Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with the golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams beneath your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
by William Butler Yeats, He Wishes for Cloths of Heaven
So far, all I do have are dreams, resumes, job applications that I have not heard back from, three more semesters to finish nursing school, all those years in between to build up me resume, volunteer work at school, at church, and at the hospital, and nightmares that appear to hold the majority of my common sense.
Don't you just hate it when your nightmares rise up against you and let you see the truth in it's bare form? I had one recently about how I was also a graduate and was in a job interview with the hospital that had given me my scholarship. The panel was asking me why they should hire me when my resume had nothing on it, and I could only stammer a feeble defense that they've already given me their money, that they've invested on me, so why shouldn't they just hire me. Ah, how I love how my brain interacts with the world. So I woke up with a deep inhale but still the fear remained and I carry it with me.
The world judges peoples by their resume, or their lack of one. And as I do not have the proof that I am qualified nor that I actually have these skills, I am not going to be hired. Such is life. I have this fear that I am lacking even as my loved ones assure me that I am more than enough as I am. And yet, again I look at the world as it looks at my non-existent job experience and I tremble. I have this fear that I will forever be at the mercy of my parents' estate. And I fear that one day they will look at me say, "Enough". I have this fear that I will never be able to reciprocate, never. And I have this fear that I will wake up alone in the world with no hope in the world. All because the world won't give me a chance when I have no former employer to back me up.
My mother despairs of me; "You have all these potential, your desire to work is there, but it's wasted". My high school professor once told me, "Kulang ka sa galit" (You lack anger). And I believe them. Everyone needs passion to live. A life without passion is not one I would call a life. I would say that you are going through the motions of life. I want a life of no regrets. But life forces us to grow up where the grown ups get to say what being a grown up is all about; owning your own home, your own car, your own spouse and kids, your own job, and your own debts. Sometimes I don't look forward to growing up and retiring when I'm sixty-five. It's a jumble of nightmares and daydreams for me, life and growing up.
For now, I'll be sending applications no matter if you're not hiring. I won't lose anything any way. But I'm hoping to gain a job. And hopefully by the time I graduate, three semesters from now, I won't be stammering any feeble answers to the panel, I won't be featured in a horrifying job interview nightmare, and my brain will keep the remaining sanity I have left intact. At least, there aren't any mad hatters or hookah-smoking caterpillars yet.
Showing posts with label i don't claim to know much. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i don't claim to know much. Show all posts
June 27, 2009
They told us not to cry
My best friend sent me an instant message asking if I was there. I replied and received her response that said her grandfather just passed away. He never woke up. Oh.
I gave my condolences and said that I was sorry. And I was. I was sorry for the fact that she wasn't able to say goodbye. I knew how hard it was for her to receive a call or a text message letting her know that she no longer had a grandfather. I knew how it felt when you hear family cry over the phone. It's unimaginable. It's painful to hear heartbreak over the line.
She asked me if I knew how much he meant to her. That he was the father she had in her life. And that she was so sad. I told her I did. That I knew how much she loved him and how much he loved her. I told her that I understood how much it hurts that she was unable to say goodbye to him. But I knew that he would never begrudge her her feelings. That he would not allow her to pretend that she was okay, that it was okay, that it didn't hurt. I told her that it was okay to cry.
She told me she again that she was so sad. She told me of her plan to go home to the province, that she asked for a leave. I wished her a safe trip. I said that I would pray for her and her family. I asked her to give my condolences to her grandmother.
I was slightly uncomfortable when I was chatting with her, honestly. I knew she was crying when she was typing since she misspelled every now and then. That was the first time that I ever told someone that it was okay to cry. And even as I expected her to cry, I was unsure whether I was actually comforting her correctly. No one tells you as you grow up, "this is how you comfort someone, especially when they lose their grandfather, specifically when you're chatting with them continents away."
The twenty-first century has seen evolution and devolution, raced through inventions and application of laws and logic. Human socialization is growing even as you read this through interactive networks but there is a growing chasm in human connection and community. We don't hesitate to "add" someone, a friend, an aunt, a cousin twice removed, or the crazy uncle no one talks about on our page. But there is a definite pause when asked who lives three doors across your house or if you actually acknowledged that small smile-nod Mr. Smith gave you earlier or you either stared between his brows and gave your own smile-nod as you ducked away.
I think people are becoming socially awkward. Even as I admit that no one is taught the art of comforting and say that it comes naturally, I find that I am at a loss as to how I should break that silence of grief. That I don't say or not say something and then wince as I see them shirk further away. Some might say that just being there counts as an act of comfort. I suppose. But then my being continents away does pose some trouble. I don't want to make an ass of myself as I type an instant message.
All I could tell my best friend was from my own experience. She told me again that it hurt so much. And I replied that it would get worse. That it would hurt as she would remember how he looked, his favorite breakfast, how he smiled when she would greet him as she came home. That we lose parts of ourselves when a person we love passes away. I couldn't bear to tell her that sometimes we would forget how their voice sounded like, or whether they ever wore this shirt. The simple details would fade from our minds even as we desperately try to hold on to as much as we could.
I couldn't tell her that it would ease in time. That it would hurt less. That she would be able to breathe easier. And that she could smile at the thought of him in time and not be guilty that she was still alive. That it would be okay not to cry. But maybe I don't have to. Maybe she'll figure it out herself.
The great thing about human beings is our capacity for change, our capacity to adapt, our capacity to survive. And the great thing about us is that we don't have to be told how to comfort someone; that even as we awkwardly pat someone on the back, it comes naturally. I think it is great to be a human being. That's the beauty of humanity, we are always being. Not becoming, or doing, but being.
I gave my condolences and said that I was sorry. And I was. I was sorry for the fact that she wasn't able to say goodbye. I knew how hard it was for her to receive a call or a text message letting her know that she no longer had a grandfather. I knew how it felt when you hear family cry over the phone. It's unimaginable. It's painful to hear heartbreak over the line.
She asked me if I knew how much he meant to her. That he was the father she had in her life. And that she was so sad. I told her I did. That I knew how much she loved him and how much he loved her. I told her that I understood how much it hurts that she was unable to say goodbye to him. But I knew that he would never begrudge her her feelings. That he would not allow her to pretend that she was okay, that it was okay, that it didn't hurt. I told her that it was okay to cry.
She told me she again that she was so sad. She told me of her plan to go home to the province, that she asked for a leave. I wished her a safe trip. I said that I would pray for her and her family. I asked her to give my condolences to her grandmother.
I was slightly uncomfortable when I was chatting with her, honestly. I knew she was crying when she was typing since she misspelled every now and then. That was the first time that I ever told someone that it was okay to cry. And even as I expected her to cry, I was unsure whether I was actually comforting her correctly. No one tells you as you grow up, "this is how you comfort someone, especially when they lose their grandfather, specifically when you're chatting with them continents away."
The twenty-first century has seen evolution and devolution, raced through inventions and application of laws and logic. Human socialization is growing even as you read this through interactive networks but there is a growing chasm in human connection and community. We don't hesitate to "add" someone, a friend, an aunt, a cousin twice removed, or the crazy uncle no one talks about on our page. But there is a definite pause when asked who lives three doors across your house or if you actually acknowledged that small smile-nod Mr. Smith gave you earlier or you either stared between his brows and gave your own smile-nod as you ducked away.
I think people are becoming socially awkward. Even as I admit that no one is taught the art of comforting and say that it comes naturally, I find that I am at a loss as to how I should break that silence of grief. That I don't say or not say something and then wince as I see them shirk further away. Some might say that just being there counts as an act of comfort. I suppose. But then my being continents away does pose some trouble. I don't want to make an ass of myself as I type an instant message.
All I could tell my best friend was from my own experience. She told me again that it hurt so much. And I replied that it would get worse. That it would hurt as she would remember how he looked, his favorite breakfast, how he smiled when she would greet him as she came home. That we lose parts of ourselves when a person we love passes away. I couldn't bear to tell her that sometimes we would forget how their voice sounded like, or whether they ever wore this shirt. The simple details would fade from our minds even as we desperately try to hold on to as much as we could.
I couldn't tell her that it would ease in time. That it would hurt less. That she would be able to breathe easier. And that she could smile at the thought of him in time and not be guilty that she was still alive. That it would be okay not to cry. But maybe I don't have to. Maybe she'll figure it out herself.
The great thing about human beings is our capacity for change, our capacity to adapt, our capacity to survive. And the great thing about us is that we don't have to be told how to comfort someone; that even as we awkwardly pat someone on the back, it comes naturally. I think it is great to be a human being. That's the beauty of humanity, we are always being. Not becoming, or doing, but being.
March 29, 2009
Still Looking For A Dream
Of the things that scare me, I can name three: I am afraid of losing my family, just the thought of them dying makes me cry. I am afraid of loving, the thought of surrendering myself to someone who can break me is unfathomable. And third, I am afraid of dreaming, the thought of wanting something so much only to be disappointed is too much.
Next month, I will be 20. I don't particularly mind getting older. It is just an increase in number, a birthday is just a means of measuring your time on earth. Age does not equate to maturity or intelligence. I could be forty and have a maturity of a thirteen year old, and be as smart as a physicist. Age does not mean a lot to me. The only thing I am really happy about turning twenty is the feeling of triumph I might get. Finally, I caught up to my older siblings. Maybe I'll have more common ground with them since I will no longer be a teenager.
The nursing advisor from the university I am applying to called me last Friday to inquire if I was still serious about my application. Of course. Presently, the desire to enter Nursing school is the only thing I am being driven by. I don't care if I don't get any vacation, if I'll study to the pain, I don't care. As long as I get accepted into their program then that's all that matters. And that scares me the most. I've always felt that if I wanted something so much then the world will conspire against me. I'm not afraid of failure, I am afraid of disappointment.
When I was younger I wanted so much for my family to be a family. A family that would be together, seeing each other off as the day started, going home and sharing stories during dinner, playing, having picnics and outings together, being there for each other happily ever after. Of course, that never happened seeing as my two older siblings were in college, my older brother disliked me, my parents were in their own world, and I was the youngest daughter still in grade school. Move over kiddie, we have lives to handle. By the time I was in high school, I no longer cared if we were in the same house or not and whether my parents would be home on the weekend. My life isn't as melodramatic in reality, but that was because I didn't care. I've learned to be content that they're alive.
When I was in fifth grade, I remember being called to the Principal's office because they wanted me to compete for a scholastic writing contest. I remembering protesting that I knew nothing about writing but they assured me that it didn't matter. All I had to do was write in Filipino and it would be fine. Oh. So I did as I was told and went off with other students to the competition. I was scared to death that day with all the unfamiliarity and anxiousness. Even today I cannot remember what the topic was, all I can remember was berating myself for not learning cursive and not knowing how to count 2500 words. Tough luck, kid. At the end, when they were announcing the top nine winners, I could remember sitting stiffly and thinking how happy I would be if I won the ninth position. I dared not hope higher when I knew nothing about writing. I was so disappointed when I never heard my name that I stopped listening at the sixth placer. But I remembering tensing further when my classmate, who was also in the competition for illustration, started shaking me and shrieking, "You won! You won!" I stared at her perplexedly and asked her what I won, to which she replied, "They called your name! You won the first place!" Imagine that. I was thankful that I made in to the stage without passing out.
Later that week the winners from my school were told that we were going to another competition. I was ecstatic that I dared to hope. I wanted to win again. I've never been good at anything before that when I got my first trophy, I thought I could do it again. Of course, I wasn't able to win again and I wasn't able to go to the competition. I wanted so badly to cry but it hurt so much to even try, so I just pushed to bitter experience to the back of my mind. Pain burns so much like acid and disappointment is like a crushing blow. I never attempted to write again after that. It was too painful and raw.
And now, I am back to dreaming. I'm back to hoping that this time I'll be accepted into that program and I'll be graduating as a nurse in two years. I wish. Do I dare to put my heart on a platter and hope that it won't be crushed? The only reason I've stopped wanting things is because disappointment requires too much emotion. And that is why this blog's header is Bombeck's quote. I've stopped dreaming long ago, the moment I knew that apathy was safer was the moment I stopped caring. I no longer desired for my family to be together, I no longer dreamed of greatness, and I no longer wanted. I stopped being a child and went off into the world of adult skepticism and pessimism. But once more, I will hope. I will hope for my future that I will be accepted to their program and finally start my way to nursing. Just once more, I will dream and not be tainted by the doubt of disappointment.
Next month, I will be 20. I don't particularly mind getting older. It is just an increase in number, a birthday is just a means of measuring your time on earth. Age does not equate to maturity or intelligence. I could be forty and have a maturity of a thirteen year old, and be as smart as a physicist. Age does not mean a lot to me. The only thing I am really happy about turning twenty is the feeling of triumph I might get. Finally, I caught up to my older siblings. Maybe I'll have more common ground with them since I will no longer be a teenager.
The nursing advisor from the university I am applying to called me last Friday to inquire if I was still serious about my application. Of course. Presently, the desire to enter Nursing school is the only thing I am being driven by. I don't care if I don't get any vacation, if I'll study to the pain, I don't care. As long as I get accepted into their program then that's all that matters. And that scares me the most. I've always felt that if I wanted something so much then the world will conspire against me. I'm not afraid of failure, I am afraid of disappointment.
When I was younger I wanted so much for my family to be a family. A family that would be together, seeing each other off as the day started, going home and sharing stories during dinner, playing, having picnics and outings together, being there for each other happily ever after. Of course, that never happened seeing as my two older siblings were in college, my older brother disliked me, my parents were in their own world, and I was the youngest daughter still in grade school. Move over kiddie, we have lives to handle. By the time I was in high school, I no longer cared if we were in the same house or not and whether my parents would be home on the weekend. My life isn't as melodramatic in reality, but that was because I didn't care. I've learned to be content that they're alive.
When I was in fifth grade, I remember being called to the Principal's office because they wanted me to compete for a scholastic writing contest. I remembering protesting that I knew nothing about writing but they assured me that it didn't matter. All I had to do was write in Filipino and it would be fine. Oh. So I did as I was told and went off with other students to the competition. I was scared to death that day with all the unfamiliarity and anxiousness. Even today I cannot remember what the topic was, all I can remember was berating myself for not learning cursive and not knowing how to count 2500 words. Tough luck, kid. At the end, when they were announcing the top nine winners, I could remember sitting stiffly and thinking how happy I would be if I won the ninth position. I dared not hope higher when I knew nothing about writing. I was so disappointed when I never heard my name that I stopped listening at the sixth placer. But I remembering tensing further when my classmate, who was also in the competition for illustration, started shaking me and shrieking, "You won! You won!" I stared at her perplexedly and asked her what I won, to which she replied, "They called your name! You won the first place!" Imagine that. I was thankful that I made in to the stage without passing out.
Later that week the winners from my school were told that we were going to another competition. I was ecstatic that I dared to hope. I wanted to win again. I've never been good at anything before that when I got my first trophy, I thought I could do it again. Of course, I wasn't able to win again and I wasn't able to go to the competition. I wanted so badly to cry but it hurt so much to even try, so I just pushed to bitter experience to the back of my mind. Pain burns so much like acid and disappointment is like a crushing blow. I never attempted to write again after that. It was too painful and raw.
And now, I am back to dreaming. I'm back to hoping that this time I'll be accepted into that program and I'll be graduating as a nurse in two years. I wish. Do I dare to put my heart on a platter and hope that it won't be crushed? The only reason I've stopped wanting things is because disappointment requires too much emotion. And that is why this blog's header is Bombeck's quote. I've stopped dreaming long ago, the moment I knew that apathy was safer was the moment I stopped caring. I no longer desired for my family to be together, I no longer dreamed of greatness, and I no longer wanted. I stopped being a child and went off into the world of adult skepticism and pessimism. But once more, I will hope. I will hope for my future that I will be accepted to their program and finally start my way to nursing. Just once more, I will dream and not be tainted by the doubt of disappointment.
February 09, 2009
A Break From the Pity Party
My pity party is finally in conclusion. After weeks of tears, hair pulling, and sequestering myself in my room, I am now salvaging my pride and resurfacing as a human being. Maybe I should leave it at this. I should just exercise my facial muscles and smile again. But I need to write or I'll forever hold it and drag it with me to my last breath.
Ah, drama, how you fill my life with angst and profound melancholic monologues. I went to church yesterday with my Dad. I didn't want to since I had cramps and all that lovely time of the month joys of being a woman. But I knew he would be disappointed and I would feel guilty, so there we were. The guest preacher was funny, self-deprecating, and honestly confessed to a family case of inherited depression and self-medication. My kind of person. His message was aptly entitled "I Am Not A Victim." Huh. And there I was enraptured as he talked of his granddaughter's weepy soccer game, Jesus' miserable time on earth, his mom's seemingly pointless death, a parents' brutally murdered son, the elevator of choice: up for heaven and down for hell, and of why God doesn't answer our most esoteric question: Why?
"Because He's God, and He's right, and you don't get to ask that question." He was kidding, of course, but yeah, it feels that way sometimes. When my uncle passed away, I asked God why; Why did He allow my uncle to die when He could just have healed him? So I was angry and hurt, and it hurt more that I was angry at God when I've loved Him since I've known Him. Add to the fact that I was stressed out over my classes, and being bombarded by blasphemous statements by my World Religions professor, having no time to clean the house, piling papers needed to be started, and having someone tailgate me to the point of hitting my car's rear end. Ah, hell. Wonderful.
I used to think that asking God why would result in being struck by lightning and damnation to a voidless, dark, pit. But I learned recently that if you're honest with God, He'll be equally honest with you. It didn't matter what God's answer was, in hindsight, I just wanted the assurance that He would answer. The preacher said that asking God why should not were we should exert our effort, but in searching for God's plan for us. Pain happens, and you could either choose being a victim, or believing that God has a plan. Jesus suffered on earth too, but have you ever felt that he was a victim in all that you've read of him? I'm sure he didn't enjoy some or most of the experiences he's had on earth, similarly, we don't either.
Sometimes life is hell. But hell, as I learned yesterday, is just the absence of God. When we choose to be victims, we take God out of the equation and instead believe that life is just random and out of control. I don't want to be a victim, I want God there with me. As my Patho prof says, "there are no victims, only volunteers." I certainly don't want to volunteer for hell. So I'll start by pressing the Up button; it's tempting to stay wallowing in hell but no thanks.
Ah, drama, how you fill my life with angst and profound melancholic monologues. I went to church yesterday with my Dad. I didn't want to since I had cramps and all that lovely time of the month joys of being a woman. But I knew he would be disappointed and I would feel guilty, so there we were. The guest preacher was funny, self-deprecating, and honestly confessed to a family case of inherited depression and self-medication. My kind of person. His message was aptly entitled "I Am Not A Victim." Huh. And there I was enraptured as he talked of his granddaughter's weepy soccer game, Jesus' miserable time on earth, his mom's seemingly pointless death, a parents' brutally murdered son, the elevator of choice: up for heaven and down for hell, and of why God doesn't answer our most esoteric question: Why?
"Because He's God, and He's right, and you don't get to ask that question." He was kidding, of course, but yeah, it feels that way sometimes. When my uncle passed away, I asked God why; Why did He allow my uncle to die when He could just have healed him? So I was angry and hurt, and it hurt more that I was angry at God when I've loved Him since I've known Him. Add to the fact that I was stressed out over my classes, and being bombarded by blasphemous statements by my World Religions professor, having no time to clean the house, piling papers needed to be started, and having someone tailgate me to the point of hitting my car's rear end. Ah, hell. Wonderful.
I used to think that asking God why would result in being struck by lightning and damnation to a voidless, dark, pit. But I learned recently that if you're honest with God, He'll be equally honest with you. It didn't matter what God's answer was, in hindsight, I just wanted the assurance that He would answer. The preacher said that asking God why should not were we should exert our effort, but in searching for God's plan for us. Pain happens, and you could either choose being a victim, or believing that God has a plan. Jesus suffered on earth too, but have you ever felt that he was a victim in all that you've read of him? I'm sure he didn't enjoy some or most of the experiences he's had on earth, similarly, we don't either.
Sometimes life is hell. But hell, as I learned yesterday, is just the absence of God. When we choose to be victims, we take God out of the equation and instead believe that life is just random and out of control. I don't want to be a victim, I want God there with me. As my Patho prof says, "there are no victims, only volunteers." I certainly don't want to volunteer for hell. So I'll start by pressing the Up button; it's tempting to stay wallowing in hell but no thanks.
January 20, 2009
Cue for Change
Finally, after years of preparation, of grueling campaigns, of nervously yet hopefully viewing the election polls, and after a spectacular win, the President Elect is now finally sworn in and ready to set off. The 44th US President Barack Obama certainly has come a long way. His promise is Change, and his will is to lead America through downfalls and glorious moments, all in the name of change. And all the world before him is watching, waiting for him, as sets the world of change upon us. But as we wait for the change he will bring, it is also our cue to begin with the change this world desperately needs. For a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
October 15, 2008
the fasten seatbelt sign is on
10 and 9. Those are the number of times we've moved houses and the times I've moved schools, respectively. The number of times I've been on airplanes I've lost count, as well as the number of times I've had to introduce myself to a new crowd. My life has been full of introductions. A new introduction presented itself when Princess called and said she was leaving for Canada.
"You're leaving me?" were the first words I blurted out. I didn't really know what to say. When I was going to the US, I was totally depressed. I wasn't excited about new life, starting over, yadda yadda. No. What I wanted was to stay. What I was wanted was to keep my life the way it was and be happy. What I wanted was to never move again, end of story. Except it was never the end of any story and I had to start over again in a foreign place. And now that Princess is moving, I feel for her. I feel sad that she's not going to be able to see her friends when she wants to as she normally does. I feel sad that she's not going to be able to just book a flight and relax in Boracay. I feel sad that she's going to miss out on our niece's life. I feel sad that she won't be able to just take a jeep to the mall and window shop all she likes. And most of all I feel sad that nothing is going to be the same anymore.
Jokes that made you laugh before would make you cry on the spot. Clothes that were comfortable before would make you feel alien and naked. Foods that used to keep you company would make you feel homesick and alone. Nothing is familiar when you leave familiarity with your friends and toys. I wish I could say that it's going to be better, that sooner or later you'll be fine and happy again. It does in some ways. But there's a void that you avoid because that's where everything you were and had is.
Moving is a trying experience. It has an emotional roller coaster mandatory for everyone. But moving is moving forward. Where your past and future become your present. Where every thing is new and exciting. I'm blessed that with every move my family is still there, a room away, a phone call away, an email away, a video chat away, a prayer away. My bestfriend once said that even though we never see each other we are still under the same blue sky. As cliched as that sounds, I find comfort in the fact that we are connected by God's love, under the same blue sky.
Princess, I know you're going to okay. Just think of the place you're going to as a bigger Cebu. You're going to be just fine.
October 07, 2008
with these hands
When I look at my hands I always remember what my eldest sister said, "Artist hands." Long, thin fingers, unmanicured. Scars on on finger, two moles on another. I like my hands. We used to have a family friend visit us on the Farm when I was younger. I remember her teaching me how to color. That is my earliest memory of liking art. When I grew up I always asked my parents to buy me coloring books and crayons. Crayolas and coloring books were there in place of dolls and dresses.
I was never a girly girl to begin with. So dolls still scare me to this day. Another cousin of mine, Kuya Steve, is a great artist. I remember when we visited in Manila I would go to his room just to look at the paintings on his walls and even on his ceiling. He made me draw a vase of flowers once but the Crayola coloring me just looked at the pencil and blank piece of paper like it was alien. I attempted to draw but it ended up looking like an abstract piece. It still makes me laugh when I think of that.
Highschool crept up and my parents no longer thought coloring books were appropriate for me. I got distracted by computer games but I still liked pastels and watercolors. One time though, a teacher wanted the whole class to draw him a horse. A horse. Not everyone in our class has seen a horse, they were all city kids. And even if I knew how a horse looked like I couldn't draw one to save my soul. A stick figure horse was unacceptable. But lo and behold, this one guy was an artist. So our classmates commissioned him to draw a horse for every one of us. He saved us all, with his artist hands and his horse.
I became really envious of him. Not that I wanted to save the class with horses. No, what I wanted was to have his artist hands so I wouldn't need someone to save me because they can conjure a horse on paper. So I started drawing again, and asked my parents to buy me sketchpads and pencils. My sister Darlene also encouraged me to draw since she was really good at drawing, coloring, painting...okay, she was good at all kinds of art. And I wanted to be an artist too, innate talent or no.
Fast forward years later, I have artist hands, after all. What I lacked was practice. And now that I stopped drawing, my art looks like stick figures again. I look at my hands now and know what they are capable of doing. I look at my hands and wish I can draw every single day. I seem to have lost my muse. I know that is not true, what I lost is my first love. Art is and will always be my first love. So now that I'm back to rank Amateur, all I can do is draw and draw and draw until art comes back to me. You accept art in whatever form because art will come to you however it wishes.
June 25, 2008
beasts of dysfunction
I'm your typical good girl. The funny, quirky, nerdy, goody two shoes. Though with a good deal of sarcasm and fondness for being random. I obsess about getting the grade for my classes though I'm a bit lazy to study. I rarely get scolded by my parents. I'm too boring socially for them to worry about me getting wasted or trying out meth or some other high inducing drug. I'm too introverted to be seduced by going out with classmates I barely know and hanging out. I can hear you saying "You need a life." Hehe, not really. I like how I am and quite comfortable with my life. So what's the point then? You can already see that this is going to turn into a big, raging, hormonal rant, don't you?
No matter how perfect I desire to be I cannot ignore that I am still a beast of dysfunction. This is not a 'pity me' statement. Since it is the truth, after all. I believe that no one is perfect, not one can be. Despite push or pull, whether you devote your life to be one, perfection is just elusive that way. What I wish though is the freedom from being expected perfect. Perfection is not demanded but it is quite implied. Like a humongous dragon breathing down your neck, filling your lungs with smoke with your every inhale and possibly a crunchy meal next. I know that a lot is expected of me and my knowledge of that just annoys me.
I am the youngest child and youngest daughter in our family. Yes, those two qualifications are important. Growing up, my older sisters were already in college while I was still in grade school. I rarely saw them but I rarely failed to hear tales of their flaws or at least what grave mistakes merited a public rant from my parents. Disappointment laced their voices when they would share what my sisters did wrong. And I guess that sticks to a kid, it's one of those childhood sentiments that clung to you. I was always told, "Wag mong gayahin mga manang mo." (Don't be like your sisters). And my mind asked what exactly were my sisters? One married too early, and another didn't finish college but worked instead. I do not fault them for doing what they did. I saw them as independent people who made their own choices. I admit I was angry at my parents too, saying we were Christians but driving their children away. It did not make sense why we were that way.
I remember once when my brother and mother had a fight they both cried. I remember watching TV and having my back to them so they did not see tears on my face. My brother did not want dinner so I went to his room and lain their beside him. I did not have to look at him to know that he was crying. He was angry and hurt that they were thinking him ungrateful. He said that he did his best and he graduated from the academy for them. I did not say anything and just asked if he was going to eat. Appeasing him was unlike me when I did not want to choose sides. I love my parents and my brother, they were family. And family to me should not take sides.
I was not like my sisters, I grew up dependent on my parents. I still have the childish habit of holding on to my mom's shirt tail like a child would (although he being annoyed by it is a bonus). My father frowns when I hesitate to talk to other people as I try to shrink into myself. I believed my self to be not smart like my sisters, not talented enough, not pretty enough, not good enough. I am not like my brother, I do not have ambition. I do not have goals for my self. I do not have the initiative to do what I need to do. By being like them would I fail my parents too? By being myself would I remain mediocre?
I no longer wanted to be a child. When I was a child I was powerless, unable to voice my opinions. I experienced this when my mother told my sister to pack her things and leave our house. She was being sent away. I remembered following her to the room we shared and asking her if it was my fault she was being sent away. I told her that I would behave myself and not fight with her for the remote control if she did not leave. But she just shook her head and answered that no, it was not me but she had to leave. It was then I accepted that I could not remain a child anymore. Being a child was naive and pathetic so I grew up.
I cannot ignore the flaws and scars my family have. I tell my sister that my parents are different from their parents. They can only stand being with them for three days and no more. My parents when with my siblings turn into harsh critics which embarrasses me. This blog is not one sided, my parents are not the only ones in the wrong. A relationship is a two way street, they say. I believe that. I try and tell myself that if we weren't so self-absorbed then perhaps we could all reconcile without having to resort into having a three day countdown. Sometimes I am in the receiving end of my parent's harsh words and I admit that it still makes me feel small and weak. Whoever said words could not never harm should rot in a pit of verbal massacre. But I do not dwell in them anymore, especially when I did do something wrong. It's just so easy to cling to being hurt and angry. That just tires me out.
I will just continue to be myself, borrowing backbone from my sisters and ambition from my brother, and advice from my parents. Maybe by being me, I'll be free from being perfect. And that way I will be happy.
No matter how perfect I desire to be I cannot ignore that I am still a beast of dysfunction. This is not a 'pity me' statement. Since it is the truth, after all. I believe that no one is perfect, not one can be. Despite push or pull, whether you devote your life to be one, perfection is just elusive that way. What I wish though is the freedom from being expected perfect. Perfection is not demanded but it is quite implied. Like a humongous dragon breathing down your neck, filling your lungs with smoke with your every inhale and possibly a crunchy meal next. I know that a lot is expected of me and my knowledge of that just annoys me.
I am the youngest child and youngest daughter in our family. Yes, those two qualifications are important. Growing up, my older sisters were already in college while I was still in grade school. I rarely saw them but I rarely failed to hear tales of their flaws or at least what grave mistakes merited a public rant from my parents. Disappointment laced their voices when they would share what my sisters did wrong. And I guess that sticks to a kid, it's one of those childhood sentiments that clung to you. I was always told, "Wag mong gayahin mga manang mo." (Don't be like your sisters). And my mind asked what exactly were my sisters? One married too early, and another didn't finish college but worked instead. I do not fault them for doing what they did. I saw them as independent people who made their own choices. I admit I was angry at my parents too, saying we were Christians but driving their children away. It did not make sense why we were that way.
I remember once when my brother and mother had a fight they both cried. I remember watching TV and having my back to them so they did not see tears on my face. My brother did not want dinner so I went to his room and lain their beside him. I did not have to look at him to know that he was crying. He was angry and hurt that they were thinking him ungrateful. He said that he did his best and he graduated from the academy for them. I did not say anything and just asked if he was going to eat. Appeasing him was unlike me when I did not want to choose sides. I love my parents and my brother, they were family. And family to me should not take sides.
I was not like my sisters, I grew up dependent on my parents. I still have the childish habit of holding on to my mom's shirt tail like a child would (although he being annoyed by it is a bonus). My father frowns when I hesitate to talk to other people as I try to shrink into myself. I believed my self to be not smart like my sisters, not talented enough, not pretty enough, not good enough. I am not like my brother, I do not have ambition. I do not have goals for my self. I do not have the initiative to do what I need to do. By being like them would I fail my parents too? By being myself would I remain mediocre?
I no longer wanted to be a child. When I was a child I was powerless, unable to voice my opinions. I experienced this when my mother told my sister to pack her things and leave our house. She was being sent away. I remembered following her to the room we shared and asking her if it was my fault she was being sent away. I told her that I would behave myself and not fight with her for the remote control if she did not leave. But she just shook her head and answered that no, it was not me but she had to leave. It was then I accepted that I could not remain a child anymore. Being a child was naive and pathetic so I grew up.
I cannot ignore the flaws and scars my family have. I tell my sister that my parents are different from their parents. They can only stand being with them for three days and no more. My parents when with my siblings turn into harsh critics which embarrasses me. This blog is not one sided, my parents are not the only ones in the wrong. A relationship is a two way street, they say. I believe that. I try and tell myself that if we weren't so self-absorbed then perhaps we could all reconcile without having to resort into having a three day countdown. Sometimes I am in the receiving end of my parent's harsh words and I admit that it still makes me feel small and weak. Whoever said words could not never harm should rot in a pit of verbal massacre. But I do not dwell in them anymore, especially when I did do something wrong. It's just so easy to cling to being hurt and angry. That just tires me out.
I will just continue to be myself, borrowing backbone from my sisters and ambition from my brother, and advice from my parents. Maybe by being me, I'll be free from being perfect. And that way I will be happy.
June 18, 2008
I am Queen
Right now it is about 109 Fahrenheit. It is so hot that when I was outside in the parking lot I felt like I was burning or roasting without the flames. It was 111 Fahrenheit in my school earlier so that was probably a prelude to hell.
Anyway, my brain has undeniably fizzed out. Seriously. ME using multisyllabic verbiage is just a great concoction of your imaginations. Believe it. I only have three hours of sleep from the previous night and five hours from last night. That would have been sufficient enough if I didn't have any exams or whatnot. But my oh my, fancy meeting you here, I had a lab practical on cat veins, blood and lymphatics, plus our sheep hearts. Yeah, get over it. But wait! There's more...dun dun dun. I decided last night that I was going to take the Nurse Entrance Test Test (Duh. They call it the NET Test). Psh. I'm an idiot. That's an exam for about two hours on math, reading comprehension, reading rate, test taking skills, stress level, and an added bonus for me, hunger control. UNbelievable.
So, anyway, I took both exams earlier and I have yet to find out my lab practical result but I do know my NET test result. Let it be said for the record that that test was taken without any food in my system and lack of sleep...SO, let's just say that I passed. WooHoo. Okay, okay, so I scored better on my Math than the Comprehension. Big deal. Isn't it?? Yeah, it is. I scored better on my Math than the Comprehension. It's true. People who know me dear can attest that me and math are not tight but we manage. SO that was kind of a weird situation. I feel kinda bad since I am so much better at reading and comprehension. But my comprehension was non-existent today since I was just shy of passing out cold on the High Tech1 Building Room HT-143. Hunger and lack of sleep can do that to me.
I am Queen. Queen of Procrastination Hullabaloo. The reason that I took the NET test without preparation was 'cause I needed it as a requirement for my Nursing Application which I need to submit by Monday since I want to get in the Banner Program whose deadline for application is this Monday. Cheers for me. I am likely to kill myself before I can submit that application. SIgh. I need my Fingerprint Clearance Card since it is also a requirement but it will take three weeks or so to get to me. I am really, really not that optimistic about all this. But at least, I really am trying. The only reason I am rushing is 'cause I want to be considered for Estrella Mountain Community College's (school near our house) October Nursing Program. If I don't make the application I'll have to either wait for a year on the waitlist, or I could hope to be considered for the next batch which will be on March 2009 (Next Freaking Year) for Glendale Community College (college I go to right now which is farther from our house).
If my 2+2 did not equal 4 in your head, that is entirely my fault but your problem. Heh. :) Kidding. Yay me, Queen of PH.
Anyway, my brain has undeniably fizzed out. Seriously. ME using multisyllabic verbiage is just a great concoction of your imaginations. Believe it. I only have three hours of sleep from the previous night and five hours from last night. That would have been sufficient enough if I didn't have any exams or whatnot. But my oh my, fancy meeting you here, I had a lab practical on cat veins, blood and lymphatics, plus our sheep hearts. Yeah, get over it. But wait! There's more...dun dun dun. I decided last night that I was going to take the Nurse Entrance Test Test (Duh. They call it the NET Test). Psh. I'm an idiot. That's an exam for about two hours on math, reading comprehension, reading rate, test taking skills, stress level, and an added bonus for me, hunger control. UNbelievable.
So, anyway, I took both exams earlier and I have yet to find out my lab practical result but I do know my NET test result. Let it be said for the record that that test was taken without any food in my system and lack of sleep...SO, let's just say that I passed. WooHoo. Okay, okay, so I scored better on my Math than the Comprehension. Big deal. Isn't it?? Yeah, it is. I scored better on my Math than the Comprehension. It's true. People who know me dear can attest that me and math are not tight but we manage. SO that was kind of a weird situation. I feel kinda bad since I am so much better at reading and comprehension. But my comprehension was non-existent today since I was just shy of passing out cold on the High Tech1 Building Room HT-143. Hunger and lack of sleep can do that to me.
I am Queen. Queen of Procrastination Hullabaloo. The reason that I took the NET test without preparation was 'cause I needed it as a requirement for my Nursing Application which I need to submit by Monday since I want to get in the Banner Program whose deadline for application is this Monday. Cheers for me. I am likely to kill myself before I can submit that application. SIgh. I need my Fingerprint Clearance Card since it is also a requirement but it will take three weeks or so to get to me. I am really, really not that optimistic about all this. But at least, I really am trying. The only reason I am rushing is 'cause I want to be considered for Estrella Mountain Community College's (school near our house) October Nursing Program. If I don't make the application I'll have to either wait for a year on the waitlist, or I could hope to be considered for the next batch which will be on March 2009 (Next Freaking Year) for Glendale Community College (college I go to right now which is farther from our house).
If my 2+2 did not equal 4 in your head, that is entirely my fault but your problem. Heh. :) Kidding. Yay me, Queen of PH.
May 03, 2008
i said what?
okay, so we had a party today. my party. so technically it was supposed to be for my birthday last month but our social calendar was full, so to speak, and we decided to have it today instead. yeah, there was cake and presents brought by titas and titos. after all that jazz, we got talking, chismis and new news. we were talking about vacation and going home to the philippines on january. suddenly, it turned into an "oh my gosh, let's all go home on january and have a big, badass reunion" excursion. yeah. wait, what?
so, my head hurts. my mom suddenly asks for paper and pen and starts writing down the trip details and itinerary. that's my mom for you. not to be outdone, my tita b says she'll arrange the tickets for the trip, though not pay for all of them mind you. she'll just handle them with a travel agent. further talking led to my tita t saying we'll do this and that, book a hotel here and rent a van there. basically, being the eldest, she'll do the supervising aka the boss.
meanwhile, outside on our backyard, my three titos were chatting and getting drunk...pleasantly buzzed? whatever. inside, all my titas were talking all at once, over each other. migraine is building on my temples. i just sat there eating cake and playing with my laptop, acting as the deranged errand girl to do their bidding.
four hours, two cake slices and a half, one drink, and a dozen pictures later, we had a full blown planned trip to the philippines on january for two (three?) weeks including a trip to cebu, bohol, boracay, zambales, manila and shopping (not in that order). but wait there's more...crud. are they serious? i'd say yeah. are they carried away? i'd say, it's the alcohol talking (oh wait, only tita t was drunk). are they related to me? i'd say sadly yes. whatever.
the point of this blog is, never celebrate your birthday on another day. either celebrate it on the day you were born or not at all. because weird things will happen to you and you will be ignored in favor of planning a trip so spontaneous you will combust. i just don't know how it went from being a party to planning to a plan. somewhere in the middle, the camera flash disoriented me and funked up my system.
my fortune cookie aptly warned me by proclaiming: IT'S OVER YOUR HEAD NOW. TIME TO SEEK PROFESSIONAL HELP. yes, indeed. kat, save yourself.
April 01, 2008
the blame game
I had a fun day today. I went to my Micro class and wrote down lecture notes and then proceeded to the Micro lab. Thank God that I did not spill any more of my culture broth :) So I'm definitely happy about that. What's funny though is that I did not mess up this time but someone, or rather something else did. Our last incubated experiments got contaminated by a fruit fly. Yep, those little flying suckers. It had a great time gallivanting through our class' agar plates so most of our experiments had worms in them. Yes, ew. But it was bearable and we just went through lab uneventfully.
When I finally got out from lab, I sat on the bench near the Life Science building to wait for Dr. Coop for our study session. As I was waiting, I noticed a lady with a doberman and her companion a good distance from me. A few moments the healthy (obese) woman fell forward, as if in slow motion. Her companion, her dog, and I just stared at her as she fell on the ground. Huh. I just watched on impassively but felt my eyebrow raise when she yanked the dog's leash and started yelling at her dog. I watched on as she continued to scold her dog for causing her to fall. "Shame on you!" And other words of anger were issued from her mouth.
I wasn't amused but I had a smile on my face. I wasn't smiling because she fell, I was smiling because she was blaming her dog. I wanted to walk up to her, help her up and say, "Excuse me but don't blame your dog that you're fat." It's mean. But it clearly wasn't her dog's fault when she suddenly pitches forward and hurts her knee. It's a dog, it doesn't know any better. What egged me more was the fact that she was using her dog to carry her things, like a common mule or a dessert camel. I felt bad for the dog to have such an owner. This post may provoke and/or offend people and start the hating and rotten vegetables thrown at me. But what I saw was an obese woman too lazy to carry her stuff around campus, using her poor dog to carry them for her and blaming it for her own fault. I don't mind fat people, I like being fat. What I don't like is when you go and lash out at something or someone else who can't defend themselves from your attack. That's just spiteful and cowardly.
I wanted to name this post 'Don't blame the dog you're fat' but no that's not nice. The next time that happens just don't use your dog as the scapegoat and we're cool. It's easy to point our manicured fingers at someone or something else but it takes a real person to accept that the blame is theirs alone. It's not easy but it is the right thing to do. Everything else considered, my day was fun, dogblaming and all.
March 07, 2008
esse quam videri
to be, rather than to appear.
Why can't we just be upfront and say what we want? I'm guilty of hiding behind my sarcasm and words so I have no excuse of calling you on your own mask. I'm just curious about our relationship. We've had the typical sibling rivalry, the nonsensical spats, the immature bickering, the quiet moments of peace, and conversations on nothing and everything. I used to hate you when we were younger. You were annoying, pesky, and mean. You had the typical older brother behavior down to pat. But we grew up and matured, somewhat. You opened my doors to animes, computer games, and music. I never relied on you to protect me, and I grew up strong. You were the only one who could get under my skin and get a reaction from me. It was fun to be your younger sister. We had an odd relationship at best but we got each other. What I don't understand is why I don't know who you are right now. I thought I got you pegged as this guy but you aren't him after all or at all. You haven't betrayed me, you haven't hurt me. The only thing you did was strip me away further from my naivete, my reluctant comfort zone of ignorance. I'm not judging you for what you did, I'm not like that. I just sigh because when we grew up I don't know who left whom behind. I guess we can never go back to the past and be the way we were as much as I want to. I hope you know that you're still my kuya and I am still your ading. The sibling dynamics hasn't changed but I have to grow up some more.
May 02, 2007
Yosh :)
Seriously, getting a license back in the Philippines was way easier than getting one here. There are a lot scary drivers back in the Philippines but it's scarier to drive here since the police actually catch bad drivers. :) In the Philippines, you either don't get caught or get caught because of a corrupt cop. Hey, I'm not saying all cops are bad but they do exist. No offense.
I'll just have to do my best and practice driving again so I can drive myself to school. Next thing I have to do is look for a job, part-time or something like that. I need to earn money for gas and allowance and other needed necessities. Redundant but true. LOL. Growing up. I'm growing up. *hums excitedly*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)