” I leaned over to Steph, my right hand best friend, and whispered in her ear “why, what’s wrong with red?” She whispered back, “most Asians blush a lot when they drink,” I said, “oh, okay. Wait, how do you know this?” She didn’t answer.
Since I wasn’t feeling the effects just yet, Kuya spun me around. I didn’t fall one bit. I told them all, “I don’t react well to things. I just don’t.” But then I also confessed, “I worked out extra hard because I know that if you have more muscle mass, you can drink more.” I answered my own question, although still unsatisfactorily. There’s got to be more reasons for my lack of reacting to it.
We had another round. I was getting used to this. Steph didn’t finish hers so Kuya, Liz and I finished it for her. Ate Sherry couldn’t drink anymore because she had work the next day.
Kuya and Liz had to buy some more – not that we ran out already, at least I don’t think. I don’t remember . . .
While they were out, Steph and I played wii tennis again. I beat her! Then we played wii bowling while Ate Sherry made sure that we didn’t break anything. We didn’t. We’re still good. At least I was, little Ms. Slow-reactor as I am. To the dragon berry I mean.
While Kuya and Liz were still out, my Dad called me. They said they were already here. Steph panicked a little. It still felt like we just started this night. It was 10 and we got there at 8. I told Steph not to worry – I’ll handle it. I called my Dad (he had called Steph’s cell phone before). As his cell phone was wringing and I heard it through my phone, I had a weird thought on my mind: what am I going to tell my parents? That I need more time to drink and get drunk? Can you wait and come back so that I can finally get wasted? “Hi Daddy, we need another hour because it feels like we just started. Can you come back again? Sorry! Maybe you can drive around. Show Mommy around! Like a mini date!” I said. I decided to be honest, but at the same time careful with my choice of words. Diction never seemed so crucial as it did that moment, it seemed. Surprisingly, my Dad said “sure!” Yes, thank you honesty!!!
Kuya and Liz came back and told us about how they saw Mommy and Daddy in front of the apartment. I told them how I was able to get our parents to come back an hour later. That meant that we had to have as much fun as we could in one hour.
Kuya, Liz and I had another round.
We ate some of the Sun Chips that Kuya and Liz had bought when they briefly left. Putting away the wii, we knew it was time to play twister. I didn’t feel any different from when I arrived there. I just felt a little dizzy and light headed. But that felt tolerable. It was like a minor headache spread throughout my body, not just the head. And I kept telling them that I was tolerably dizzy. I was able to win in twister still. Steph looked like she had enough dragon berry. She toppled on top of Ate Sherry while we were playing.
I put on my boxing gloves. I brought them with me from home. Kuya and I started boxing and he was showing me new moves. Then he picked me up. I saw . . . I saw . . . this is what I saw: a blur of the floor and Kuya’s black socks. I felt a rush of blood going to my head. And then I saw something similar to the television when it’s all staticky, except it was darker and purple-ish. I don’t know if that makes sense.
But afterward, I went to the bathroom. As I was walking there, my legs felt kind of weak but I didn’t want to admit anything (until now of course). In the bathroom I bent over, my palms on my knees and stood in that position for about a minute or 30 seconds. Or was it a minute and a half? I honestly couldn’t tell the difference. I heard myself breathe. My breath smelled like dragon berry. Then I continued with my business. I washed my hands. How about my face too while I’m at it? I did and looked in the mirror after drying up. My face was red and shiny – like an apple.
I’m gonna cut to the chase here. We had quite a few more shots, Kuya, Liz and I. “Here Bern,” said Liz, offering my same long, shot mug that said tango on it. The tango picture didn’t look so friendly anymore. “Oh . . . again? No, I’m good . . . no really . . . no it’s okay . . .um.” I took the last one anyway. I felt my heart racing even though I was just sitting on the corner of Kuya’s bed. As I was eating more of the Sun Chips, I heard Kuya and Ate Sherry talking. “that’s enough already, Kuya. How many did she have? Seven, seven and a half?” “No since her glass counts as two shots, it’s really actually nine.” “I know that, but how? Oh yeah, she finished mine sometimes.”
Nine shots. And Ate Sherry said that people can usually take three or four. I felt tolerably dizzy only.
My balance was there still. Earlier on, Kuya wanted to see if I could walk in a straight line. I was confident that I would be able to still. Or was I in denial? I walked down an imaginary line. It took some effort, but I was able to walk straight decently. In all honesty, I kept thinking how I couldn’t believe it was so hard to walk straight. I had to use E-F-F-O-R-T. I remember watching a show that showed wild police chases or wild arrests and I would see these people who couldn’t walk straight when the officer told them too. And now here I was, somewhat feeling the same thing. Except without the crime.
I went to the bathroom again.
Our parents arrived at I don’t know what time. We were all packing (I don’t remember where my watch went) and getting ready to go home. Kuya and Liz would come with us to stay at our house for the weekend. My muscles were beginning to feel weak and my heart kept racing now and again. We all got in the car and I sat in my usual spot – the back left corner.
Driving home. What a mess that was for me. I had to go to the bathroom again, even though I just went. I said it out loud. “Shhhhhhhhhhh!” Kuya, Liz, Ate Sherry and Steph had their index fingers over their mouths as they looked at me and then at each other. All of a sudden I felt so sleepy. I would just close my eyes and let my body lay on the seat, like the settling blood of a person who had just died. My cheeks still felt hot. I put my books (I was doing some reading and homework on the way there) on my lap but I couldn’t stop them from moving around when my Dad made a turn on the road. One time, the day afterward, Kuya told me to squeeze his hand. I squeezed it as hard as I could until he couldn’t take it anymore. Then he told me how in the car ride home, he had asked me to squeeze his hand. He had put mine in his own and nothing happened. Or if something did, it wasn’t really noticeable. Another strange thing happened in the car. I was crying. Except I don’t want to call it that because I associate crying with an intense feeling or passion. For me, tears were just coming down, making my red cheeks glossy. They were bothersome because I wanted to sleep. During the party, Kuya had given me a small Patrick doll (from Spongebob Squarepants) that he won using the claw in the vending machine. I don’t know how Patrick got in between me and the seat belt. I don’t remember that at all.
We got home. Things only got weirder. My balance got worse and everything felt surreal. I went to the bathroom near the kitchen. My head was bent over the whole time and my breathing was kind of heavy. When I was crossing the kitchen to go to my room after I was finished in the bathroom, my Dad was standing there and said . . . and said . . . actually I don’t remember what he said. Whatever he said, I presented my cheek to him so that he would have to lean down to kiss it, as I mumbled good night. At least that’s what it was supposed to sound like. I wanted to avoid talking. It had become a difficult feat. I kept clinging to the walls and to every corner I saw just to get to my room. E-F-F-O-R-T.
I got there. I closed the door. It was dark, almost pitch black. My muscles felt weaker. I lay on the floor with my jacket still on, my jeans still on. I still wore the dragon berry on my breath. I began to think how I didn’t want my parents to walk in on me and see me on the floor. For goodness gracious, their room is right next door to mine. I got on my knees and then on my feet and I turned on the light. Whoa. Okay, that’s too bright, I thought. Then I thought how things are supposed to seem brighter when you’ve been drinking. I didn’t want the same to happen to me, so I thought, no that’s not bright; that’s not bright at all. But I remained squinting the whole time it was on. I undressed and left my clothes on the floor unfolded. I fell into my bed literally; my bed made a loud creaking noise. I turned off my light. It was pitch black again, almost. But then Ate Sherry came in. She put the garbage next to my bed. And put her hand over my head, kind of caressing it. See, if I wasn’t totally out of it how could I remember this?
She left. A second or two passed. Or maybe it was five or ten minutes. My door opened again. My head felt heavy. Someone came in. I could no longer make out who it was. “Ate Sherry?” I mumbled. It was Liz. She told me it was her the next day. She had come to give me some aspirin so that I wouldn’t have a huge headache in the morning. Thanks, it helped a lot! She said something about the glass of water she brought. I don’t really know. But I just dropped back onto my pillow and she left. I do remember her putting the covers over me. The next day she told me about how she told Kuya that night, that I was half off the bed, with my arm swinging down, next to the garbage. I just know that I was sleepy beyond sleepy.
I was able to sleep for the next four and a half hours. I woke up at 4:50 AM and had to go to the bathroom . . .
I’ll have to continue this blog on another night. I still have lots to tell about my sleepless night and what I did. To be continued . . .
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Parents - you gotta love'em
The other week I was sick. A slight fever, soar throat, stuffy nose – the usual. Except with the swine flu thing going on – what with posters warning and informing everyone about it all over campus and on the news – my parents were particularly concerned. I didn’t think I had it, mainly because I had injected in myself a little vaccine called denial. So I came home from school Friday night of last week, a sick, pathetic (yes, I must admit it; I am a baby when I’m sick) and cold, but hot at the same time, Bern.
I know this is a kind of implicit thing in my family, or maybe that’s just in my point of view, but whenever someone gets sick, we tend to elongate that period of ill health because we don’t exactly stick to the medicine schedule. At least that’s the case with me. My reason? Because simply I forget to take the medicine or I don’t believe it works sometimes. Perhaps it was the denial I rashly injected again last week.
In any case, last week’s recovery from the common minor flu – or cold – seemed to break the cycle, thanks to my parents’ love and care and fear of the swine flu, and their determination not to bring me to the doctor’s so we wouldn’t have to pay. I had become their experiment. And the baby that crawls out of me during these times of sickness only helped. I was already drowning in sea foam tissues.
I stuck to an oatmeal diet. Not exclusively though; I also had arroz caldo, green tea with honey and hot chocolate milk – to name a few. I stayed in bed and did my homework there (which wasn’t very productive due to the seducing slumber that surrounded and made up the aura of my bed). I often fell asleep with books on my face. Outside of the house, I stopped going to the gym for the whole week – that’s a first.
But what really made my recovery fast and efficient was my parents' forcing me to stick to the medicine schedule. I was on the most comforting and delicious TheraFlu. No complaints there. But see, without my parents I probably would have been too lazy to prepare it or I would have forgotten to drink it every once in a – what’s the dosage and directions for adults ages 12 and over? I had a separate medicine mug for it, propped upside down on a saucer next to a spoon, when it and I were taking a break from its use. My parents were on me with my medicine. They kindly prepared it for me (again, I can be such a baby when I’m sick) when it was time to take it – and saw to it that I did, I might add: If that cup wasn’t empty in ten minutes, rinsed out and propped upside down on the saucer, they would inquire both vehemently and panickingly. They kept asking me if I had a headache or any other body aches and texted me to take my aspirin when I was in school. My mom had put a roll of tissue paper on the dresser next to my bed for the sudden sneezes of the wee hours. At least twice a day, they took my temperature to see my progression. And sometimes, quite randomly, my dad would all of a sudden slap the back of his hand on my face (I don’t think he realized he was still wearing his wedding ring), aiming for my forehead to see if I had a fever. He had turned to my mom once, and then I heard a murmured exchange of words, the result of which was them asking me, as if out of suspicion, if I had taken my medicine. I forgot that time. Oh, that’s what parents are for!
To make a long story short, my recovery time was relatively short compared to the many times I’ve been sick in the past. I would like to thank my parents for their determination to make sure that I got better as fast as possible so as to end the misery the sickness engendered, which was probably from someone who sneezed on me in my world literature class or any of my other English classes. I would like to thank them for driving straight from work to CVS to buy the TheraFlu and I would like to thank them for warming it up in the microwave and cutting the TheraFlu packet filled with its miracle powder to be mixed into the hot water. I would like to thank my mom for putting the aspirin in a zip-bloc bag so I can bring it to school, even when I could have done it, though I was lazy. Thanks, I really do appreciate it.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
My Partner in time
What object describes me?
On my tenth birthday, I had wanted a sports watch. I don’t know where the idea came to me to want a sports watch. I just know that I wanted one at the time. So then I got one from Tito Albert and Tita Celia. Tita Celia worked in the jewelry department of Macy’s, I think, so she was able to buy one for me. I was so excited when I got it! I think it still had the price on it. It was 60 dollars! Sixty dollars to make a ten year old girl smile. About a year after that, I lent my watch to someone for one day and that day my watch broke. It wouldn’t say the time or do other functions. Angry? Of course I was. I was furious! Already you can see how much my watch was beginning to mean to me. I didn’t talk to that person for the rest of that day and I blame that person for the breaking of my watch, even to this day. Except that I don’t hate that person anymore. The hate left, but I still point my finger at her.
Anyway, that meant that I had to get a new watch. Who knew that it would be this new watch that I would have for the next 11 years, come this November? My parents bought me a new watch – that new watch I was just talking about – when I was 11. In addition to that, they bought one for Steph and Ate Sherry. I don’t know what they did with their’s buy I kept mine and still have it right now as I speak. I mean write. Technically type.
Therefore I nominate my wrist buddy who has been with me for at least half my life as the object that would describe me.
Watches move on and so do I (and so does mostly everybody else). Over the past few years I’ve changed, chiefly because I had to because it was required for college and chiefly because I was egged on to by other people and chiefly because I wanted to – because my mind changes and as it changes so do my desires. But I’ll save that for another blog. So I’ve changed over the past few years – computer wise. I didn’t used to have an email. But then I got a yahoo email account. And for the first year of college I used that. But then one seemingly ordinary day, as I was on the library computer at school, I was “invited to chat to Ate Sherry on gmail.” I didn’t know what that meant at the time honestly, but I saw Ate Sherry’s name and I got excited. It said that I first had to create a gmail account. Honestly again, I didn’t know what that meant, but I created one anyway. The next thing I knew, I was chatting with Ate Sherry and she was just as surprised as I was that I did that. That was the first change.
Then there was youtube. Simply put, Steph taught me how to create my own account and make playlists. Once I learned of this ability – to create playlists, I started making one of Jason Mraz right away. Eventually that first playlist grew into 17 playlists, with one of them containing 51 videos. My playlists mostly consists of live versions of songs that I love (either of Jason Mraz, The Killers and sometimes Keane), instrumentals to songs I love, as well as tutorials on how to play some songs as well as cover songs by regular people. Thanks Steph for introducing me to this power (as well as to running but that’ll be a different story).
The latest computer feat I grew onto is facebook. Two people I know urged me to get facebook. I remember when people asked if I had facebook and I told them no – and they couldn’t believe it. Well now I have one and it’s not too bad.
So back to my watch. I’ve kept the same watch for 11 years. The actual watch (that tells the time) stayed the same. And so do I, well sort of. I’ve noticed that my body frame changed as I started playing sports. That’s as much as I’d like to say about that . . .
I don’t think I told you yet about the time I lost and retrieved my watch. It was mother’s day, 2006. My family and I ate out at a Chinese restaurant in Queens called Silver Pond. I remember clearly the condition of my watch during that time period of my life. The strap of the watch would come off sometimes because it was kind of broken at the junction where it met the part of the watch that tells the time. This rendered my watch a risky partner in time to wear because it could fall off if I’m not too careful with it. With that said, that mother’s day, my watch had accidentally fallen off of my wrist and onto the red-carpeted floor of the restaurant. The car ride home was average, only because I didn’t realize I had left my watch at the restaurant. It was only when we got home that my heart started racing and I started worrying about it. I didn’t know back then that it was in the restaurant. I checked and double checked the mini van and the drive way. Nothing. I had to find my watch because I had kept it for so long, I didn’t want to all of a sudden lose it. It now (and then) has intrinsic (sentimental) value to me. My dad decided to call the restaurant to see if they had found it. I don’t know if it was my dad’s love for my happiness of keeping that watch or if he just wanted to play a trick on me, but he said that the restaurant people couldn’t find it, when really they did. I lived for about a month without a watch. Oh, it was horrible! Ol’ reliable wasn’t reliable and I missed it a lot. It felt like loosing a pet – not that I would know how that would feel like, although I like to say I’m at least above average in sympathizing. So that went on for about a month, and then came father’s day. For father’s day we went to the same restaurant. My dad was a bit more giddy than usual, but again ambiguity asserted itself. Was it because it was father’s day or was it because he had a surprise for me? When we entered and as our waiter came to the table, they presented before me, my watch!! And they were smiling too! I don’t know what my dad told them on the phone that day, mother’s day, but they obviously knew how much my watch meant to me and were so happy to re-unite watch with girl. I love my dad. Not a bad tennis partner either!
Therefore, I conclude that my watch and I, - well, we go back. We got history. I want to make this on-going affair with my watch as long as possible. And with each passing birthday, I will not only be thinking about me, and how I’ve lived another year. I will also be thinking about how my watch has endured another year. How we went through it together. We’ll sing Happy Birthday to each other!
It's a handsome type of digital Armitron watch by the way.
On my tenth birthday, I had wanted a sports watch. I don’t know where the idea came to me to want a sports watch. I just know that I wanted one at the time. So then I got one from Tito Albert and Tita Celia. Tita Celia worked in the jewelry department of Macy’s, I think, so she was able to buy one for me. I was so excited when I got it! I think it still had the price on it. It was 60 dollars! Sixty dollars to make a ten year old girl smile. About a year after that, I lent my watch to someone for one day and that day my watch broke. It wouldn’t say the time or do other functions. Angry? Of course I was. I was furious! Already you can see how much my watch was beginning to mean to me. I didn’t talk to that person for the rest of that day and I blame that person for the breaking of my watch, even to this day. Except that I don’t hate that person anymore. The hate left, but I still point my finger at her.
Anyway, that meant that I had to get a new watch. Who knew that it would be this new watch that I would have for the next 11 years, come this November? My parents bought me a new watch – that new watch I was just talking about – when I was 11. In addition to that, they bought one for Steph and Ate Sherry. I don’t know what they did with their’s buy I kept mine and still have it right now as I speak. I mean write. Technically type.
Therefore I nominate my wrist buddy who has been with me for at least half my life as the object that would describe me.
Watches move on and so do I (and so does mostly everybody else). Over the past few years I’ve changed, chiefly because I had to because it was required for college and chiefly because I was egged on to by other people and chiefly because I wanted to – because my mind changes and as it changes so do my desires. But I’ll save that for another blog. So I’ve changed over the past few years – computer wise. I didn’t used to have an email. But then I got a yahoo email account. And for the first year of college I used that. But then one seemingly ordinary day, as I was on the library computer at school, I was “invited to chat to Ate Sherry on gmail.” I didn’t know what that meant at the time honestly, but I saw Ate Sherry’s name and I got excited. It said that I first had to create a gmail account. Honestly again, I didn’t know what that meant, but I created one anyway. The next thing I knew, I was chatting with Ate Sherry and she was just as surprised as I was that I did that. That was the first change.
Then there was youtube. Simply put, Steph taught me how to create my own account and make playlists. Once I learned of this ability – to create playlists, I started making one of Jason Mraz right away. Eventually that first playlist grew into 17 playlists, with one of them containing 51 videos. My playlists mostly consists of live versions of songs that I love (either of Jason Mraz, The Killers and sometimes Keane), instrumentals to songs I love, as well as tutorials on how to play some songs as well as cover songs by regular people. Thanks Steph for introducing me to this power (as well as to running but that’ll be a different story).
The latest computer feat I grew onto is facebook. Two people I know urged me to get facebook. I remember when people asked if I had facebook and I told them no – and they couldn’t believe it. Well now I have one and it’s not too bad.
So back to my watch. I’ve kept the same watch for 11 years. The actual watch (that tells the time) stayed the same. And so do I, well sort of. I’ve noticed that my body frame changed as I started playing sports. That’s as much as I’d like to say about that . . .
I don’t think I told you yet about the time I lost and retrieved my watch. It was mother’s day, 2006. My family and I ate out at a Chinese restaurant in Queens called Silver Pond. I remember clearly the condition of my watch during that time period of my life. The strap of the watch would come off sometimes because it was kind of broken at the junction where it met the part of the watch that tells the time. This rendered my watch a risky partner in time to wear because it could fall off if I’m not too careful with it. With that said, that mother’s day, my watch had accidentally fallen off of my wrist and onto the red-carpeted floor of the restaurant. The car ride home was average, only because I didn’t realize I had left my watch at the restaurant. It was only when we got home that my heart started racing and I started worrying about it. I didn’t know back then that it was in the restaurant. I checked and double checked the mini van and the drive way. Nothing. I had to find my watch because I had kept it for so long, I didn’t want to all of a sudden lose it. It now (and then) has intrinsic (sentimental) value to me. My dad decided to call the restaurant to see if they had found it. I don’t know if it was my dad’s love for my happiness of keeping that watch or if he just wanted to play a trick on me, but he said that the restaurant people couldn’t find it, when really they did. I lived for about a month without a watch. Oh, it was horrible! Ol’ reliable wasn’t reliable and I missed it a lot. It felt like loosing a pet – not that I would know how that would feel like, although I like to say I’m at least above average in sympathizing. So that went on for about a month, and then came father’s day. For father’s day we went to the same restaurant. My dad was a bit more giddy than usual, but again ambiguity asserted itself. Was it because it was father’s day or was it because he had a surprise for me? When we entered and as our waiter came to the table, they presented before me, my watch!! And they were smiling too! I don’t know what my dad told them on the phone that day, mother’s day, but they obviously knew how much my watch meant to me and were so happy to re-unite watch with girl. I love my dad. Not a bad tennis partner either!
Therefore, I conclude that my watch and I, - well, we go back. We got history. I want to make this on-going affair with my watch as long as possible. And with each passing birthday, I will not only be thinking about me, and how I’ve lived another year. I will also be thinking about how my watch has endured another year. How we went through it together. We’ll sing Happy Birthday to each other!
It's a handsome type of digital Armitron watch by the way.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Affair with the morning and night
Each day is brand new. That’s how I see it. So even if everything is routine to me, there’s something different despite of that. I’m not thinking the same exact thing as yesterday or what I will be thinking of the next day, right after I wake up. Some days I’m more determined to get something done and some days, I just want to sleep it off and lie victoriously and rebelliously in my bed. Either way, the day facing me is still brand new and I can see it in my word-of-the-day calendar.
Here’s a new scenario. Every night is brand new. I may sleep in the same bed each night, but the thought in my head before I surrender myself to the kingdom of dreams may be different. Some nights I feel reluctant to sleep because I’m still energized, even though I know I need to sleep because I’m going to wake up early the next day. Other nights I just drop on my bed and let myself fall into the rescuing arms of the dream world. And sometimes, I go to sleep just because I fancy a dream. Either way, the night approaching me is still brand new and I can see just a glimpse of it as my eyelids begin to fall.
I have just told you my two favorite parts of the day: when I wake up and when I go to sleep. There’s something about those times that lures me into their rituals and subtleties. One of the seductive factors that pulls me literally and figuratively so swiftly off my feet is its being done in solitude and in darkness or semi-darkness. And the unknown lying within the darkness reflects the unknown scheduled program that’ll show up in our dreams. We don’t know what we will dream about and often times we don’t remember them (although some salient dreams never fade away). So why have them? To entertain us as our bodies perform maintenance – like a movie going on in a traveling coach bus or ferry. They’re there to distract us and keep us company in the dark and lovely lonely hours. Well then, what about nightmares? Maybe your body’s just trying to teach you a lesson wherever and whenever it can squeeze one in. I love waking up because I have the freedom feeling that I can do anything that day. I could skip class and decide to pack up and leave town for a life on the road. Of course I would consider consequences and probably would reject that idea, but still the feeling that I can do that is still uplifting – and it uplifts me into the start of my day. I’m just saying I like the feeling that I could decide whatever I want to decide, with each passing morning.
Often when I have to write something such as a short story or ideas for blogs or thoughts of interpretation for papers, I rely on the interim between wakefulness and sleep and between sleep and wakefulness. It is during those times that I think of the most telling and elusive thoughts. It is also during those times that I get out of bed to jot it down in a note pad before I forget it.
I remember a period of time in my life, I think I was just starting high school. I couldn’t sleep. I kept having trouble with falling asleep. And I knew what the problem was too! It was just that I kept thinking. All these thoughts right when my head hit the pillow. What was I thinking of? I don’t know. I think playlists of day dreams or fantasies. My dad tells me I daydream a lot and that that’s why I’m never focused when he’s telling me directions on how to get somewhere. Anyway, that was just a phase, I guess. Or, who knows, it might pop up again. It didn’t so far though.
Each time I go to bed, or wake up still lying in bed, I just let my mind wander. Kind of reminds me of when dog owners take off the leash from their dogs and let them (the dogs) run around in the park. There’s a place for the imagination to play and I kind of like that.
What’s your favorite part of the day?
Here’s a new scenario. Every night is brand new. I may sleep in the same bed each night, but the thought in my head before I surrender myself to the kingdom of dreams may be different. Some nights I feel reluctant to sleep because I’m still energized, even though I know I need to sleep because I’m going to wake up early the next day. Other nights I just drop on my bed and let myself fall into the rescuing arms of the dream world. And sometimes, I go to sleep just because I fancy a dream. Either way, the night approaching me is still brand new and I can see just a glimpse of it as my eyelids begin to fall.
I have just told you my two favorite parts of the day: when I wake up and when I go to sleep. There’s something about those times that lures me into their rituals and subtleties. One of the seductive factors that pulls me literally and figuratively so swiftly off my feet is its being done in solitude and in darkness or semi-darkness. And the unknown lying within the darkness reflects the unknown scheduled program that’ll show up in our dreams. We don’t know what we will dream about and often times we don’t remember them (although some salient dreams never fade away). So why have them? To entertain us as our bodies perform maintenance – like a movie going on in a traveling coach bus or ferry. They’re there to distract us and keep us company in the dark and lovely lonely hours. Well then, what about nightmares? Maybe your body’s just trying to teach you a lesson wherever and whenever it can squeeze one in. I love waking up because I have the freedom feeling that I can do anything that day. I could skip class and decide to pack up and leave town for a life on the road. Of course I would consider consequences and probably would reject that idea, but still the feeling that I can do that is still uplifting – and it uplifts me into the start of my day. I’m just saying I like the feeling that I could decide whatever I want to decide, with each passing morning.
Often when I have to write something such as a short story or ideas for blogs or thoughts of interpretation for papers, I rely on the interim between wakefulness and sleep and between sleep and wakefulness. It is during those times that I think of the most telling and elusive thoughts. It is also during those times that I get out of bed to jot it down in a note pad before I forget it.
I remember a period of time in my life, I think I was just starting high school. I couldn’t sleep. I kept having trouble with falling asleep. And I knew what the problem was too! It was just that I kept thinking. All these thoughts right when my head hit the pillow. What was I thinking of? I don’t know. I think playlists of day dreams or fantasies. My dad tells me I daydream a lot and that that’s why I’m never focused when he’s telling me directions on how to get somewhere. Anyway, that was just a phase, I guess. Or, who knows, it might pop up again. It didn’t so far though.
Each time I go to bed, or wake up still lying in bed, I just let my mind wander. Kind of reminds me of when dog owners take off the leash from their dogs and let them (the dogs) run around in the park. There’s a place for the imagination to play and I kind of like that.
What’s your favorite part of the day?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Procrastination station
I’m sorry but I have been unfaithful to you. And you can blame school for that. Well, don’t blame it too harshly because I know they’re only trying to help me, this school system that is. But at times I swear it’s killing me.
Just the other night, I had to read one of the longest short stories I’ve ever read. I was on my bed, lying on my stomach, reading the story under the yellow light in my room. I figured I’d have this story under my belt by at most 12 midnight. I ended up falling asleep, my surrendered face on my victorious book, at approximately 11:30. I never seem to finish homeworks anymore in one sitting – or lye down, in this case. I woke up to a silent, slumbering house at about 3:15 in the morning, with my light, computer and radio still on – already they had run themselves silent. I forced myself to finish the darn story already. Now, I’m not saying I didn’t like it – it was interesting, it really was. I was intrigued because it was part mystery, part scary, all literary and unfortunately on my part, part demanding. And long. I finished it by 3:45am. I brushed my teeth and washed my face, set my alarm for 7:00am and gratefully went to bed. I felt defeated and drained but at the same time relieved. Can someone feel all these feelings at once? I also felt a tinge of annoyance because I had to wake up at 7 in the morning to carpool to school. I also felt annoyed that I let this happen. I felt annoyed that I was a bit annoyed. The story was victorious.
As you can see, I’ve been pretty stressed lately. It seems like every time I sit to do homework, no matter how much reading and note-taking I do, I feel like all of it is not amounting to much. It sort of feels like when you drive at a constant 60 mph on a highway, and you feel like you’re not getting anywhere. Like you’re not moving as fast as you’d like, although you really are. But it doesn’t seem like it. It feels like that, and I don’t really like it. I hope it’s just a phase.
One other reason I haven’t posted a blog for the longest time – almost a month – is because of this little pestering issue called procrastination. Such a tempting and regrettable treat! And here I am writing a blog because I’m procrastinating so as not to do homework! My world is infested with procrastination, organizations of it! So sorry to treat you as a last resort! No, no I’d rather call you (writing this blog) an indulgent retreat. But seriously the reason I didn’t write a blog, besides my busy schedule, is because I’ve been having a writer’s block. I’m not the kind to just write about what’s going on in my life, rather, I like to write about what’s going on in my mind. But during these past couple of weeks, nothing has been arresting my contemplation, my reflection nor my chain of thought. Nothing has been registering, in my mind, as worthy of being “blogged on.” So, if you can’t beat it, join it! I decided to write about this nagging problem.
So there.
Just the other night, I had to read one of the longest short stories I’ve ever read. I was on my bed, lying on my stomach, reading the story under the yellow light in my room. I figured I’d have this story under my belt by at most 12 midnight. I ended up falling asleep, my surrendered face on my victorious book, at approximately 11:30. I never seem to finish homeworks anymore in one sitting – or lye down, in this case. I woke up to a silent, slumbering house at about 3:15 in the morning, with my light, computer and radio still on – already they had run themselves silent. I forced myself to finish the darn story already. Now, I’m not saying I didn’t like it – it was interesting, it really was. I was intrigued because it was part mystery, part scary, all literary and unfortunately on my part, part demanding. And long. I finished it by 3:45am. I brushed my teeth and washed my face, set my alarm for 7:00am and gratefully went to bed. I felt defeated and drained but at the same time relieved. Can someone feel all these feelings at once? I also felt a tinge of annoyance because I had to wake up at 7 in the morning to carpool to school. I also felt annoyed that I let this happen. I felt annoyed that I was a bit annoyed. The story was victorious.
As you can see, I’ve been pretty stressed lately. It seems like every time I sit to do homework, no matter how much reading and note-taking I do, I feel like all of it is not amounting to much. It sort of feels like when you drive at a constant 60 mph on a highway, and you feel like you’re not getting anywhere. Like you’re not moving as fast as you’d like, although you really are. But it doesn’t seem like it. It feels like that, and I don’t really like it. I hope it’s just a phase.
One other reason I haven’t posted a blog for the longest time – almost a month – is because of this little pestering issue called procrastination. Such a tempting and regrettable treat! And here I am writing a blog because I’m procrastinating so as not to do homework! My world is infested with procrastination, organizations of it! So sorry to treat you as a last resort! No, no I’d rather call you (writing this blog) an indulgent retreat. But seriously the reason I didn’t write a blog, besides my busy schedule, is because I’ve been having a writer’s block. I’m not the kind to just write about what’s going on in my life, rather, I like to write about what’s going on in my mind. But during these past couple of weeks, nothing has been arresting my contemplation, my reflection nor my chain of thought. Nothing has been registering, in my mind, as worthy of being “blogged on.” So, if you can’t beat it, join it! I decided to write about this nagging problem.
So there.
Mr. Summer, why go so soon?
They said that summer ended a couple of days ago. The weather has been getting colder – a lot colder at night – and it’s beginning to feel like fall weather. I really love summer. Summer is my favorite season. Summer is the season of joyful restlessness. Summer is the season of the sun. And sadly, summer is a season in passing. And oh have I been resisting this change. It’s not only just a change in temperature but a change in mind set and lifestyle, as well. Summer. What do you think of when I say summer? Some think of interesting part time jobs, others think of chances for opportunities. I may be bold as to think of carefreeness and hobby-ful.
What did I do this summer? I could divide the my summer time into music, sports and random. Music. Let me think. Oh yeah. How could forget! It started with learning more Jason Mraz songs on the guitar and the djembe. Then there was the time where I borrowed the Killers cd, “Sam’s Town” for eight weeks and then the Killers cd “Sawdust” for an overlapping four weeks. If that makes sense to you then you’re good at reading comprehension. During that time I got into the drums and the piano. These days I’m feeling the remnants of my nightly highs I felt in the summer. During all this I played tennis with whoever was possible out of my three options – Steph, my Dad or Kuya. Sometimes just my Dad. Sometimes my Dad and Steph. Sometimes Kuya and I. Sometimes my Dad, Kuya and I. Sometimes my Dad, Kuya and Steph and I. And then back to just me and my dad – my common denominator. My tennis partner and friend. Most mornings I ran. Some mornings I rode my bike. All mornings (well almost), I saw the same neighborhood faces. Meanwhile, since I didn’t land a job, I helped run errands with my Mom. Costco made a lot of money out of us, is all I can say.
So to see something like summer leave, is something of a high-impact shift. But I remain an insurgent against General Fall and with it, lieutenant School. The temperature may be low, but the sun is still shining it’s same face on us all.
Did I tell you about the US Open? I went to the men’s semi-finals!!!! It was awesome beyond awesome!! I spent the day with Steph and Eric and Tennis!! I espeically enjoyed Federer’s last two shots before he made it to the finals. How do you practice an in-betweener? Pure awesomeness. I’ve been creating a lot of nouns lately by adding –ness. Anyway, the US Open was a perfect way to close out the summer – a last hurrah before summer ends.
But still, I’m hanging in the clutch. Sure the weather is getting colder – but heck, that don’t scare me! I still wore shorts on a day where the temperature was just about sixty degrees (Fahrenheit). That’s right out of the fifties range. But I didn’t care. I wanted to be the last person to see summer leave. And I believe I was.
Seasons are changing and so is my lifestyle. I find myself more indoors and in books instead of outdoors on tennis courts.
But I still play when I can. I guess this time of year is just a reminder of how time is timeless.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Riding on my writing
Hello. Long time no see right? As evinced by my lack of usage over the past almost whole month, you might have hypothesized that my daily schedule has changed a bit. You intelligibly guessed correct, should you carry that disposition; correct to the point where my daily schedule has changed twice since I so frequently frequented you at the dawn of the wee hours of the night and occasional afternoons.
The first change came at the inception of the U.S. Open, which coincidentally was also the first day of school. That would be August 31. Well then, what did I do from Aug 8 to Aug 31? What can I say? – I’ve been busy. My attention has been directed alternately between my classes and the U.S. Open. Every bright and beautiful cauliflower cloud has the possibility of a thunderstorm – and this year hit the jack pot.
I’m the kind of person who likes to keep a timeline of my life and look back at it and see how my decisions have affected my current state. With that said, and still staying on line with the whole going back to school thing, here is a list of all the courses I’ve taken at Stony Brook so far. Keep in mind that for the first two years of college I was a floater – floating around with no major in mind.
1st semester (fall 2007):
MAT 125 (calculus)
WRI 101 (writing)
HDV 101 (an intro to Stony Brook class that’s mandatory)
ATM 103 (weather and climate)
PHI 108 (logical and critical thinking/argumentation)
2nd semester (spring 2008):
MAT 126 (continuation of calculus)
WRI 102 (continuation the first writing class)
HDV 102 (continuation of the first HDV class)
AST 101 (intro to Astronomy)
PHI 105 (intro to political philosophy)
PSY 103 (intro to psychology)
3rd semester (fall 2008):
LIN 101 (linguistics)
CLS 216 (classical mythology)
HUS 224 (Latin America today)
HIS 103 (U.S. history up to the civil – roughly 1860)
PHI 101 (intro to philosophy)
4th semester (spring 2009):
AST 248 (Search for Life in the Universe)
HIS 263 (age of American Revolution)
MUS 119 (elements/fundamentals of music – music theory)
EGL 204 (argumentative and literary analysis)
SPN 211 (intermediate Spanish)
5th semester (fall 2009 – this semester!):
EGL 224 (20th century literature in English - global literature)
EGL 350 (Major writers in US literature from colonial period to 1900)
EGL 380 (the English language – origin and grammar usage)
EGL 243 (major works by Shakespeare)
SPN 212 (continuation of Spanish 211)
Walking in between buildings to get to different classes, I never can stop thinking that most people are probably majoring in some branch of the sciences – since Stony Brook is known to specialize in the sciences. Going down the line: what are you majoring in? – biology, biochemistry, engineering, health science, molecular chemistry . . . English? The number of students majoring in English is unfortunately decreasing at Stony Brook University, or so I’ve heard. In fact just this year, the head of the English department decided to make all English classes available for English major students only. This is explicit with the familiar faces I see in my classes now-a-days. Yes, English majors of the campus unite! And yet as we unite, I still feel lonely.
I feel like I have the lowest level of English out of everybody. To be honest, I only took high school English – regular English, not even IB or Honors English. The only thing going for me is my writing, which I consider decent enough. As for excelling in my English classes in high school and the writing courses I’ve taken in college – my teachers were nice on me, lenient perhaps. I have no outside reading except for amusing short stories and Harry Potter books. But really what I’m doing is riding on my writing. I may not be as in-depth nor analytical as other English major students and I am now even doubting my only car ride – my writing, but I know that when it comes to crunch time, magic happens. Crunch equals test. This is the first semester where I'm actually taking classes leaning towards my major; the other times, I was taking general classes. Can I keep up with them on this lonely high way? Invisible cars never seemed so testy. Time will tell and my mighty mind faces new grounds.
The first change came at the inception of the U.S. Open, which coincidentally was also the first day of school. That would be August 31. Well then, what did I do from Aug 8 to Aug 31? What can I say? – I’ve been busy. My attention has been directed alternately between my classes and the U.S. Open. Every bright and beautiful cauliflower cloud has the possibility of a thunderstorm – and this year hit the jack pot.
I’m the kind of person who likes to keep a timeline of my life and look back at it and see how my decisions have affected my current state. With that said, and still staying on line with the whole going back to school thing, here is a list of all the courses I’ve taken at Stony Brook so far. Keep in mind that for the first two years of college I was a floater – floating around with no major in mind.
1st semester (fall 2007):
MAT 125 (calculus)
WRI 101 (writing)
HDV 101 (an intro to Stony Brook class that’s mandatory)
ATM 103 (weather and climate)
PHI 108 (logical and critical thinking/argumentation)
2nd semester (spring 2008):
MAT 126 (continuation of calculus)
WRI 102 (continuation the first writing class)
HDV 102 (continuation of the first HDV class)
AST 101 (intro to Astronomy)
PHI 105 (intro to political philosophy)
PSY 103 (intro to psychology)
3rd semester (fall 2008):
LIN 101 (linguistics)
CLS 216 (classical mythology)
HUS 224 (Latin America today)
HIS 103 (U.S. history up to the civil – roughly 1860)
PHI 101 (intro to philosophy)
4th semester (spring 2009):
AST 248 (Search for Life in the Universe)
HIS 263 (age of American Revolution)
MUS 119 (elements/fundamentals of music – music theory)
EGL 204 (argumentative and literary analysis)
SPN 211 (intermediate Spanish)
5th semester (fall 2009 – this semester!):
EGL 224 (20th century literature in English - global literature)
EGL 350 (Major writers in US literature from colonial period to 1900)
EGL 380 (the English language – origin and grammar usage)
EGL 243 (major works by Shakespeare)
SPN 212 (continuation of Spanish 211)
Walking in between buildings to get to different classes, I never can stop thinking that most people are probably majoring in some branch of the sciences – since Stony Brook is known to specialize in the sciences. Going down the line: what are you majoring in? – biology, biochemistry, engineering, health science, molecular chemistry . . . English? The number of students majoring in English is unfortunately decreasing at Stony Brook University, or so I’ve heard. In fact just this year, the head of the English department decided to make all English classes available for English major students only. This is explicit with the familiar faces I see in my classes now-a-days. Yes, English majors of the campus unite! And yet as we unite, I still feel lonely.
I feel like I have the lowest level of English out of everybody. To be honest, I only took high school English – regular English, not even IB or Honors English. The only thing going for me is my writing, which I consider decent enough. As for excelling in my English classes in high school and the writing courses I’ve taken in college – my teachers were nice on me, lenient perhaps. I have no outside reading except for amusing short stories and Harry Potter books. But really what I’m doing is riding on my writing. I may not be as in-depth nor analytical as other English major students and I am now even doubting my only car ride – my writing, but I know that when it comes to crunch time, magic happens. Crunch equals test. This is the first semester where I'm actually taking classes leaning towards my major; the other times, I was taking general classes. Can I keep up with them on this lonely high way? Invisible cars never seemed so testy. Time will tell and my mighty mind faces new grounds.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Discovered in Costco: my first "gig?"
Sorry I haven’t written in such a long time. Music has occupied almost every space in my head while the days have been winding down to the start of school – like counting down the beads of a rosary while singing a cheerless holy tune. The rest of the space is filled with errands and tennis. Tennis!
Music on my mind, piano on my hands, drums in the future – hopefully.
I know I don’t play the piano that well, but I like the feeling of playing a song that I really know and playing each note solidly and deliberately. I like the sound of bass notes played an octave apart. I like the feeling that I can make a song out of the creative templates of my head’s slide show. And sometimes I don’t mind sharing this feeling in Costco.
Let me explain.
As I said earlier, if I’m not occupied with music, I’m busy with running errands or playing tennis. The other day, I was in Costco with my mom, off to buy milk and bananas. But really, I just wanted to play on the piano that they had on display there. It was a casio compact digital piano; here's the link: http://reviews.costco.ca/2070-en_ca/10317830/reviews.htm. You'll have to copy and paste it, sorry! I’m fond of pianos just as others are fond of car shows. Anyway, I played my usual round of songs, songs that I’m working on – either learning or making. I must have stayed on that piano for some time because I started to garner an amused crowd of three shoppers, their shopping carts surrounding me. The piano was set up so that it faced cardboard boxes containing replicas of that piano. If for example the piano was on the shelf, like cans in a grocery store, then I would be facing the shelf, not the aisle. Some people watched from a far and some watched over my shoulder. I naturally got nervous and sweaty. But when I was finished with a song, I looked up and said, “oh . . . hello.” I didn’t know what else to say.
One lady asked me how I learned – “piano lessons or by ear?” Well, I never took piano lessons, so I chose “by ear” as my answer. But in all honesty, I just applied what I learned in chorus and music theory class and put them together. I don’t know if that’s by ear though. I’m not able to recognize a chord just by hearing it, but I can by seeing it on the piano. I can however hear individual notes and guess which note it is on the piano by trial and error. Then I’d create chords out of that. I can read music, but I can’t play it fluently; I’d have to figure out the notes step by step, familiarize myself with the rhythm and then play it on the piano – it’s a long process, I tried it once.
I got a couple of compliments, but I guess it’s because they thought I was some kid prodigy. I never told them my 21st birthday would come next November though. I just took the compliments and ran away smiling. Don’t blame me for enjoying some stage time, shall I call it that. It was fun being in the spotlight for a little bit, just like my musical idols – both sung and unsung (Ryan Jones you are awesome!).
Later on my mom and I were joking around about what happened in Costco. I wished that the manager would see me and offer to give me the piano for free, since I was (in my wish) influencing other people to buy the piano. My mom imagined that a spotter was in Costco and saw me and signed me to a record label, and then I'd be on the Ellen DeGeneres show and she'd (Ellen) ask me how I got to be where I was, and I'd say I was "discovered in Costco." Our imaginations are endless!
But, unfortunately I feel I am far from that colorful thought.
Anyway, so that’s what happened in Costco and that’s what I talked about for the rest of that day. A highlight it had become to my humble status!
Music on my mind, piano on my hands, drums in the future – hopefully.
I know I don’t play the piano that well, but I like the feeling of playing a song that I really know and playing each note solidly and deliberately. I like the sound of bass notes played an octave apart. I like the feeling that I can make a song out of the creative templates of my head’s slide show. And sometimes I don’t mind sharing this feeling in Costco.
Let me explain.
As I said earlier, if I’m not occupied with music, I’m busy with running errands or playing tennis. The other day, I was in Costco with my mom, off to buy milk and bananas. But really, I just wanted to play on the piano that they had on display there. It was a casio compact digital piano; here's the link: http://reviews.costco.ca/2070-en_ca/10317830/reviews.htm. You'll have to copy and paste it, sorry! I’m fond of pianos just as others are fond of car shows. Anyway, I played my usual round of songs, songs that I’m working on – either learning or making. I must have stayed on that piano for some time because I started to garner an amused crowd of three shoppers, their shopping carts surrounding me. The piano was set up so that it faced cardboard boxes containing replicas of that piano. If for example the piano was on the shelf, like cans in a grocery store, then I would be facing the shelf, not the aisle. Some people watched from a far and some watched over my shoulder. I naturally got nervous and sweaty. But when I was finished with a song, I looked up and said, “oh . . . hello.” I didn’t know what else to say.
One lady asked me how I learned – “piano lessons or by ear?” Well, I never took piano lessons, so I chose “by ear” as my answer. But in all honesty, I just applied what I learned in chorus and music theory class and put them together. I don’t know if that’s by ear though. I’m not able to recognize a chord just by hearing it, but I can by seeing it on the piano. I can however hear individual notes and guess which note it is on the piano by trial and error. Then I’d create chords out of that. I can read music, but I can’t play it fluently; I’d have to figure out the notes step by step, familiarize myself with the rhythm and then play it on the piano – it’s a long process, I tried it once.
I got a couple of compliments, but I guess it’s because they thought I was some kid prodigy. I never told them my 21st birthday would come next November though. I just took the compliments and ran away smiling. Don’t blame me for enjoying some stage time, shall I call it that. It was fun being in the spotlight for a little bit, just like my musical idols – both sung and unsung (Ryan Jones you are awesome!).
Later on my mom and I were joking around about what happened in Costco. I wished that the manager would see me and offer to give me the piano for free, since I was (in my wish) influencing other people to buy the piano. My mom imagined that a spotter was in Costco and saw me and signed me to a record label, and then I'd be on the Ellen DeGeneres show and she'd (Ellen) ask me how I got to be where I was, and I'd say I was "discovered in Costco." Our imaginations are endless!
But, unfortunately I feel I am far from that colorful thought.
Anyway, so that’s what happened in Costco and that’s what I talked about for the rest of that day. A highlight it had become to my humble status!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Literary Movie Review: A grand tour through Gran Torino
My take on the film, Grad Torino:
It’s funny how one of the themes, explicitly touched upon in the film, was life and death. It’s funny because just yesterday, I didn’t know if I wanted to write a blog about what the deaths of two fish have taught me. Instead I wrote about something else. But now that the subject has declared its presence, shall we say, not once but twice, I feel as though it’s telling us to expatiate more about it.
So what can we say about it as it pertains to the film? In my opinion, this theme was almost inscrutably enmeshed in the conversations between the priest and Walt. The priest asked to talk about it that night at the bar, with Walt. And Walt certainly had something to say. He drew ever so rightly from experience rather than a handbook, as he put it to the priest. He taught him a thing or two that they don’t teach future priests in the seminary or priest school. He taught him that death comes and goes and comes back again, but killing stains the soul. How does death come and go and come again? Take his resilient reaction to the death of his wife as a cold, red brick of evidence, for example. He just moves on, all alone in the house, hating the world the same way he did when his wife was alive – at least according to his sons. The film starts and ends in a church for a funeral, to be more general about it. Obviously death never stays forever. It only seeps in and out of the lives of others. How does killing stain the soul? Walt locks Thao up in the basement. He doesn’t want Thao to live with the guilt of killing another person, just as he has had to do his whole life, after the Korean war. If anything, I think everyone can learn something from Walt – he is or seems to be the most experienced after all. He is the most unselfish person in the film. But I’ll save that discussion for later in this blog. What has Walt learned and taught about life? Well you gotta enjoy it – what else is it there for, right? Actually a great deal more than that, according to Walt. You got to do good in it, for others too. I don’t mean do well, I mean good deeds. He teaches Thao to do this, just as he himself does this. He teaches Thao to help around the neighborhood, just as he helped save Thao and Sue’s family from the Hmong gang. As for enjoying life, let’s just say that Thao’s going to be enjoying that Gran Torino for some time, after a brief test ride during his date with Daisy – “you gotta do it in style, don’t you?” I think that’s what he said.
The next theme I want to cover, is what I think is the main moral of this film and it has to do with our protagonist, Walt. For him, vengeance – his sacrifice – was his salvation. Early on in the film, the priest persistently visits Walt, at the request of Walt’s wife, before she died. He talked to him about Walt’s confession and how he hasn’t gone to confession in a long, long time – “since forever,” in fact. The reason one goes to confession is to be forgiven for sin(s) that he or she committed, so that he or she may repent and gain salvation. By the end of the film, this reason of persistence has had the chance to materialize, as Walt finally goes to confession, confessing minor things. He wanted vengeance on the gang and Thao knew it and he too also wanted it. But how should he go about it? Being a Korean war veteran has taught him some lessons on strategy. Yes, that and the fact that Sue and Thao’s family were seriously threatened (physically) because of his quick reaction to what they did to Thao (he beat up one of the gang members). Don’t react quickly because then you’ll make mistakes; instead, stay calm and plan it out. His vengeance became his ultimate sacrifice though, when he sacrifices himself to get rid of the gang that’s been attacking and threatening his Hmong neighbors. You see, that’s why he’s so selfless! And as he stands there preparing to get a lighter, preparing for that thing that comes and goes and comes again – death – he says his hail marys and finally achieves salvation with the knowledge that the gang won’t bother his friends, his Hmong neighbors, anymore.
One last theme I would like to expound on is family. This film redefines family, as it has been redefined in other forms of entertainment and literary art many times before. What is family? It is more than blood. It is a bond, a unit, a strong friendship built on care and respect. So while Walt may have a real “family” that entails his children and grandchildren, his real family is his Hmong neighbors. Simply put, they are closer to him than his real “family” are – which by the way are characterized overtly as the superficial American type. Speaking of characterization, let’s have a looksie more up closie at Walt.
Walt is the old school kind of guy who demands and expects respect, as well as discipline. That’s why he was drawn to Thao in the first place, when he saw Thao helping the elderly women in front of his house. Many times in the film, he has ordered, as an experienced veteran deserving respect would, others to do things for him. Little things like getting him another beer or . . . fixing the roof of someone’s house. He is the kind of guy who sees the world as a bundle of dirtiness in the expectations of how people of different races should act when encountering people of a different race. He said to Sue’s boyfriend, “Stop calling him (the black guy) bro.” Not only that, he also sees the wold as a dumpload of new found disrespect in younger generations (excuse the inappropriate language, appropriate only for the younger generations in Walt’s eyes). I like Walt. There’s a reason why he is the way he is. The world and life made him that way.
Before I finish analyzing Gran Torino, I must tell you about the pervasive theme – racism/discrimination. Perhaps one of the most aspects of the film that caught my attention almost instantly was racism/discrimination. And it’s inevitable that they should encase such a neighborhood in this imperfect world. With America being a melting pot of different cultures, the neighborhood that Walt lives in is the epitome of America. I may go so far as to saying that his neighborhood symbolizes America. The film uses white people, Hmong people, Hispanics, and blacks – and they don’t get along with each other. But of course Walt is a different case and so is the priest (for obvious reasons). Walt is the one who tears down the walls. He would have wanted revenge even if the people who hurt Sue, Thao and their family were his own race. He is the man who knows and does not deny that there is racism, but also the man who does not partake in racism.
This film has it all. And I thought Gran Torino was a car film.
It’s funny how one of the themes, explicitly touched upon in the film, was life and death. It’s funny because just yesterday, I didn’t know if I wanted to write a blog about what the deaths of two fish have taught me. Instead I wrote about something else. But now that the subject has declared its presence, shall we say, not once but twice, I feel as though it’s telling us to expatiate more about it.
So what can we say about it as it pertains to the film? In my opinion, this theme was almost inscrutably enmeshed in the conversations between the priest and Walt. The priest asked to talk about it that night at the bar, with Walt. And Walt certainly had something to say. He drew ever so rightly from experience rather than a handbook, as he put it to the priest. He taught him a thing or two that they don’t teach future priests in the seminary or priest school. He taught him that death comes and goes and comes back again, but killing stains the soul. How does death come and go and come again? Take his resilient reaction to the death of his wife as a cold, red brick of evidence, for example. He just moves on, all alone in the house, hating the world the same way he did when his wife was alive – at least according to his sons. The film starts and ends in a church for a funeral, to be more general about it. Obviously death never stays forever. It only seeps in and out of the lives of others. How does killing stain the soul? Walt locks Thao up in the basement. He doesn’t want Thao to live with the guilt of killing another person, just as he has had to do his whole life, after the Korean war. If anything, I think everyone can learn something from Walt – he is or seems to be the most experienced after all. He is the most unselfish person in the film. But I’ll save that discussion for later in this blog. What has Walt learned and taught about life? Well you gotta enjoy it – what else is it there for, right? Actually a great deal more than that, according to Walt. You got to do good in it, for others too. I don’t mean do well, I mean good deeds. He teaches Thao to do this, just as he himself does this. He teaches Thao to help around the neighborhood, just as he helped save Thao and Sue’s family from the Hmong gang. As for enjoying life, let’s just say that Thao’s going to be enjoying that Gran Torino for some time, after a brief test ride during his date with Daisy – “you gotta do it in style, don’t you?” I think that’s what he said.
The next theme I want to cover, is what I think is the main moral of this film and it has to do with our protagonist, Walt. For him, vengeance – his sacrifice – was his salvation. Early on in the film, the priest persistently visits Walt, at the request of Walt’s wife, before she died. He talked to him about Walt’s confession and how he hasn’t gone to confession in a long, long time – “since forever,” in fact. The reason one goes to confession is to be forgiven for sin(s) that he or she committed, so that he or she may repent and gain salvation. By the end of the film, this reason of persistence has had the chance to materialize, as Walt finally goes to confession, confessing minor things. He wanted vengeance on the gang and Thao knew it and he too also wanted it. But how should he go about it? Being a Korean war veteran has taught him some lessons on strategy. Yes, that and the fact that Sue and Thao’s family were seriously threatened (physically) because of his quick reaction to what they did to Thao (he beat up one of the gang members). Don’t react quickly because then you’ll make mistakes; instead, stay calm and plan it out. His vengeance became his ultimate sacrifice though, when he sacrifices himself to get rid of the gang that’s been attacking and threatening his Hmong neighbors. You see, that’s why he’s so selfless! And as he stands there preparing to get a lighter, preparing for that thing that comes and goes and comes again – death – he says his hail marys and finally achieves salvation with the knowledge that the gang won’t bother his friends, his Hmong neighbors, anymore.
One last theme I would like to expound on is family. This film redefines family, as it has been redefined in other forms of entertainment and literary art many times before. What is family? It is more than blood. It is a bond, a unit, a strong friendship built on care and respect. So while Walt may have a real “family” that entails his children and grandchildren, his real family is his Hmong neighbors. Simply put, they are closer to him than his real “family” are – which by the way are characterized overtly as the superficial American type. Speaking of characterization, let’s have a looksie more up closie at Walt.
Walt is the old school kind of guy who demands and expects respect, as well as discipline. That’s why he was drawn to Thao in the first place, when he saw Thao helping the elderly women in front of his house. Many times in the film, he has ordered, as an experienced veteran deserving respect would, others to do things for him. Little things like getting him another beer or . . . fixing the roof of someone’s house. He is the kind of guy who sees the world as a bundle of dirtiness in the expectations of how people of different races should act when encountering people of a different race. He said to Sue’s boyfriend, “Stop calling him (the black guy) bro.” Not only that, he also sees the wold as a dumpload of new found disrespect in younger generations (excuse the inappropriate language, appropriate only for the younger generations in Walt’s eyes). I like Walt. There’s a reason why he is the way he is. The world and life made him that way.
Before I finish analyzing Gran Torino, I must tell you about the pervasive theme – racism/discrimination. Perhaps one of the most aspects of the film that caught my attention almost instantly was racism/discrimination. And it’s inevitable that they should encase such a neighborhood in this imperfect world. With America being a melting pot of different cultures, the neighborhood that Walt lives in is the epitome of America. I may go so far as to saying that his neighborhood symbolizes America. The film uses white people, Hmong people, Hispanics, and blacks – and they don’t get along with each other. But of course Walt is a different case and so is the priest (for obvious reasons). Walt is the one who tears down the walls. He would have wanted revenge even if the people who hurt Sue, Thao and their family were his own race. He is the man who knows and does not deny that there is racism, but also the man who does not partake in racism.
This film has it all. And I thought Gran Torino was a car film.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Writing is hard, said the English major
I’ve told you how I didn’t win the short story competition, but that actually I won because now I can feed off of that experience. Well then, here’s the winning story in my eyes:
Sent Overcast
He was ten years old and took a liking to these yearly summer vacations. His name was Frankie and it was just he, and his parents, on the road for hours on end. They had gone to four different states since they first started this family tradition – or affair rather – four years ago. He remembered the first one vividly, because it was the first time he stayed out of the house for more than a day, experiencing the true outside world. He was different than most other kids; he didn’t have any other siblings and he didn’t mind that at all. He never complained to his parents that he didn’t have any brothers or sisters to play with, and often times he found himself immersed in his own little daydreams, as if his daydreams were his siblings whom he could play with and relate to. At one time he daydreamed he was on top of their rather non-sloping roof, drinking sunny delight as the summer sun was setting. At another time he was on the moon looking down on the Earth through his binoculars – his hands in the shape of “O’s” around his eyes – watching different people going about their impersonal business, while he was alone on the moon in comforting solitude among his stars.
By early afternoon, the sky had turned a thick gray – it looked as if the sky had no upper nor horizontal boundaries and was filled with endless puffs of clouds. White lambs grazing on soft, dark patches were gentle, piercing bright grays. These subtle rays hit the ground as if they came to this world with one mission in mind, which was to save the people in it.
The family had been driving for the past three hours and the father felt a brief respite from the road was in order. “How about we stop at a rest stop? Maybe get some lunch?” asked the father addressing his wife and child. It was around one thirty in the afternoon and his eyes were on the road, looking for street signs of a rest stop.
“That’s sounds fine, honey. Frankie, help Daddy and me look for a rest stop area so we can eat lunch and take a break from the road. You’ve been driving, what, three hours straight now?” said his wife looking up at him, rubbing his neck with her left hand.
“Yeah, but it feels like a lot more,” said the father with a deep, slow sigh.
“Our break will come soon, and then we can switch; I’ll drive and you can just sit and relax.” As she looked out the window for resting areas for tourists, which undoubtedly they were – both of this state and of the Earth, she noticed the weather; it seemed to never be too far from them. “The sky looks like it’s getting darker.”
Frankie sat in the back seat of their Civic and was already looking out the window before his parents gave him notice of a pit stop. He had been watching the lines on the roads – quick white dashes against a black background. As he lifted his head to look for signs for rest stops, water droplets started to decorate the car windows and the road. He imagined how hard it would be to catch them all.
Finally they parked the car at a rest area and ran inside before they got too wet from the now pouring rain. Frankie held his parents’ hands while running a little behind their steps. The sky looked too pure for him to believe the pelting rain was coming from it, but he still accepted it as something unexplainable but hopeful. As Frankie and his parents ran past a lonesome tree, Frankie looked back and saw that everyone else in the parking lot was doing the same thing – taking a supposed refuge inside the rest stop from what Frankie concluded was just a beautiful storm.
They got inside the packed rest stop, so hot and humid. The lines for food were long and people were complaining. The humidity in there was as thick as condensed milk and heavy cream mixed together. Heat covered every body like an invisible and unnecessary blanket made out of wool. Frankie breathed in body odor and ugly smiles while brochures were folded into fans that were unsuccessfully drying off the sweat from red, saggy, and wet faces.
Frankie’s parents told him to find a seat. His mother had to use the restroom, out of which formed a long line. To order food, the people had to wait in front of a square monitor, similar to a digital clock. On the screen of this monitor read, in red, the number of the next available register that was sounded by a lady’s monotonous and impersonal voice. His father was waiting on this long line to order food, like the rest of the other two legged barbarians – or so it seemed to Frankie. “Well listen here, buddy, I’ve been waiting for almost an hour and a half, so back off,” said a man wearing a dirty white T-shirt with yellow pit stains that matched his teeth. His mean eyes were as threateningly hungry as the anger and agitation that permeated throughout the rest area. Frankie looked to his other side hoping to see a better picture. Instead he got a glimpse of hell: rolling eyes, impatience and negative minds were the make-up of the contempt that spewed from the nostrils of every devil in the house – and Frankie hated it.
He began to think that everywhere he looked he would run into something he hated, until he saw an old man sitting at a booth near the window. This man must have been in his seventies and he wore a smile that was luring and true. Frankie walked over to him.
“May I sit down, sir?”
“Go right ahead. The name’s Gabriel, but you can call me Gabe.” As Frankie took the seat across from Gabe in the booth, Gabe turned his head toward the window, folded his arms on the table and leaned on them, smiling. “You don’t get many of these storms now-a-days. No, no this one’s special.”
“How come?” asked Frankie innocently while looking out the window joining Gabe. Before Gabe could reply, Frankie quickly glanced at his father to see if it was okay for him to sit with Gabe – a total stranger (to his parents, not so seemingly to Frankie). His father smiled and waved at him and he waved back, with suspicious surprise. Frankie could not believe his father would let him sit with a stranger. His father did not even bother to ask who Gabe was! Eventually Frankie shrugged off this little shock and continued to look out the window with Gabe.
“Well, consider this kiddo; I’d much rather be out there than in here. Wouldn’t you?”
“I hate this place. I hate the people here. It’s not happy. Why aren’t they happy?”
“I’m sure they want to be happy; they just forgot how to be. Are you happy?”
“I think I am . . . I don’t know, maybe not – not right now anyhow.”
“Are they rubbing off on you?”
“No!” said Frankie indignantly; he did not want to present himself as something weak and vulnerable. But he was used to telling the truth and at times that cost him his personal strength, the life in him. “Yeah, a little,” he admitted, looking down at his hands on the table.
The rain was pouring even more strongly. It produced telling craters on the soil as well as constant soothing sounds when it pounded the cars in the parking lot – like incessant and lively rhythmical movements of egg shakers. As the storm progressed, lightning strikes were splatters on canvas that quickly faded away. As for the thunder, timpani drums’ solo through drum rolls ending in the clash of two cymbals. The darkening of the clouds only made the rarer brighter rays glow more luminously on the ground.
Meanwhile, inside the rest stop, the people grew louder, more obnoxious and hideous.
Suddenly, the lights flickered off. “I’m sorry people, but it looks like we have a black out right now. Just stay calm!” said one of the workers behind the cash register. The crowd’s cacophonous growls, moans and complaints intensified.
“Great! Fine, we’ll stay in the dark! No problem here!” said the same man with the tainted white T-shirt, sarcastically. His attitude seemed to be the general reception of everyone there – except that of Frankie and Gabe. After the lights went out, they observed the people, philistines, as if through binoculars with disgust. Why couldn’t the people just stay calm? After a while, one of the customers jumped on the counter where the cash registers sat broken, and pumping his fist in the air, yelled at the crowd, “We want service! We want service! We want Service! Faster, faster!” The workers pulled him down, harshly from the counter. He banged his head on the solid floor and a loud thump was heard by every ear. They thought that putting down the agitator would calm down the overbearing crowd, but soon enough, all the people started to chant what the instigator had started – including Frankie’s father and mother. Frankie looked over at them, gaping. His parents had not noticed their son watching them, utterly stunned, as if petrified. A tear slid down his face and onto the table.
Something was building inside of Frankie; it made his face grow a deep red. Hot blood rushed through the capillaries in his cheeks and anger, intense disbelief and shame possessed his heavy, small heart so strongly, too strongly. He found it hard to swallow and tears were still flowing out of his eyes – this time, at a non-stop pace, although not a sound passed out of his lips. No, there was no time to cry out loud. Gabe saw all that was escalating in Frankie. The overcast turned storm electrified Frankie’s veins and arteries and when they reached his heart he could not take it. Gabe with thinking eyes said in a low and enticing tone, “I know what you mean, I know what you’re thinking.”
“No more. No more! NO MORE!” yelled Frankie so that all the adults in the rest area looked at him in consternation. “No more! Stop it!” He slammed his fist on the table where he was sitting with Gabe and he ran out of the door, the image of his parents in a wrestling position with a worker, in the corner of his crying eyes.
He ran to the only tree outside near the parking lot. The stentorian storm was heavenly to Frankie and he climbed the tree to be near it. As he did so he heard the crack of a single lightening bolt from the sky rush toward the tree.
The last scene Frankie saw were the faces of the people of the rest stop through the window. Looking back at Frankie, they were not fighting anymore. The arguing and fighting had gone away as did Gabriel.
Looking back with hindsight, I think this story is a bit immature. Over the next year, I’m going to try to produce another story to get some practice in, but with school creeping around the corning at the end of August, all my juices in me will lean towards school work. Next semester is especially special because it’ll be the semester where I actually take classes that are for my major, rather than the general classes I’ve been taking for the past two years, that are required. That means that I have to really do well because the real game is about to start. No more practice shots or fun tennis rallies.
But writing is hard.
However, speaking of juices flowing in the body, I ain’t got any, I’m all dried out of ideas and words for a short story. What’s the word, meaning dried up and unproductive? Oh yeah, I think fallow. With regards to short stories, I feel imaginatively fallow – barren of the seeds of fruits of literary entertainment. Nothing’s planting in my mind and I’m not exactly the farmer type or the old, kind lady who grows a small garden in her little backyard right behind the gas station in Queens.
Sent Overcast
He was ten years old and took a liking to these yearly summer vacations. His name was Frankie and it was just he, and his parents, on the road for hours on end. They had gone to four different states since they first started this family tradition – or affair rather – four years ago. He remembered the first one vividly, because it was the first time he stayed out of the house for more than a day, experiencing the true outside world. He was different than most other kids; he didn’t have any other siblings and he didn’t mind that at all. He never complained to his parents that he didn’t have any brothers or sisters to play with, and often times he found himself immersed in his own little daydreams, as if his daydreams were his siblings whom he could play with and relate to. At one time he daydreamed he was on top of their rather non-sloping roof, drinking sunny delight as the summer sun was setting. At another time he was on the moon looking down on the Earth through his binoculars – his hands in the shape of “O’s” around his eyes – watching different people going about their impersonal business, while he was alone on the moon in comforting solitude among his stars.
By early afternoon, the sky had turned a thick gray – it looked as if the sky had no upper nor horizontal boundaries and was filled with endless puffs of clouds. White lambs grazing on soft, dark patches were gentle, piercing bright grays. These subtle rays hit the ground as if they came to this world with one mission in mind, which was to save the people in it.
The family had been driving for the past three hours and the father felt a brief respite from the road was in order. “How about we stop at a rest stop? Maybe get some lunch?” asked the father addressing his wife and child. It was around one thirty in the afternoon and his eyes were on the road, looking for street signs of a rest stop.
“That’s sounds fine, honey. Frankie, help Daddy and me look for a rest stop area so we can eat lunch and take a break from the road. You’ve been driving, what, three hours straight now?” said his wife looking up at him, rubbing his neck with her left hand.
“Yeah, but it feels like a lot more,” said the father with a deep, slow sigh.
“Our break will come soon, and then we can switch; I’ll drive and you can just sit and relax.” As she looked out the window for resting areas for tourists, which undoubtedly they were – both of this state and of the Earth, she noticed the weather; it seemed to never be too far from them. “The sky looks like it’s getting darker.”
Frankie sat in the back seat of their Civic and was already looking out the window before his parents gave him notice of a pit stop. He had been watching the lines on the roads – quick white dashes against a black background. As he lifted his head to look for signs for rest stops, water droplets started to decorate the car windows and the road. He imagined how hard it would be to catch them all.
Finally they parked the car at a rest area and ran inside before they got too wet from the now pouring rain. Frankie held his parents’ hands while running a little behind their steps. The sky looked too pure for him to believe the pelting rain was coming from it, but he still accepted it as something unexplainable but hopeful. As Frankie and his parents ran past a lonesome tree, Frankie looked back and saw that everyone else in the parking lot was doing the same thing – taking a supposed refuge inside the rest stop from what Frankie concluded was just a beautiful storm.
They got inside the packed rest stop, so hot and humid. The lines for food were long and people were complaining. The humidity in there was as thick as condensed milk and heavy cream mixed together. Heat covered every body like an invisible and unnecessary blanket made out of wool. Frankie breathed in body odor and ugly smiles while brochures were folded into fans that were unsuccessfully drying off the sweat from red, saggy, and wet faces.
Frankie’s parents told him to find a seat. His mother had to use the restroom, out of which formed a long line. To order food, the people had to wait in front of a square monitor, similar to a digital clock. On the screen of this monitor read, in red, the number of the next available register that was sounded by a lady’s monotonous and impersonal voice. His father was waiting on this long line to order food, like the rest of the other two legged barbarians – or so it seemed to Frankie. “Well listen here, buddy, I’ve been waiting for almost an hour and a half, so back off,” said a man wearing a dirty white T-shirt with yellow pit stains that matched his teeth. His mean eyes were as threateningly hungry as the anger and agitation that permeated throughout the rest area. Frankie looked to his other side hoping to see a better picture. Instead he got a glimpse of hell: rolling eyes, impatience and negative minds were the make-up of the contempt that spewed from the nostrils of every devil in the house – and Frankie hated it.
He began to think that everywhere he looked he would run into something he hated, until he saw an old man sitting at a booth near the window. This man must have been in his seventies and he wore a smile that was luring and true. Frankie walked over to him.
“May I sit down, sir?”
“Go right ahead. The name’s Gabriel, but you can call me Gabe.” As Frankie took the seat across from Gabe in the booth, Gabe turned his head toward the window, folded his arms on the table and leaned on them, smiling. “You don’t get many of these storms now-a-days. No, no this one’s special.”
“How come?” asked Frankie innocently while looking out the window joining Gabe. Before Gabe could reply, Frankie quickly glanced at his father to see if it was okay for him to sit with Gabe – a total stranger (to his parents, not so seemingly to Frankie). His father smiled and waved at him and he waved back, with suspicious surprise. Frankie could not believe his father would let him sit with a stranger. His father did not even bother to ask who Gabe was! Eventually Frankie shrugged off this little shock and continued to look out the window with Gabe.
“Well, consider this kiddo; I’d much rather be out there than in here. Wouldn’t you?”
“I hate this place. I hate the people here. It’s not happy. Why aren’t they happy?”
“I’m sure they want to be happy; they just forgot how to be. Are you happy?”
“I think I am . . . I don’t know, maybe not – not right now anyhow.”
“Are they rubbing off on you?”
“No!” said Frankie indignantly; he did not want to present himself as something weak and vulnerable. But he was used to telling the truth and at times that cost him his personal strength, the life in him. “Yeah, a little,” he admitted, looking down at his hands on the table.
The rain was pouring even more strongly. It produced telling craters on the soil as well as constant soothing sounds when it pounded the cars in the parking lot – like incessant and lively rhythmical movements of egg shakers. As the storm progressed, lightning strikes were splatters on canvas that quickly faded away. As for the thunder, timpani drums’ solo through drum rolls ending in the clash of two cymbals. The darkening of the clouds only made the rarer brighter rays glow more luminously on the ground.
Meanwhile, inside the rest stop, the people grew louder, more obnoxious and hideous.
Suddenly, the lights flickered off. “I’m sorry people, but it looks like we have a black out right now. Just stay calm!” said one of the workers behind the cash register. The crowd’s cacophonous growls, moans and complaints intensified.
“Great! Fine, we’ll stay in the dark! No problem here!” said the same man with the tainted white T-shirt, sarcastically. His attitude seemed to be the general reception of everyone there – except that of Frankie and Gabe. After the lights went out, they observed the people, philistines, as if through binoculars with disgust. Why couldn’t the people just stay calm? After a while, one of the customers jumped on the counter where the cash registers sat broken, and pumping his fist in the air, yelled at the crowd, “We want service! We want service! We want Service! Faster, faster!” The workers pulled him down, harshly from the counter. He banged his head on the solid floor and a loud thump was heard by every ear. They thought that putting down the agitator would calm down the overbearing crowd, but soon enough, all the people started to chant what the instigator had started – including Frankie’s father and mother. Frankie looked over at them, gaping. His parents had not noticed their son watching them, utterly stunned, as if petrified. A tear slid down his face and onto the table.
Something was building inside of Frankie; it made his face grow a deep red. Hot blood rushed through the capillaries in his cheeks and anger, intense disbelief and shame possessed his heavy, small heart so strongly, too strongly. He found it hard to swallow and tears were still flowing out of his eyes – this time, at a non-stop pace, although not a sound passed out of his lips. No, there was no time to cry out loud. Gabe saw all that was escalating in Frankie. The overcast turned storm electrified Frankie’s veins and arteries and when they reached his heart he could not take it. Gabe with thinking eyes said in a low and enticing tone, “I know what you mean, I know what you’re thinking.”
“No more. No more! NO MORE!” yelled Frankie so that all the adults in the rest area looked at him in consternation. “No more! Stop it!” He slammed his fist on the table where he was sitting with Gabe and he ran out of the door, the image of his parents in a wrestling position with a worker, in the corner of his crying eyes.
He ran to the only tree outside near the parking lot. The stentorian storm was heavenly to Frankie and he climbed the tree to be near it. As he did so he heard the crack of a single lightening bolt from the sky rush toward the tree.
The last scene Frankie saw were the faces of the people of the rest stop through the window. Looking back at Frankie, they were not fighting anymore. The arguing and fighting had gone away as did Gabriel.
Looking back with hindsight, I think this story is a bit immature. Over the next year, I’m going to try to produce another story to get some practice in, but with school creeping around the corning at the end of August, all my juices in me will lean towards school work. Next semester is especially special because it’ll be the semester where I actually take classes that are for my major, rather than the general classes I’ve been taking for the past two years, that are required. That means that I have to really do well because the real game is about to start. No more practice shots or fun tennis rallies.
But writing is hard.
However, speaking of juices flowing in the body, I ain’t got any, I’m all dried out of ideas and words for a short story. What’s the word, meaning dried up and unproductive? Oh yeah, I think fallow. With regards to short stories, I feel imaginatively fallow – barren of the seeds of fruits of literary entertainment. Nothing’s planting in my mind and I’m not exactly the farmer type or the old, kind lady who grows a small garden in her little backyard right behind the gas station in Queens.
We are all entertainers
Last semester as you may or may not know, I took a music class. My teacher was really laid back and down to Earth and sometimes lazy. With that said, I was surprised to hear him say, one day, something that deeply connects to the world: “We are all entertainers.” I don’t know if someone else said this already or if he’s the first to say it, but I took this to heart. If we all just close our eyes for a second and imagine all the people in the world as entertainers, what would we see? I think we would see the world we see right now, except with less sadness. What does it mean to be an entertainer? What does it mean to entertain? To me, to entertain means to get people’s attention in a way that you like it and that the person being entertained likes it. Applying this definition to the world would leave out room for sadness and hate because there’d only be entertainers and good feelings around the world. I am an entertainer because of what I write both in school and out of school. I am an entertainer through conversations and chats and texts. I am an entertainer through the guitar and drums. My teachers, the source from which I draw the fuel to my engine, are entertainers. The music I listen to (principally Jason Mraz and the Killers) comprises of entertainers most certainly. The books, and therefore the authors, that I read are entertainers. The foods I choose to eat are entertainers (surely if they have a mind - and they may do, at least in my imagination); they’d probably like the fact that they are chosen over other foods. The friends I’ve been agreeably pulled into are entertainers. And so we see the world as a pool of entertainers feeding off of each other with mutuality, producing entertainment that is open to all.
There are the entertainers in the world and then there are your best entertainers.
Best friends make awesome entertainers. They are the best ranked out of all of your friends and if you don’t have friends or if you have only a few, then best friends are all too valuable, it’s unimaginable. That is the case with mine. I have to hold on to my best friend because if I loose her, I’d have no other stars in my vast infinity of space, to fall onto. Tiger is awesome. My relationship with her is like what most people say: opposites attract. That’s true! I mean, just take one look at me and her and and you’ll see why. She’s so different and I’m so different. But our differences are tolerable. She’s the type who presents herself in style, make up, pleasing clothes – the whole shebang. She’s my sociable Tiger with many friends; like I said one time earlier when we were still in high school: she’s the reason people bring cameras to parties. She’s so approachable and in control of situations. She’s so in control. Me? I’m the type who doesn’t like to wear clothes that seem too revealing. In fact, I detest V-necks. Although I may grow lenient to them. Speaking of styles, we even have different handwritings: her’s is the girl on the go type. Mine is the smart but chicken scratch kind. I am in no ways as sociable as she is. She may be in control of situations, but I have the power of persuasion.
Our differences are what balances us, but it is our similarities that hold us together – like nuclear bonds. We have the same sense of humor. Endless inside jokes are countless pieces of evidence of the history of our humor. We have the comfort factor that is the unstrange silence we sit through when we’re just hanging. It is the tolerance of the differences that we have for each other. The tolerance turned respect that is.
There are the entertainers in the world and then there are your best entertainers.
Best friends make awesome entertainers. They are the best ranked out of all of your friends and if you don’t have friends or if you have only a few, then best friends are all too valuable, it’s unimaginable. That is the case with mine. I have to hold on to my best friend because if I loose her, I’d have no other stars in my vast infinity of space, to fall onto. Tiger is awesome. My relationship with her is like what most people say: opposites attract. That’s true! I mean, just take one look at me and her and and you’ll see why. She’s so different and I’m so different. But our differences are tolerable. She’s the type who presents herself in style, make up, pleasing clothes – the whole shebang. She’s my sociable Tiger with many friends; like I said one time earlier when we were still in high school: she’s the reason people bring cameras to parties. She’s so approachable and in control of situations. She’s so in control. Me? I’m the type who doesn’t like to wear clothes that seem too revealing. In fact, I detest V-necks. Although I may grow lenient to them. Speaking of styles, we even have different handwritings: her’s is the girl on the go type. Mine is the smart but chicken scratch kind. I am in no ways as sociable as she is. She may be in control of situations, but I have the power of persuasion.
Our differences are what balances us, but it is our similarities that hold us together – like nuclear bonds. We have the same sense of humor. Endless inside jokes are countless pieces of evidence of the history of our humor. We have the comfort factor that is the unstrange silence we sit through when we’re just hanging. It is the tolerance of the differences that we have for each other. The tolerance turned respect that is.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
My Toca
I said one day that Steph is my Toca. Toca is one of Jason’s best buddies and he once said that his goal is to make Jason look really good. How selfless he is! It is with that same reason that I call Steph my Toca.
Jason Mraz, MORNING AND NIGHT!
Last night was one of the best night – if not, the BEST – night ever. Yesterday as a whole was the most amazing and far-fetched day I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve lived plenty.
My day started at the dawn of the wee hours, right after Thursday had past. Steph, my Dad and I had planned to sleep in Kuya’s apartment the night before Friday morning so that we would be near Rockefeller Center plaza – where Jason was to perform in the TODAY show. We got to Kuya’s house, via train and subway, by 1:10 am. I’ve never been on a train or subway that late before. I saw things that I expected but never expected to actually see. It was surreal, to say the least and boy was this an idiosyncratic feeling – the sense of being out and about late at night where possible dirty strangers roamed, was something a person as clean as I am would never forget. But it taught me about the night world and the night owls. When we arrived at Kuya’s apartment at 1:10 am, we cleaned up a bit. By 1:30, I was in bed. Our alarm was set for 4:15am because our goal was to get to Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:00am. With the prospect of seeing Jason not once but twice the next day, I was surprised to see that I slept pretty easily for a good two hours and forty-five minutes. We left Kuya’s apartment by 4:35, when it was still dark outside. And we were at Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:20am. The line for the fans without fan passes was so darn long, stretching almost the whole block!
We waited on line and by 6:00am, we joined the rest of the crowd in front of the stage where Jason was going to perform. Steph and I were near the back, but not as back as those who were across the street. Steph. She’s my best friend and she’s the one who carried me so that I could see Jason, above all the taller people and in and around their cameras held high. Jason rehearsed “I’m Yours,” “The Remedy,” (a new version of it!) and “Make it Mine,” until around 7:00am, when the TODAY show started. He talked some time for his interviews, but we couldn’t really hear him. Other news went on, as expected and at one point we saw Al Roker. He’s skinnier in person – either that or he lost weight. He’s such an enthusiastic man, speaking of which, at around 7:30, Jason started to perform his three songs.
During the whole time, standing and hoping to catch a glimpse of Jason and enjoying his beautiful voice with complementing songs, I really got to know the people crowded around me. One family man in his late 40’s or early 50’s showered his fatherly concern as Steph carried me as high as she could, making sure (the father) that she herself didn’t topple over. Two Indian girls were the average teenagers seen in movies and in high school, texting their friends or checking their facebook on their iphone. Another Indian lady was the more intimate type, calling her friend and saying, “this is for you, I love you!” holding her phone in the air so that Jason’s music can bless the receiver at the other end with his melodical and enthusiastic voice and his uplifting band. And you could tell that this American mom figure beside me was upset with the signs that were blocking the stage from her view, but too shy to really show her anger, laughing instead of scolding. One man, inspired by a painting on canvas that he brought, humbly brought his down, as many people shouted, quite politely, to him to put it down so they could see the stage. Everyone though, had one thing in common and it was their love of Jason and his music.
That finished at around 9:00am, at which time people started to leave. Steph and I went close to the stage, now void of Jason and his superband, so that we could take pictures of their instruments. Afterward, Steph and I hung out in Central park, climbing rocks and swinging on swings. We visited the M&M store on our way to the subway to go back home – a most stressful time for Steph, one that I did not want to particiapte in – and I didn’t. Did I say thank you, Steph yet?
We got home at around 1:45pm. Steph, my Mom and I were hungry. The only food I had eaten in the past seventeen hours were seven raisins, one dried pitted plum, a light dannon yogurt and a banana. We went to Costco and had a scrumptious and much deserved (and not to mention, satisfying) lunch. When we got back home, we had about two and a half hours to kill before we execute our night plan, which was to leave the house at around 5:30 pm to pick up my Dad from the train station from his work in Manhattan. He would then drive us straight to Jones beach. Fortunately we didn’t hit traffic and even more fortunately, we were able to find a parking spot quite easily. We had about thirty to forty minutes to kill before the concert was supposed to start (7:00pm), for goodness sakes! It seemed like Jason brought us luck today, starting in the morning with great weather and continuing in the evening with great weather still as well as good traffic and parking. During that spare window, we had some french fries and then we were off to have the best night of our lives.
This was the first real concert I’ve been to. What do you mean by real? Well, I’ve been to many concerts before, only they were with great pretenders – those imitating the classics of the oldies (to me). Not only that, they were also free. However, this concert in Jones beach was different and I’m glad it was. It may have cost us over $140 total, but it was so worth it! Our seats were great and lucky. You see, Steph was supposed to sit directly behind me, but we both knew that it would be better if she was right next to me. Thankfully, the kind couple next to me didn’t mind Steph sitting next to me. They scooted over one seat. so stretching away from me were Steph, then the couple (four seats). The person who was supposed to sit in one of the seats that the couple took, moved to Steph’s seat. This seating arrangement made the setting perfect for my first Jason Mraz concert! Who wouldn’t want to enjoy a concert with their best friend next to them?
The opening acts were a little entertaining to say the least. I felt that the first one, reggae based, was better than the second one. I want to talk less about these guys though, so that I can get on to Jason, so I’ll just tell you this: the opening acts were just shy of being frustratingly long. They almost pushed it too much. In fact, the real concert started at 8:50 to 9:00 when our tickets said it was to start at 7:00!
Once the opening acts were finally finished, Bushwalla, Jason’s college roommate and best friend, entertained us with laughter, literally. For those who don’t really know Bushwalla, he is a man born to entertain, whether that would be in the streets or on stage or in cafes/coffee shops. He is a man of the spreading of happiness to as many people as possible, through audience interaction. He and Jason are perfect buddies. He was our host for the night and his first instruction before the 30 seconds of laughter, was to get ready for a big night as they changed the set for Jason and his superband.
When everyone finally got back from crowded, yet efficient restrooms and long merchandise lines as well as hula-hoopers and guitar hero players, the whole amphitheater was almost full.
Finally, FINALLY, Bushwalla announced Jason’s arrival and the crowd went wild! Everyone stood up, clapped, screamed their head off, jumped – the whole enchilada. Jason was finally here and the rest of the night floated on cloud nine, with no ground in sight until 11:00 at night. My favorite part, was when we sang “I’m Yours” as loud as we could so that people can hear us “from space,” as Jason often puts it. That song then turned into Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” song. We sang the verse, “‘cause every little thing gonna be all right,” so loudly, I think we could be heard from miles away. Just the crowd’s voices and Jason and his band’s voices soaking the air with easy meaning. Imagine a whole ampitheatre with thousands of voices in sync. It was such a high experience. To watch it on youtube, here's the link (the ending of that video is what I'm talking about): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBAL3PH7Pzo. That’s just one of many good feelings felt last night. If I wrote everything that went on last night, I’d have nothing else to keep like a precious secret. I’ll just tell you this, the whole thing was unbelievable and downright amazing, as Jason turned into a “God energy” and got the crowd pumping like crazy.
But of course, one of the best parts of it was that I got to sit next to Steph. My Tiger.
In the car ride home, I was so sleepy and tired. I had only 2 hours and 45 minutes of sleep after all. I’m more than glad to say that the concert and Jason (Jason Mraz, can you believe it?!) was the last thing in my mind before I cave into my pressing sleep.
Thank you Jason, thank you Steph and thank you everyone else in between!
My day started at the dawn of the wee hours, right after Thursday had past. Steph, my Dad and I had planned to sleep in Kuya’s apartment the night before Friday morning so that we would be near Rockefeller Center plaza – where Jason was to perform in the TODAY show. We got to Kuya’s house, via train and subway, by 1:10 am. I’ve never been on a train or subway that late before. I saw things that I expected but never expected to actually see. It was surreal, to say the least and boy was this an idiosyncratic feeling – the sense of being out and about late at night where possible dirty strangers roamed, was something a person as clean as I am would never forget. But it taught me about the night world and the night owls. When we arrived at Kuya’s apartment at 1:10 am, we cleaned up a bit. By 1:30, I was in bed. Our alarm was set for 4:15am because our goal was to get to Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:00am. With the prospect of seeing Jason not once but twice the next day, I was surprised to see that I slept pretty easily for a good two hours and forty-five minutes. We left Kuya’s apartment by 4:35, when it was still dark outside. And we were at Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:20am. The line for the fans without fan passes was so darn long, stretching almost the whole block!
We waited on line and by 6:00am, we joined the rest of the crowd in front of the stage where Jason was going to perform. Steph and I were near the back, but not as back as those who were across the street. Steph. She’s my best friend and she’s the one who carried me so that I could see Jason, above all the taller people and in and around their cameras held high. Jason rehearsed “I’m Yours,” “The Remedy,” (a new version of it!) and “Make it Mine,” until around 7:00am, when the TODAY show started. He talked some time for his interviews, but we couldn’t really hear him. Other news went on, as expected and at one point we saw Al Roker. He’s skinnier in person – either that or he lost weight. He’s such an enthusiastic man, speaking of which, at around 7:30, Jason started to perform his three songs.
During the whole time, standing and hoping to catch a glimpse of Jason and enjoying his beautiful voice with complementing songs, I really got to know the people crowded around me. One family man in his late 40’s or early 50’s showered his fatherly concern as Steph carried me as high as she could, making sure (the father) that she herself didn’t topple over. Two Indian girls were the average teenagers seen in movies and in high school, texting their friends or checking their facebook on their iphone. Another Indian lady was the more intimate type, calling her friend and saying, “this is for you, I love you!” holding her phone in the air so that Jason’s music can bless the receiver at the other end with his melodical and enthusiastic voice and his uplifting band. And you could tell that this American mom figure beside me was upset with the signs that were blocking the stage from her view, but too shy to really show her anger, laughing instead of scolding. One man, inspired by a painting on canvas that he brought, humbly brought his down, as many people shouted, quite politely, to him to put it down so they could see the stage. Everyone though, had one thing in common and it was their love of Jason and his music.
That finished at around 9:00am, at which time people started to leave. Steph and I went close to the stage, now void of Jason and his superband, so that we could take pictures of their instruments. Afterward, Steph and I hung out in Central park, climbing rocks and swinging on swings. We visited the M&M store on our way to the subway to go back home – a most stressful time for Steph, one that I did not want to particiapte in – and I didn’t. Did I say thank you, Steph yet?
We got home at around 1:45pm. Steph, my Mom and I were hungry. The only food I had eaten in the past seventeen hours were seven raisins, one dried pitted plum, a light dannon yogurt and a banana. We went to Costco and had a scrumptious and much deserved (and not to mention, satisfying) lunch. When we got back home, we had about two and a half hours to kill before we execute our night plan, which was to leave the house at around 5:30 pm to pick up my Dad from the train station from his work in Manhattan. He would then drive us straight to Jones beach. Fortunately we didn’t hit traffic and even more fortunately, we were able to find a parking spot quite easily. We had about thirty to forty minutes to kill before the concert was supposed to start (7:00pm), for goodness sakes! It seemed like Jason brought us luck today, starting in the morning with great weather and continuing in the evening with great weather still as well as good traffic and parking. During that spare window, we had some french fries and then we were off to have the best night of our lives.
This was the first real concert I’ve been to. What do you mean by real? Well, I’ve been to many concerts before, only they were with great pretenders – those imitating the classics of the oldies (to me). Not only that, they were also free. However, this concert in Jones beach was different and I’m glad it was. It may have cost us over $140 total, but it was so worth it! Our seats were great and lucky. You see, Steph was supposed to sit directly behind me, but we both knew that it would be better if she was right next to me. Thankfully, the kind couple next to me didn’t mind Steph sitting next to me. They scooted over one seat. so stretching away from me were Steph, then the couple (four seats). The person who was supposed to sit in one of the seats that the couple took, moved to Steph’s seat. This seating arrangement made the setting perfect for my first Jason Mraz concert! Who wouldn’t want to enjoy a concert with their best friend next to them?
The opening acts were a little entertaining to say the least. I felt that the first one, reggae based, was better than the second one. I want to talk less about these guys though, so that I can get on to Jason, so I’ll just tell you this: the opening acts were just shy of being frustratingly long. They almost pushed it too much. In fact, the real concert started at 8:50 to 9:00 when our tickets said it was to start at 7:00!
Once the opening acts were finally finished, Bushwalla, Jason’s college roommate and best friend, entertained us with laughter, literally. For those who don’t really know Bushwalla, he is a man born to entertain, whether that would be in the streets or on stage or in cafes/coffee shops. He is a man of the spreading of happiness to as many people as possible, through audience interaction. He and Jason are perfect buddies. He was our host for the night and his first instruction before the 30 seconds of laughter, was to get ready for a big night as they changed the set for Jason and his superband.
When everyone finally got back from crowded, yet efficient restrooms and long merchandise lines as well as hula-hoopers and guitar hero players, the whole amphitheater was almost full.
Finally, FINALLY, Bushwalla announced Jason’s arrival and the crowd went wild! Everyone stood up, clapped, screamed their head off, jumped – the whole enchilada. Jason was finally here and the rest of the night floated on cloud nine, with no ground in sight until 11:00 at night. My favorite part, was when we sang “I’m Yours” as loud as we could so that people can hear us “from space,” as Jason often puts it. That song then turned into Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” song. We sang the verse, “‘cause every little thing gonna be all right,” so loudly, I think we could be heard from miles away. Just the crowd’s voices and Jason and his band’s voices soaking the air with easy meaning. Imagine a whole ampitheatre with thousands of voices in sync. It was such a high experience. To watch it on youtube, here's the link (the ending of that video is what I'm talking about): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBAL3PH7Pzo. That’s just one of many good feelings felt last night. If I wrote everything that went on last night, I’d have nothing else to keep like a precious secret. I’ll just tell you this, the whole thing was unbelievable and downright amazing, as Jason turned into a “God energy” and got the crowd pumping like crazy.
But of course, one of the best parts of it was that I got to sit next to Steph. My Tiger.
In the car ride home, I was so sleepy and tired. I had only 2 hours and 45 minutes of sleep after all. I’m more than glad to say that the concert and Jason (Jason Mraz, can you believe it?!) was the last thing in my mind before I cave into my pressing sleep.
Thank you Jason, thank you Steph and thank you everyone else in between!
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