This is still part of my writing exercise, even though all it is is lyrics to a song that made me think of the last relationship I had. I know it's a writing exercise, but this is also a purging exercise and I thought the lyrics very apt. And consider it an attempt to make up for backlog since I did say I would write about one guy a day.
Oh. It's Pearl Jam, by the way.
The waiting drove me mad. You're finally here and I'm a mess.
I take your entrance back. Can't let you roam inside my head.
I don't want to take what you can give.
I would rather starve than eat your bread.
I would rather run but I can't walk.
Guess I lie alone just like before.
I'll take the firmest path. Oh, and I must refuse your test.
A-push me and I will resist. This behavior's not unique.
I don't want to hear from those who know.
They can buy but can't put on my clothes.
I don't want to wait for them to walk.
Never would have known of me before.
I don't want to be held in your debt.
I'll pay it off in blood let I be wed.
I'm already cut up and half dead.
I'll end up alone like I began. Yea...
Everything has changed. Absolutely nothing's changed.
(yeahhhh!!!! - me)
'Take my hand, not my picture.' Spilled my teacher.
I don't want to take what you can give.
I would rather starve than eat your breast.
All the things that others want for me.
Can't buy what I want because it's free.
Can't buy what I want because it's free.
Can't be what you want because I...
I ain't supposed to be just fun.
Oh, to live and die let it be done.
I figure I'll be damned. All alone like I began.
It's your move now. I thought you were a friend but I guess, I... I guess I hate you.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
it's the same. i shall announce you. falling cathedrals in the mean meantime...
I don't remember how it started. Maybe it was as early as the Educfest concert. I was helping him carry an amp. It was just us walking ahead of everyone else; it felt so like how I would want to walk with somebody I loved. I remember thinking, too bad this is just Tos.
Maybe it was that day I ended seeing a friend of ours. We were both standing; he was balancing a plastic cup of coke in one hand while patting my shoulder indulgently with the other, the arm of that hand holding me snug and close.
Maybe it was the constant hanging out with him. He was witty, extremely smart and very sweet when he wanted to be. But too young. And too bleeding promiscuous. When it started, I didn't really care much.
I don't know. Maybe it started when I told someone. Maybe only then did I start believing it.
I'm not exactly sure how it ended. I think it was during a conversation where he was talking shit about a girl he used to see and I felt I didn't want him to one day talk shit about me.
Or when my brother started drumming for his band. During that time, I was really upset with Quincy taking advantage of several situations that I was bound to get into the middle of. He was always befriending my friends and abusing my friends and getting me into trouble with my dad and doing all sorts of stuff that made it impossible to hang out with my friends. And then he started to drum for his band and I knew then that it was not a good idea that I was infatuated with Tos.
Or because the cute guy from the neighboring org was starting to smile at me and I thought I had to get that guy out of my system. It would be hard to be with somebody and still be interested in someone else.
Or, if it was possible, I just stopped liking him that way. It became hard only because he started liking me back.
At one point, he said to me, "I will take anything you give me."
Once, I would have said that to someone I had loved, I had really really loved, hoping he would realize how he felt about me. Now that I'm on the receiving end, it crushes me that his reply may not be so far off from mine.
I took a deep breath before telling him, "I don't feel the same way about you. I mean, I love you, but I don't love you that way. It won't be fair to you."
"I don't care," he said.
I grab his sleeve. "You have to care." I started to cry. I cried a long time. And he let me wipe my tears on his shoulder. For that, I knew I would love him forever. And I still do.
Maybe it was that day I ended seeing a friend of ours. We were both standing; he was balancing a plastic cup of coke in one hand while patting my shoulder indulgently with the other, the arm of that hand holding me snug and close.
Maybe it was the constant hanging out with him. He was witty, extremely smart and very sweet when he wanted to be. But too young. And too bleeding promiscuous. When it started, I didn't really care much.
I don't know. Maybe it started when I told someone. Maybe only then did I start believing it.
I'm not exactly sure how it ended. I think it was during a conversation where he was talking shit about a girl he used to see and I felt I didn't want him to one day talk shit about me.
Or when my brother started drumming for his band. During that time, I was really upset with Quincy taking advantage of several situations that I was bound to get into the middle of. He was always befriending my friends and abusing my friends and getting me into trouble with my dad and doing all sorts of stuff that made it impossible to hang out with my friends. And then he started to drum for his band and I knew then that it was not a good idea that I was infatuated with Tos.
Or because the cute guy from the neighboring org was starting to smile at me and I thought I had to get that guy out of my system. It would be hard to be with somebody and still be interested in someone else.
Or, if it was possible, I just stopped liking him that way. It became hard only because he started liking me back.
At one point, he said to me, "I will take anything you give me."
Once, I would have said that to someone I had loved, I had really really loved, hoping he would realize how he felt about me. Now that I'm on the receiving end, it crushes me that his reply may not be so far off from mine.
I took a deep breath before telling him, "I don't feel the same way about you. I mean, I love you, but I don't love you that way. It won't be fair to you."
"I don't care," he said.
I grab his sleeve. "You have to care." I started to cry. I cried a long time. And he let me wipe my tears on his shoulder. For that, I knew I would love him forever. And I still do.
Monday, September 27, 2004
tango
It's not a serious ballet. It was done for money - a racket the company needed from a bunch of rich doctors for a health convention. In it is a stylized tango where a bunch of couples were to be creatures of the night, socializing, drinking, smoking, doing many unhealthy things.
Casting. Blue is pushed towards me, as if there was no other person he or I should be dancing with. Ha.
The tango is a dangerous affair. Argentinians dance the tango like combatting lovers, pushing each other, drawing back, laying all their cards on the table. This is the only serious section, the only aesthetic section of the entire ballet.
I am angry at Blue. I shouldn't be angry at Blue, he is not mine to be angry at. And yet, each time he smiles at Mitzi, or squeezes Tasha on the arm, or flirts back at Tara, I seethe. But I do not let the seething show. I just turn away, roll my eyes.
Rehearsal. A dangerous lift. Boy picks girl up from her arabesque, holding her around the waist and around her lifted leg. He flips her over as girl folds the supporting leg so as not to kick boy in the face. Boy turns girl around and brings her to a precariously dangerous pose, the kind that is not suitable for public consumption. Everyone else either gets tangled up in the flip, slipping down in the turn or strangely unable to do the end pose without giggling. Blue and I accomplish the lift in one seamless movement, in one try. We are always this good together. We are applauded by the Director. We are smirked at by our co-dancers, "Ginagawa niyo yan pag kayong dalawa lang, no?"
He knows I'm mad at him, but he doesn't bite. All these other girls are flirting with him, he's better off without my attentions anyway. He'd rather wait for me to give in. Pigs will fly when I do.
Rehearsal. The couples break off into groups doing different choreography. Our group practices a lift down to an arabesque going into a split; he is unnerved that he can't seem to set me down properly from the shoulder lift. He is more unnerved because when Sydney and I do the exact same lift in another dance, like we rehearsed that same afternoon, the execution is perfect. He will not let Sydney be the better man, he is proprietous this way. But we're working with a group and I am more concerned with the other people we're dancing with. So I brush off his wanting to practice the lift and say "Sa split na tayo."
He cocks his head at me. "Split na tayo?" Everyone laughs. I ignore him and go into the split.
Backstage. Sydney fixes the folds of my dress as I complain about how misshapen it is. Blue peers at us but when I pointedly look at him, he looks away and has his arms around Mitzi. I don't care. Then I look at Sydney and realize he had been talking and I hadn't heard a thing he said.
The Argentinians dance the tango to confront their cheating lovers of the agony that they give them. They dance the tango to display how much fire burns in their bodies for their love, which their lover is thoughtlessly tossing away. The lover replies with as much fire, to prove that their love is just as true, if a bit misplaced sometimes. But such is real passion. Those Argentinians have too much fire in their bellies, I think.
The opening pose. My right leg is resting on his left shoulder as we clasp each other for support, his left arm embracing my thigh so tightly. The lights slowly flood in and his face is mere inches from mine, he is looking straight at me, whereas the choreography has never indicated where exactly we should be looking. His eyes are strong and unfazed on mine, his smile a slight damning. I match this gaze. You are so on.
Performance. There are no mirrors, no audience. There is just him and me. We move on muscle memory and let the steps flow, hardly breaking eye contact unless I pull away from him, as required. He pulls me back sharply, as required, and our eyes lock once more. I lunge, he grabs me back toward him, I wrap my leg around his waist and bend all the way back, he retrieves me and presses me close to him. I swing my leg around and turn so that my back is to him and slowly lunge down again, his wide-splayed hands on my thighs slide up my hips, my waist, my ribs, my torso, my arms, until he's holding my hands. He turns me around to pull me up again, I help him by launching into an attitude. We hold this pose as it is the last of this section before we slowly walk into our groups. Our lengths are pressing full against each other once more and our eyes are again locked into each other. In them, a fire is burning.
The dressing room. We're taking our make-up off and the girls are complaining about their partners, for whatever reason. They didn't do this lift, it hurt when they held them there, they were off balance here, etc. I realize none of that transpired with Blue. Perhaps, there wasn't time to think about anything we were doing wrong.
Some of the boys knock on the door to get their valuables from our costume mistress. Blue was one of them. On his way out, he ignores all the other girls and goes out of his way to pass me. "Sa uulitin," he says, cocking his head at me.
I roll my eyes. But my thighs, hips, waist, ribs, torso, arms are all tingling from a recent fire that was blazing.
Casting. Blue is pushed towards me, as if there was no other person he or I should be dancing with. Ha.
The tango is a dangerous affair. Argentinians dance the tango like combatting lovers, pushing each other, drawing back, laying all their cards on the table. This is the only serious section, the only aesthetic section of the entire ballet.
I am angry at Blue. I shouldn't be angry at Blue, he is not mine to be angry at. And yet, each time he smiles at Mitzi, or squeezes Tasha on the arm, or flirts back at Tara, I seethe. But I do not let the seething show. I just turn away, roll my eyes.
Rehearsal. A dangerous lift. Boy picks girl up from her arabesque, holding her around the waist and around her lifted leg. He flips her over as girl folds the supporting leg so as not to kick boy in the face. Boy turns girl around and brings her to a precariously dangerous pose, the kind that is not suitable for public consumption. Everyone else either gets tangled up in the flip, slipping down in the turn or strangely unable to do the end pose without giggling. Blue and I accomplish the lift in one seamless movement, in one try. We are always this good together. We are applauded by the Director. We are smirked at by our co-dancers, "Ginagawa niyo yan pag kayong dalawa lang, no?"
He knows I'm mad at him, but he doesn't bite. All these other girls are flirting with him, he's better off without my attentions anyway. He'd rather wait for me to give in. Pigs will fly when I do.
Rehearsal. The couples break off into groups doing different choreography. Our group practices a lift down to an arabesque going into a split; he is unnerved that he can't seem to set me down properly from the shoulder lift. He is more unnerved because when Sydney and I do the exact same lift in another dance, like we rehearsed that same afternoon, the execution is perfect. He will not let Sydney be the better man, he is proprietous this way. But we're working with a group and I am more concerned with the other people we're dancing with. So I brush off his wanting to practice the lift and say "Sa split na tayo."
He cocks his head at me. "Split na tayo?" Everyone laughs. I ignore him and go into the split.
Backstage. Sydney fixes the folds of my dress as I complain about how misshapen it is. Blue peers at us but when I pointedly look at him, he looks away and has his arms around Mitzi. I don't care. Then I look at Sydney and realize he had been talking and I hadn't heard a thing he said.
The Argentinians dance the tango to confront their cheating lovers of the agony that they give them. They dance the tango to display how much fire burns in their bodies for their love, which their lover is thoughtlessly tossing away. The lover replies with as much fire, to prove that their love is just as true, if a bit misplaced sometimes. But such is real passion. Those Argentinians have too much fire in their bellies, I think.
The opening pose. My right leg is resting on his left shoulder as we clasp each other for support, his left arm embracing my thigh so tightly. The lights slowly flood in and his face is mere inches from mine, he is looking straight at me, whereas the choreography has never indicated where exactly we should be looking. His eyes are strong and unfazed on mine, his smile a slight damning. I match this gaze. You are so on.
Performance. There are no mirrors, no audience. There is just him and me. We move on muscle memory and let the steps flow, hardly breaking eye contact unless I pull away from him, as required. He pulls me back sharply, as required, and our eyes lock once more. I lunge, he grabs me back toward him, I wrap my leg around his waist and bend all the way back, he retrieves me and presses me close to him. I swing my leg around and turn so that my back is to him and slowly lunge down again, his wide-splayed hands on my thighs slide up my hips, my waist, my ribs, my torso, my arms, until he's holding my hands. He turns me around to pull me up again, I help him by launching into an attitude. We hold this pose as it is the last of this section before we slowly walk into our groups. Our lengths are pressing full against each other once more and our eyes are again locked into each other. In them, a fire is burning.
The dressing room. We're taking our make-up off and the girls are complaining about their partners, for whatever reason. They didn't do this lift, it hurt when they held them there, they were off balance here, etc. I realize none of that transpired with Blue. Perhaps, there wasn't time to think about anything we were doing wrong.
Some of the boys knock on the door to get their valuables from our costume mistress. Blue was one of them. On his way out, he ignores all the other girls and goes out of his way to pass me. "Sa uulitin," he says, cocking his head at me.
I roll my eyes. But my thighs, hips, waist, ribs, torso, arms are all tingling from a recent fire that was blazing.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
my ponytail is a cute little thing
My dad cut my hair yesterday. It's not a "heartbroken woman acting out!" thing, I don't think cutting my hair is as much acting out as other things I've been doing recently; I've just been home and exposed to my family long enough to feel very annoyed at their grating rants over my hair. You see, I love my hair when it's long. I feel very Siren-sitting-on-warm-rocks and I think I look purty. Even if I don't comb it as much as I should. But then, the entity that is Daddy-Mommy-Jacqui are all irritated that I don't comb my hair and I look like a hag, which is really a nicer way of putting it than what they actually say to my face.
It's not really envy, just that this entity is opinionated, too opinionated, in fact, opinionated threefold. Although, it may be irritation stemmed from a little envy, a bit in Jacqui's case, because I'm the only offspring with naturally straight like rain hair (my dad will give me shit for any reason he can find, so his is not envy at all). You see, we all had straight like rain hair when we were growing up, but the other three siblings just suddenly woke up one day (not all the same day) to find that God or puberty had frizzed their hair for the rest of their lives. A natural permanent, as it were. They've all been obsessed about their curliness that they must hate that I have straight hair and don't comb it. Okay, I get that, but it's my hair. And God probably gave me straight like rain hair for the rest of my life specifically for that purpose. Not bad for someone who was born bald and had to go through childhood constantly mistaken for a boy.
Still, instead of enduring all the talk about my hair, I decided to give in and let my Dad cut it. It's now shoulder length and I won't be getting "Shan Chai!" hoots on the street or in the ballet studio for quite a while again (then again, since the death of Meteor Garden, that had not been happening for a while, anyway). And I probably resemble one of the Little Mermaid's sisters, who cut their hair to give to the Sea Witch to buy their sister back, if I resemble a mermaid at all. But at least the entity has shut up.
It's not really envy, just that this entity is opinionated, too opinionated, in fact, opinionated threefold. Although, it may be irritation stemmed from a little envy, a bit in Jacqui's case, because I'm the only offspring with naturally straight like rain hair (my dad will give me shit for any reason he can find, so his is not envy at all). You see, we all had straight like rain hair when we were growing up, but the other three siblings just suddenly woke up one day (not all the same day) to find that God or puberty had frizzed their hair for the rest of their lives. A natural permanent, as it were. They've all been obsessed about their curliness that they must hate that I have straight hair and don't comb it. Okay, I get that, but it's my hair. And God probably gave me straight like rain hair for the rest of my life specifically for that purpose. Not bad for someone who was born bald and had to go through childhood constantly mistaken for a boy.
Still, instead of enduring all the talk about my hair, I decided to give in and let my Dad cut it. It's now shoulder length and I won't be getting "Shan Chai!" hoots on the street or in the ballet studio for quite a while again (then again, since the death of Meteor Garden, that had not been happening for a while, anyway). And I probably resemble one of the Little Mermaid's sisters, who cut their hair to give to the Sea Witch to buy their sister back, if I resemble a mermaid at all. But at least the entity has shut up.
won't you stay, we'll put on the day, and we'll talk in present tenses...
He makes my knees weak.
It's strange how you repeat that phrase often enough when you write stories about the kind of men who would make your knees weak and only know how it truly feels after you've stopped writing those kinds of stories.
And how about the stories of the great kissers, who kiss like you've never been kissed before. Each time you kiss somebody, you hope he'll turn out the greatest kisser in the world; even if he isn't the greatest kisser in the world, you want to believe he is because you've painted yourself in the corner where he will be the only guy you'll be kissing for the next few weeks, months, years. You wrangle that kind of commitment from him before you get to kiss him and suddenly, you're stuck, you have no choice, you can't back off because, um, his kiss isn't what you expected. Or even though there's no commitment yet, you decide to live with his non-spark kissing because you don't think anyone else will come along who's as nice and sweet and into you.
But this one. He's nice. Sweet. Into me. A lot of other, better things too numerous to mention. And, mygod, kisses like there's no tomorrow. If ever I were to be crucified upside down, only to be released if I would say he wasn't really all that, I would scream his prowess all the way to the moon and back and be crucified till dead. That's how great a kisser he is.
I would describe how he kisses, in true erotica-writer fashion, but just remembering him leaning in and blurring out the world is enough to send me into a stupor.
I want more.
He leans in and my heart stops. He leans in and my breath is stuck in my throat. He touches me and I implode.
I swear. My knees are so useless, I don't believe I can stand anytime soon. My only thought is it's a good thing you don't need knees for kissing.
It's strange how you repeat that phrase often enough when you write stories about the kind of men who would make your knees weak and only know how it truly feels after you've stopped writing those kinds of stories.
And how about the stories of the great kissers, who kiss like you've never been kissed before. Each time you kiss somebody, you hope he'll turn out the greatest kisser in the world; even if he isn't the greatest kisser in the world, you want to believe he is because you've painted yourself in the corner where he will be the only guy you'll be kissing for the next few weeks, months, years. You wrangle that kind of commitment from him before you get to kiss him and suddenly, you're stuck, you have no choice, you can't back off because, um, his kiss isn't what you expected. Or even though there's no commitment yet, you decide to live with his non-spark kissing because you don't think anyone else will come along who's as nice and sweet and into you.
But this one. He's nice. Sweet. Into me. A lot of other, better things too numerous to mention. And, mygod, kisses like there's no tomorrow. If ever I were to be crucified upside down, only to be released if I would say he wasn't really all that, I would scream his prowess all the way to the moon and back and be crucified till dead. That's how great a kisser he is.
I would describe how he kisses, in true erotica-writer fashion, but just remembering him leaning in and blurring out the world is enough to send me into a stupor.
I want more.
He leans in and my heart stops. He leans in and my breath is stuck in my throat. He touches me and I implode.
I swear. My knees are so useless, I don't believe I can stand anytime soon. My only thought is it's a good thing you don't need knees for kissing.
Friday, September 24, 2004
boys, men, dorks and great loves
"This is my problem. I only see men the way I want to see them."- Amelia Warren, played by Catherine Zeta Jones, in The Terminal
I'm starting a writing exercise, inspired by a meme I found on a friend's blog. It's not a similar meme, as the point of those is you have to get other people writing along with you, while mine is just for myself. Instead of writing about the deserted wasteland that is currently my life (which I'm embarrassingly doing a lot of recently), I will write short passages about boys, men, dorks, great loves, the ones who made me laugh and the ones who broke my heart. I'll write about one man/one moment per day, and they will be distinguishable from the rest of my blog as they will be in a different font style and color.
So, what brought this on? Well, it's the breakdown of my last relationship, leading to thoughts about every relationship and strange involvement I've had the last thirty years. Well, not really the last thirty years, perhaps just fifteen or so, when they started becoming interesting. It's also conversations I've been having this past week. And also seeing High Fidelity again and watching John Cusack ask, "Am I doomed to be rejected? Why do I get dumped?"
I've been having different feelings about this particular subject as of late. Sometimes, I'm having moments where this big L is stuck on my forehead. I was thinking if my longest, most significant, was-really-gonna-marry-this-one relationship was a wishy washy one, there must be something seriously wrong with me. I was also thinking that if I liked more the people I didn't have real relationships with as compared to those that I did (no, May, I didn't mean you), then, again, there must be something really seriously wrong with me. On a different note, I'm starting to think I'm not that big a loser after all. I have all these nice stories.
By the way, in case any of you would like to read about a certain person - in my life, of course - please make your requests in my comments box or text me. I'm just going randomly here, may even write about same guy more than once. And, ahem, being bullied about d'original lab tims may not work in this blog. Hehe.
When something happens to me that's worth blogging about, I'll let you know. In the meantime, enjoy.
I'm starting a writing exercise, inspired by a meme I found on a friend's blog. It's not a similar meme, as the point of those is you have to get other people writing along with you, while mine is just for myself. Instead of writing about the deserted wasteland that is currently my life (which I'm embarrassingly doing a lot of recently), I will write short passages about boys, men, dorks, great loves, the ones who made me laugh and the ones who broke my heart. I'll write about one man/one moment per day, and they will be distinguishable from the rest of my blog as they will be in a different font style and color.
So, what brought this on? Well, it's the breakdown of my last relationship, leading to thoughts about every relationship and strange involvement I've had the last thirty years. Well, not really the last thirty years, perhaps just fifteen or so, when they started becoming interesting. It's also conversations I've been having this past week. And also seeing High Fidelity again and watching John Cusack ask, "Am I doomed to be rejected? Why do I get dumped?"
I've been having different feelings about this particular subject as of late. Sometimes, I'm having moments where this big L is stuck on my forehead. I was thinking if my longest, most significant, was-really-gonna-marry-this-one relationship was a wishy washy one, there must be something seriously wrong with me. I was also thinking that if I liked more the people I didn't have real relationships with as compared to those that I did (no, May, I didn't mean you), then, again, there must be something really seriously wrong with me. On a different note, I'm starting to think I'm not that big a loser after all. I have all these nice stories.
By the way, in case any of you would like to read about a certain person - in my life, of course - please make your requests in my comments box or text me. I'm just going randomly here, may even write about same guy more than once. And, ahem, being bullied about d'original lab tims may not work in this blog. Hehe.
When something happens to me that's worth blogging about, I'll let you know. In the meantime, enjoy.
prelude, cello suite #1
I was late for class. It was really stupid to get the 11:30 am music history class when I had a 10 o'clock ballet class that never ended at 11:30 and I was always rushing to history with my hair still in a bun, sweat glistening on my neck and forehead, and the ribbons of my pointe shoes hanging out of my bag and flapping in the wind.
At that time, the gate beside what used to be the canteen was still open to anyone who walked through it and I went through there to cross the lobby of the college to get to my class - much faster than going around the long way and entering through the front gate. Nobody was usually in the lobby except for the odd loner quietly studying behind one of the pillars. That day, it was Miguel.
He sat on a chair he pulled out from one of the classrooms and between his legs sat his cello. He was practicing - the notes were not perfect, but that's what happens when you practice. His eyes were closed, even if the sheet music stood in front of him in its little stand. The notes may not have been perfect yet but he knew the piece by heart. Hell, I knew it by heart, from all the times we would listen to it in his car - he was playing the Prelude of Johann Sebastian Bach's Cello Suite #1. We would talk of that one day when he would play this suite live for my recital and how wonderful it would be.
Well, I would always hope it was wonderful, if only Miguel wasn't so opinionated about the kind of dance the music deserved. Sometimes, I was tempted to yank his ponytail really hard just to make him shut up.
The lobby was a good place to practice - the music bounced off the walls and floor and filled the entire space with melancholy, more so because the sound was made by a cello. His eyes were closed and his body slightly swayed along to the notes that dipped and rose and dipped and rose and tripped over each other. He looked so beautiful.
Then, he stumbled over a note and opened his eyes in exasperation, his eyebrows familiarly bunching towards each other. That's when he knew he wasn't alone in the lobby, lifted his face and saw me standing there, watching him. His eyes, his beautiful beautiful eyes, those eyes that looked like they held all the misery of the world in them, bored into mine. My breath caught in my throat, just as I was caught in the act of actually outright watching him. I was thinking, he'll never let me hear the end of this.
Instead, he smiled and said, "Hey."
I smiled back and went on my way, beads of sweat running down the side of my face, the ribbons of my pointe shoes flapping behind me. I didn't want to care whether or not he was staring after me. A few strides later, I heard him start to play again.
At that time, the gate beside what used to be the canteen was still open to anyone who walked through it and I went through there to cross the lobby of the college to get to my class - much faster than going around the long way and entering through the front gate. Nobody was usually in the lobby except for the odd loner quietly studying behind one of the pillars. That day, it was Miguel.
He sat on a chair he pulled out from one of the classrooms and between his legs sat his cello. He was practicing - the notes were not perfect, but that's what happens when you practice. His eyes were closed, even if the sheet music stood in front of him in its little stand. The notes may not have been perfect yet but he knew the piece by heart. Hell, I knew it by heart, from all the times we would listen to it in his car - he was playing the Prelude of Johann Sebastian Bach's Cello Suite #1. We would talk of that one day when he would play this suite live for my recital and how wonderful it would be.
Well, I would always hope it was wonderful, if only Miguel wasn't so opinionated about the kind of dance the music deserved. Sometimes, I was tempted to yank his ponytail really hard just to make him shut up.
The lobby was a good place to practice - the music bounced off the walls and floor and filled the entire space with melancholy, more so because the sound was made by a cello. His eyes were closed and his body slightly swayed along to the notes that dipped and rose and dipped and rose and tripped over each other. He looked so beautiful.
Then, he stumbled over a note and opened his eyes in exasperation, his eyebrows familiarly bunching towards each other. That's when he knew he wasn't alone in the lobby, lifted his face and saw me standing there, watching him. His eyes, his beautiful beautiful eyes, those eyes that looked like they held all the misery of the world in them, bored into mine. My breath caught in my throat, just as I was caught in the act of actually outright watching him. I was thinking, he'll never let me hear the end of this.
Instead, he smiled and said, "Hey."
I smiled back and went on my way, beads of sweat running down the side of my face, the ribbons of my pointe shoes flapping behind me. I didn't want to care whether or not he was staring after me. A few strides later, I heard him start to play again.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
my blog was about to go into the bright light at the end of the tunnel
If my sleepyhouse looks strange to you, it's because a strange glitch in the matrix that is so not deja vu happened as I was trying to update my blog, starting the other night. Somehow, a huge chunk of my usual template disappeared while I was trying to save some changes and I had to re-pick this template again, to get some semblance of an actual blog.
It will look like its old self again, when I get my steam back. Aggh, I swear, there are days...
It will look like its old self again, when I get my steam back. Aggh, I swear, there are days...
passion and randomness
I just saw 50 First Dates and was very very very taken by the little Penguin Willy. It was such a cutie pie. It reminded me of my friend Trixie, whose favorite animal is the penguin and believes she can have one as a pet. After seeing this movie, I'm thinking, well, as long as you keep a lot of ice in the bathroom, then, I want one too.
I told her over SMS about the penguin, and it turns out that she hasn't seen the movie yet, either, but now that I told her the penguin was in it, she vows to see it right away. And then, she said, "Will I be hearing 'Hi Penguin!' again soon?"
That's what I say to her when I see her, "Hi, Penguin!" She calls me Pigeon. She's of course actually asking if I'll be back anytime soon. That's not up to me, of course, that's up to a certain person resigning and up to whether or not they want us back at all.
This in turn made me think how it's such a bad time to be an artist, especially in this country. Quincy says it's terrible everywhere, and although everywhere to him is basically Orange County, I'm inclined to agree with him. But I believe it's really bad here. The President just gave this imposition that government offices cannot spend any money on the arts and artistic events unless it's connected to a school. There goes a lot of our money, right there.
During one of our ultra long conversations about our dancing in this country, Daddy makes this very valid point: who are you dancing for anyway?
It reminds me of a time in college when I believed that I could change the status of Dance in this country, make it something people wanted to go see, and it was to be my life's goal. I was so passionate, then. Understandable, of course, because I was so young. These days, I'm just shaking my head. I'm just waiting around at home and gushing over the little penguin in 50 First Dates.
I told her over SMS about the penguin, and it turns out that she hasn't seen the movie yet, either, but now that I told her the penguin was in it, she vows to see it right away. And then, she said, "Will I be hearing 'Hi Penguin!' again soon?"
That's what I say to her when I see her, "Hi, Penguin!" She calls me Pigeon. She's of course actually asking if I'll be back anytime soon. That's not up to me, of course, that's up to a certain person resigning and up to whether or not they want us back at all.
This in turn made me think how it's such a bad time to be an artist, especially in this country. Quincy says it's terrible everywhere, and although everywhere to him is basically Orange County, I'm inclined to agree with him. But I believe it's really bad here. The President just gave this imposition that government offices cannot spend any money on the arts and artistic events unless it's connected to a school. There goes a lot of our money, right there.
During one of our ultra long conversations about our dancing in this country, Daddy makes this very valid point: who are you dancing for anyway?
It reminds me of a time in college when I believed that I could change the status of Dance in this country, make it something people wanted to go see, and it was to be my life's goal. I was so passionate, then. Understandable, of course, because I was so young. These days, I'm just shaking my head. I'm just waiting around at home and gushing over the little penguin in 50 First Dates.
Monday, September 20, 2004
my journey through London Below
The reason why I take such a long time reading a book is because I don't want the story to end.
I am reading Neverwhere, have been for a week or so. I am constantly marvelling over it and wondering what Neil Gaiman was/is on. Usually, when I read a book, I start befriending the characters, identifying with one or another of them, feeling like the story is somehow part of my life, the way stories should.
This past week, I have stumbled upon Richard Mayhew. I am very enamored of Richard. Gaiman writes him out with a contagious sense of irony; he has a "rumpled, just-woken-up look to him, which made him more attractive to the opposite sex than he would ever understand or believe." My kind of guy.
This past week, I feel like I am walking through London Below with him, an extraordinary event, one of such a singular nature that I would never have seen coming. It doesn't feel like the reality I am used to, but I am becoming less and less surprised as time goes by.
So, who am I then? Of course, I would love to see myself as Door. Many see me as a child, many see me as one who needs rescuing. Even as I am at my most childlike, I know of the attention that I can command, of the things I can make happen. I know I am extraordinary. I am Door, that way.
And if I am Door, then it's my fault that Richard is in London Below. For some reason, I'm finding this thought - that it's my fault - very cool. I also like to think that it's not just me, it's also help from the universe and, somehow, partly because Richard wants to be there himself.
I am also Hunter, of the beautiful burnt caramel skin. I cannot lay claim to being able to beat up big hulking men and slaying New York alligators and Thai tigers, but I know that I am as strong and formidable as she is, probably cross a couple of dangerous bridges and protecting people in the process. I can also eat like there's no tomorrow.
Strangely, I also Lamia the Velvet. Observe:
"Hullo," said Richard, with a smile. "...You, um. Here for curry?"
She fixed him with her violet gaze and said, in mock Bela Lugosi, "I do not eat... curry." And then she laughed, a lavish, delighted laugh, and Richard found himself realizing how long it had been since he had shared a joke with a woman.
It's been a while since I've flexed my flirting muscles. I haven't really used them much lately, the only receptive objects being ballet boys who don't really care much for witty repartee. By all rights, Lamia the Velvet feels evil as soon as you encounter her in the story, yet I find her so familiar to me. Ironically, I find a warmth within her.
To further my argument, here's another page of the book where I'm sure friends of mine would say "Damn, I've heard you say exactly that in real life, at least once."
"Well," said Richard, "...We have to get the...thing I got...to the Angel. And then he'll tell Door about her family, and he'll tell me how to get home."
Lamia looked up at Hunter with delight. "And he can give you brains," she said, cheerfully, "and me a heart!"
Door (said)..."We'll be fine, just the three of us, Richard. We cannot afford a guide."
Lamia bridled. "I'll take my payment from him, not you."
"And what payment would your kind demand?" asked Hunter.
"That," said Lamia with a sweet smile, "is for me to know and for him to wonder."
Right now, I am at the part in the book where all three women are walking with Richard through London Below, to get to the Angel Islington at the end of Down Street. I keep stalling. I don't exactly know what to expect at the end of the book. I could end up forever with Richard in London Below. I could end up sucking the life out of him. Or Richard could go back to London Above. Right now, I'm savoring this journey. And wish I'm having whatever Gaiman was on when he wrote it. That would be such a trip.
I am reading Neverwhere, have been for a week or so. I am constantly marvelling over it and wondering what Neil Gaiman was/is on. Usually, when I read a book, I start befriending the characters, identifying with one or another of them, feeling like the story is somehow part of my life, the way stories should.
This past week, I have stumbled upon Richard Mayhew. I am very enamored of Richard. Gaiman writes him out with a contagious sense of irony; he has a "rumpled, just-woken-up look to him, which made him more attractive to the opposite sex than he would ever understand or believe." My kind of guy.
This past week, I feel like I am walking through London Below with him, an extraordinary event, one of such a singular nature that I would never have seen coming. It doesn't feel like the reality I am used to, but I am becoming less and less surprised as time goes by.
So, who am I then? Of course, I would love to see myself as Door. Many see me as a child, many see me as one who needs rescuing. Even as I am at my most childlike, I know of the attention that I can command, of the things I can make happen. I know I am extraordinary. I am Door, that way.
And if I am Door, then it's my fault that Richard is in London Below. For some reason, I'm finding this thought - that it's my fault - very cool. I also like to think that it's not just me, it's also help from the universe and, somehow, partly because Richard wants to be there himself.
I am also Hunter, of the beautiful burnt caramel skin. I cannot lay claim to being able to beat up big hulking men and slaying New York alligators and Thai tigers, but I know that I am as strong and formidable as she is, probably cross a couple of dangerous bridges and protecting people in the process. I can also eat like there's no tomorrow.
Strangely, I also Lamia the Velvet. Observe:
"Hullo," said Richard, with a smile. "...You, um. Here for curry?"
She fixed him with her violet gaze and said, in mock Bela Lugosi, "I do not eat... curry." And then she laughed, a lavish, delighted laugh, and Richard found himself realizing how long it had been since he had shared a joke with a woman.
It's been a while since I've flexed my flirting muscles. I haven't really used them much lately, the only receptive objects being ballet boys who don't really care much for witty repartee. By all rights, Lamia the Velvet feels evil as soon as you encounter her in the story, yet I find her so familiar to me. Ironically, I find a warmth within her.
To further my argument, here's another page of the book where I'm sure friends of mine would say "Damn, I've heard you say exactly that in real life, at least once."
"Well," said Richard, "...We have to get the...thing I got...to the Angel. And then he'll tell Door about her family, and he'll tell me how to get home."
Lamia looked up at Hunter with delight. "And he can give you brains," she said, cheerfully, "and me a heart!"
Door (said)..."We'll be fine, just the three of us, Richard. We cannot afford a guide."
Lamia bridled. "I'll take my payment from him, not you."
"And what payment would your kind demand?" asked Hunter.
"That," said Lamia with a sweet smile, "is for me to know and for him to wonder."
Right now, I am at the part in the book where all three women are walking with Richard through London Below, to get to the Angel Islington at the end of Down Street. I keep stalling. I don't exactly know what to expect at the end of the book. I could end up forever with Richard in London Below. I could end up sucking the life out of him. Or Richard could go back to London Above. Right now, I'm savoring this journey. And wish I'm having whatever Gaiman was on when he wrote it. That would be such a trip.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
a matter of feet and timing
I read somewhere that the universe unfolds according to how you need it to. I have always had okay feet for ballet - they're not as beautifully arched as Alessandra Ferri's or Paloma Herrera's or even Jacqui's, but they're far from being flat-footed. Still, all my ballet years, my pointe shoes never look like those ads in Dance Magazine; at best, I have okay arches and I get up on my toes without problem, but the shank remains straight like the block of wood it is.
To "ballet outsiders," the shank is the block of very thin wood that lines the sole of the shoe, to support the foot when we go up on pointe. The tip of the pointe shoe is made of papier mache, not wood.
A lot of dancers who are not as gifted as Alessandra or Paloma cut the shank right at the instep of their foot, so that it will bend the shoe more, creating a deeper arch and a more aesthetic foot. I know of dancers who do this, some are even prima ballerinas. I myself have never done that to any of my shoes because I'm worried it will affect my performance. I stay on the safe side, never mind if my shoe looks mejo kawawa, archless.
Back to the universe unfolding, well, my feet are now more arched. It's a significant difference from last year and I know why - my theraband exercises (a theraband is a resistance band - a long piece of thin rubber that you can use to stretch and condition your muscles, like free weights but with more resistance). Daddy only got me using the theraband last January, mostly for body conditioning, in view of my worries about using my aging limbs. It's been very good for body conditioning but has been great as well for working my feet.
Like I said, I have okay feet, but only since I started working it with the theraband did I start really feeling my arches going as far as they can. They're still not Paloma in my Capezios but the shanks are nicely curved now, and I look more and more like a professional ballet dancer. And I'm stronger en pointe (on my toes).
I look more a dancer in my Gaynor Mindens. Their shanks are made of fiberglass and conform to the foot more than the wooden shanks of other pointe shoes. It's actually a hit and miss thing, whether your feet will look good and dance well in them or not. Mine actually look very very nice in Gaynors, almost Paloma-ish, even though they had cut up my heels the first time I wore them. It was hard to get used to dancing in them but now, it's like chicken feed.
So, in effect, I had come back to ballet at a really good time in my life; this is a really good time to be dancing. If only there was any dancing to do.
Tonight would have been an opening night for me. I hope I will have another one soon. I believe that the universe has yet to unfold.
To "ballet outsiders," the shank is the block of very thin wood that lines the sole of the shoe, to support the foot when we go up on pointe. The tip of the pointe shoe is made of papier mache, not wood.
A lot of dancers who are not as gifted as Alessandra or Paloma cut the shank right at the instep of their foot, so that it will bend the shoe more, creating a deeper arch and a more aesthetic foot. I know of dancers who do this, some are even prima ballerinas. I myself have never done that to any of my shoes because I'm worried it will affect my performance. I stay on the safe side, never mind if my shoe looks mejo kawawa, archless.
Back to the universe unfolding, well, my feet are now more arched. It's a significant difference from last year and I know why - my theraband exercises (a theraband is a resistance band - a long piece of thin rubber that you can use to stretch and condition your muscles, like free weights but with more resistance). Daddy only got me using the theraband last January, mostly for body conditioning, in view of my worries about using my aging limbs. It's been very good for body conditioning but has been great as well for working my feet.
Like I said, I have okay feet, but only since I started working it with the theraband did I start really feeling my arches going as far as they can. They're still not Paloma in my Capezios but the shanks are nicely curved now, and I look more and more like a professional ballet dancer. And I'm stronger en pointe (on my toes).
I look more a dancer in my Gaynor Mindens. Their shanks are made of fiberglass and conform to the foot more than the wooden shanks of other pointe shoes. It's actually a hit and miss thing, whether your feet will look good and dance well in them or not. Mine actually look very very nice in Gaynors, almost Paloma-ish, even though they had cut up my heels the first time I wore them. It was hard to get used to dancing in them but now, it's like chicken feed.
So, in effect, I had come back to ballet at a really good time in my life; this is a really good time to be dancing. If only there was any dancing to do.
Tonight would have been an opening night for me. I hope I will have another one soon. I believe that the universe has yet to unfold.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
You are a Siren
You are a Siren
More adventurous than all with a voice like no other, you sit on warm rocks and sing to the moon and sea. Yet sometimes shipwrecks find you and raving men want you (naks...). You are a bottle of talent and power. What the unknown is you seek to find, and a lover. You have the moon and stars as friends. There are a very few of you, what a rare find.
What kind of mermaid are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
ahem, ahem... no really...
My voice is raspy. I'm thinking this happened because of the freaking weather that's all hot and cold and hot again. As most of my friends are aware of, I have that kind of voice that can get really loud, the kind you have to shush in movie theatres, the kind that's perfect for silencing rowdy children, the kind that gets assigned to announce "ML135, Music History is clooooosed!" during the crazy moments in UP registration.
Plus, it got worse that day I hung out with the girls before Franny left. To do girltalk for seven hours straight can really give your vocal chords a work out. And I guess it doesn't help that I do talk any chance I get.
It's so bad now that my students and I have devised a way of communication. I whisper directions to my "helpers" Kiara and Camila and they announce it to the class. The kids are finding the entire experience amusing. My mom is glad that it means I am more restrained from getting mad at my students, now that it's actually painful. Like Spike's chip.
My sister says I should try to NOT speak for a month so that my voice recuperates. I bet she would love that. I'm merely drinking a lot of tea.
Plus, it got worse that day I hung out with the girls before Franny left. To do girltalk for seven hours straight can really give your vocal chords a work out. And I guess it doesn't help that I do talk any chance I get.
It's so bad now that my students and I have devised a way of communication. I whisper directions to my "helpers" Kiara and Camila and they announce it to the class. The kids are finding the entire experience amusing. My mom is glad that it means I am more restrained from getting mad at my students, now that it's actually painful. Like Spike's chip.
My sister says I should try to NOT speak for a month so that my voice recuperates. I bet she would love that. I'm merely drinking a lot of tea.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
as my friend said, there's something in the air...
I've been looking for various definitions of love, as it were. I guess I'm trying to remind myself what it is. Which brings us to the big cheese of the day - I watched The Notebook. After promising Tos I wouldn't. I thought I never would, but strangely, things have been happening to me that are making me reassess what I have done in my life, what I have done to my life, what I let other people do to my life, etc. Seeing The Notebook is one of those things.
I haven't done anything remotely related to the Tarot in over four years (maybe more) but I found myself checking out an online deck that is not only eeriely accurate, but also well written. I asked a certain question and it told me to charge on (for fellow readers, it was the Chariot card). This guy's version of the Chariot though is a shoe with a dangerous high heel. He's like saying what you want to happen can only happen through your efforts and you're already moving in that direction. My question wasn't about me, it was about another person and yet the card I drew is telling me that I am the Captain of my Soul. After watching The Notebook, I took my first brave, bold step into charging on.
It's funny that these are two separate entities that really don't have anything to do with each other at all. Only in my world are they actually living on the same page.
Overall, The Notebook was an okay movie if you like movies with heartwarming love stories, the kind that last a lifetime (and this one did, from the moment they met till the girl caught Alzheimer's... sorry if I ruined it for you, then again, if you're a friend reading my blog, I'm sure you wouldn't care, not really). If I wasn't in the situation I was in right now, I wouldn't be that affected by how the guy was despondent yet still in love with the girl that he still built that house for her. I guess I'm finding any guy in love with any girl remarkable. To quote the song, love is a beautiful thing.
And to quote the cliche, we always want what we can't have.
I don't want to be bitter. I'm thirty and I'm only this affected because I'm stuck in my parents' house without much to do. Maybe I shouldn't have plunged into organizing my life because I was made to face what a mess, a really big mess, it had become.
I don't know where this is coming from. I was pretty okay before this week started. To my knowledge, at least.
I'm kind of optimistic. I'm also reading Neverwhere and I'm thinking that the worst thing that could happen to me could, in all probability, be not that bad. That step I was talking about, I would never have made it before, ever. I would have been too afraid to. But now, I really felt good doing it and I didn't worry anymore that it was something I could never take back. I guess you could say I've grown accustomed to walking in high heels.
Warning, though, to everyone: I love you all but if any of you gives me a big "I told you so..." or "Honey, you shoulda done this ages ago...", I swear, I'm gonna impale a spiked heel into your face. (Hmmm, I don't know where the violence is coming from, it must be from watching The Notebook...) Let's just go get coffee and ogle Lainee's boss or something.
I haven't done anything remotely related to the Tarot in over four years (maybe more) but I found myself checking out an online deck that is not only eeriely accurate, but also well written. I asked a certain question and it told me to charge on (for fellow readers, it was the Chariot card). This guy's version of the Chariot though is a shoe with a dangerous high heel. He's like saying what you want to happen can only happen through your efforts and you're already moving in that direction. My question wasn't about me, it was about another person and yet the card I drew is telling me that I am the Captain of my Soul. After watching The Notebook, I took my first brave, bold step into charging on.
It's funny that these are two separate entities that really don't have anything to do with each other at all. Only in my world are they actually living on the same page.
Overall, The Notebook was an okay movie if you like movies with heartwarming love stories, the kind that last a lifetime (and this one did, from the moment they met till the girl caught Alzheimer's... sorry if I ruined it for you, then again, if you're a friend reading my blog, I'm sure you wouldn't care, not really). If I wasn't in the situation I was in right now, I wouldn't be that affected by how the guy was despondent yet still in love with the girl that he still built that house for her. I guess I'm finding any guy in love with any girl remarkable. To quote the song, love is a beautiful thing.
And to quote the cliche, we always want what we can't have.
I don't want to be bitter. I'm thirty and I'm only this affected because I'm stuck in my parents' house without much to do. Maybe I shouldn't have plunged into organizing my life because I was made to face what a mess, a really big mess, it had become.
I don't know where this is coming from. I was pretty okay before this week started. To my knowledge, at least.
I'm kind of optimistic. I'm also reading Neverwhere and I'm thinking that the worst thing that could happen to me could, in all probability, be not that bad. That step I was talking about, I would never have made it before, ever. I would have been too afraid to. But now, I really felt good doing it and I didn't worry anymore that it was something I could never take back. I guess you could say I've grown accustomed to walking in high heels.
Warning, though, to everyone: I love you all but if any of you gives me a big "I told you so..." or "Honey, you shoulda done this ages ago...", I swear, I'm gonna impale a spiked heel into your face. (Hmmm, I don't know where the violence is coming from, it must be from watching The Notebook...) Let's just go get coffee and ogle Lainee's boss or something.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
on his way to Singapore, what a great way to fly...
Like Beth said in Little Women, why is everybody always going away?
Remember when I talked about meeting people in my old college org that I bonded with and got close to right away? Well, one of those people was Mayo. I got close to him right away, hated him for a year after that, and then got close to him again, in fact got closer. We make subaybay each other's lovelives like it were the current hot telenovela, sometimes (okay, most of the time) butting in with an air of authority that's mostly because "Hey, I dated you, I know of what I speak..." We generally think of each other as amazing people.
He had a book of poetry published recently. He handed me my copy and said with a laugh, "Ha! You're going to be forced to read an entire book in Filipino!" I said, "But I have. I read Allan's."
He wrote a poem for the book at first about whirling dervishes, but put in other dancing, such as clubbing and ballet. Most of the ballet, he researched from me - his jump-off point was Giselle, because she drove herself nuts from a love spurned. Later, when he found out that Giselle whirls in an arabesque as soon as she steps out of her crypt, he was so pleased about its tie-up with his dervishes theme. I read the poem while he was busy eating mushroom dip and embarassed him by gushing out loud in mid-verse. But truly, the poem is remarkable. If I would have one complaint, I think I should have told him that Baryshnikov's nickname is Misha.
I had danced Giselle, I've been told it was the role that was tailor made for me. Not because I'm the kind of girl who goes nuts and dies of a broken heart, but because of how I've approached the role. It was like I had become Giselle - my movements were soft and languid, delicate, ethereal (well, Lucas said stuff to that effect, I just supplied the prettier, wordier words) and I made Lucas cry when my Giselle went mad. Anyway, believe me, I was stellar.
I wish Mayo had seen me dance Giselle. As it happens, I don't think he's seen me dance, not really. He saw me do improv once or twice, but that doesn't really count. Of course, I'm hoping he will, more hopefully in Singapore. It's like a coming together of sorts.
More than anything, I wish Mayo all the luck in the world. For the friend he has been to me, I can't give him anything less.
Remember when I talked about meeting people in my old college org that I bonded with and got close to right away? Well, one of those people was Mayo. I got close to him right away, hated him for a year after that, and then got close to him again, in fact got closer. We make subaybay each other's lovelives like it were the current hot telenovela, sometimes (okay, most of the time) butting in with an air of authority that's mostly because "Hey, I dated you, I know of what I speak..." We generally think of each other as amazing people.
He had a book of poetry published recently. He handed me my copy and said with a laugh, "Ha! You're going to be forced to read an entire book in Filipino!" I said, "But I have. I read Allan's."
He wrote a poem for the book at first about whirling dervishes, but put in other dancing, such as clubbing and ballet. Most of the ballet, he researched from me - his jump-off point was Giselle, because she drove herself nuts from a love spurned. Later, when he found out that Giselle whirls in an arabesque as soon as she steps out of her crypt, he was so pleased about its tie-up with his dervishes theme. I read the poem while he was busy eating mushroom dip and embarassed him by gushing out loud in mid-verse. But truly, the poem is remarkable. If I would have one complaint, I think I should have told him that Baryshnikov's nickname is Misha.
I had danced Giselle, I've been told it was the role that was tailor made for me. Not because I'm the kind of girl who goes nuts and dies of a broken heart, but because of how I've approached the role. It was like I had become Giselle - my movements were soft and languid, delicate, ethereal (well, Lucas said stuff to that effect, I just supplied the prettier, wordier words) and I made Lucas cry when my Giselle went mad. Anyway, believe me, I was stellar.
I wish Mayo had seen me dance Giselle. As it happens, I don't think he's seen me dance, not really. He saw me do improv once or twice, but that doesn't really count. Of course, I'm hoping he will, more hopefully in Singapore. It's like a coming together of sorts.
More than anything, I wish Mayo all the luck in the world. For the friend he has been to me, I can't give him anything less.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
the waiting
A friend I recently made asked me, rather politely actually, why was I still waiting for him (someone else, not my new friend)?
And that got me thinking all day: Why was I?
(Is the correct way of saying that, why were I? Is that important?)
I had different answers depending on what time of day it was. At one moment, it was I'm not really waiting. I have a life.
Another moment, it was because when harvest season is over, he'll be okay again and things will be better.
The next moment, it was that's what he said about July.
Another moment, it was because when we're together we make sense. He may have so many other things prioritized over me, but he's always there when I need him and he always says the right things. In that funny old fashioned way of his, but he's always comforting or amusing and always bringing a smile to my face.
Another moment, it was well, I've waited this long, might as well see what happens next.
Another moment, it was if I wasn't waiting, nothing much is all that different anyway. And I told him I'll wait.
Another moment was does he really care if you are?
My friend made me smile when we talked about how he was confident that he had made someone happy. This was another conversation, galaxies away from that conversation that had me thoughtful (please read that again: thoughtful, not anxious) all day. How nice, to be happy. To have someone who makes you happy. That would be something I would like to have, one day.
I didn't mean for this to sound sad. I just had so many thoughts going on today and I can't help that this last thought is so sad. But sneezing sadness seems to be contagious these days. Please don't catch it from me.
And that got me thinking all day: Why was I?
(Is the correct way of saying that, why were I? Is that important?)
I had different answers depending on what time of day it was. At one moment, it was I'm not really waiting. I have a life.
Another moment, it was because when harvest season is over, he'll be okay again and things will be better.
The next moment, it was that's what he said about July.
Another moment, it was because when we're together we make sense. He may have so many other things prioritized over me, but he's always there when I need him and he always says the right things. In that funny old fashioned way of his, but he's always comforting or amusing and always bringing a smile to my face.
Another moment, it was well, I've waited this long, might as well see what happens next.
Another moment, it was if I wasn't waiting, nothing much is all that different anyway. And I told him I'll wait.
Another moment was does he really care if you are?
My friend made me smile when we talked about how he was confident that he had made someone happy. This was another conversation, galaxies away from that conversation that had me thoughtful (please read that again: thoughtful, not anxious) all day. How nice, to be happy. To have someone who makes you happy. That would be something I would like to have, one day.
I didn't mean for this to sound sad. I just had so many thoughts going on today and I can't help that this last thought is so sad. But sneezing sadness seems to be contagious these days. Please don't catch it from me.
Friday, September 10, 2004
my own maroon 5 video, scene one
It's around thirty or so minutes before the gig. We sit at the top of the stairs, watching the excited kids arrive, all dressed up in their best moshable threads, counting their money to buy tickets to this special concert. We have our tickets - as members of the press that their manager likes, we get them free.
Then, she arrives. She is beautiful, stunning even. She ignores me as she pushes past the glass doors. It seems she needs more complimentary tickets than the ones she received. I ignore her and laugh with my friends.
Soon, he comes out from inside the still closed venue. She had been waiting for him; she immediately rushes to him and tells him her dilemma. Then, as she's talking to him, he sees me. And he slowly smiles.
But she realizes that he is no longer listening to her and turns to look at what he is smiling at. As soon as she sees me, her face changes. And she screams (as quietly as she can) at him; he jumps guiltily and he hastily leads her away. She looks at me, hate on her face. I sigh and look down at my camera and pretend it needs adjusting.
Then, she arrives. She is beautiful, stunning even. She ignores me as she pushes past the glass doors. It seems she needs more complimentary tickets than the ones she received. I ignore her and laugh with my friends.
Soon, he comes out from inside the still closed venue. She had been waiting for him; she immediately rushes to him and tells him her dilemma. Then, as she's talking to him, he sees me. And he slowly smiles.
But she realizes that he is no longer listening to her and turns to look at what he is smiling at. As soon as she sees me, her face changes. And she screams (as quietly as she can) at him; he jumps guiltily and he hastily leads her away. She looks at me, hate on her face. I sigh and look down at my camera and pretend it needs adjusting.
my own maroon 5 video, scene two
We sit facing each other across this crowded room. Outside, the twelfth band of the night is playing; my boyfriend is in band #22. He is in band #23. He is talking to somebody. I am talking to somebody. He is laughing. I am laughing. Smiling at the people we are talking with, we somehow end up glancing at each other. Our smiles don't fade. He peers at me, as if he wants to tell me something. I bite my lips and look away.
My boyfriend arrives. He plunks his case down and grabs the first empty seat he can find and sets it beside me. He sits down, blocking him from my line of vision. He leans in for a kiss. When my boyfriend leans back, he comes into my line of vision again, a livid scowl on his face. I turn to face my boyfriend and ask him what took him so long.
When my boyfriend's about to go on, he leads me out to the stage with him so I can take pictures from the side. We pass him and my boyfriend talks to the guy he's with. He looks at me, cocking his head, a grin about to creep onto his face. I stare down at my boyfriend's hand, the one that's holding mine. We go on.
Right after the set, my boyfriend wants to leave. I try to ask him if we can stay awhile. My boyfriend gets angry. (I don't know how people will understand what's going on, there's no dialogue allowed in music videos.) Anyway, I decide not to push it and look away. Then, I see him watching us. I look away again.
(I do a lot of looking away in this video, don't I?)
My boyfriend arrives. He plunks his case down and grabs the first empty seat he can find and sets it beside me. He sits down, blocking him from my line of vision. He leans in for a kiss. When my boyfriend leans back, he comes into my line of vision again, a livid scowl on his face. I turn to face my boyfriend and ask him what took him so long.
When my boyfriend's about to go on, he leads me out to the stage with him so I can take pictures from the side. We pass him and my boyfriend talks to the guy he's with. He looks at me, cocking his head, a grin about to creep onto his face. I stare down at my boyfriend's hand, the one that's holding mine. We go on.
Right after the set, my boyfriend wants to leave. I try to ask him if we can stay awhile. My boyfriend gets angry. (I don't know how people will understand what's going on, there's no dialogue allowed in music videos.) Anyway, I decide not to push it and look away. Then, I see him watching us. I look away again.
(I do a lot of looking away in this video, don't I?)
my own maroon 5 video, scene three
Backstage at another big concert. My boyfriend is at home, watching TV. His girlfriend is simply not around. I'm talking to a million people, suddenly, it's just the two of us standing beside each other. I look at him, but he is looking at the distant stage. I lower my eyes. When I lift them again, I notice he is looking at me. I turn my head to face him and his pensive face is about to slowly turn into a smile. Then, somebody joins us as if the conversation we were having was joinable.
His band moves to the stage; I follow a little bit behind them. He looks back at me, twice. They play and the crowd cheers and moshes. The lights are dancing and everybody has a good time. They all smile at each other every so often. He looks at me and his smile gets wider. I take photos and smile at him, more when he isn't looking at me and is lost in his music.
Backstage again, my boss and co-worker pull me to go home. As we walk to the exit, my boss looks at the pictures I took. My co-worker yells a goodbye somewhere and I look in the direction he was shouting and see him heading another direction in the parking lot, giving a small salute despite the equipment he's carrying. I pull my mouth to a half smile and walk away.
His band moves to the stage; I follow a little bit behind them. He looks back at me, twice. They play and the crowd cheers and moshes. The lights are dancing and everybody has a good time. They all smile at each other every so often. He looks at me and his smile gets wider. I take photos and smile at him, more when he isn't looking at me and is lost in his music.
Backstage again, my boss and co-worker pull me to go home. As we walk to the exit, my boss looks at the pictures I took. My co-worker yells a goodbye somewhere and I look in the direction he was shouting and see him heading another direction in the parking lot, giving a small salute despite the equipment he's carrying. I pull my mouth to a half smile and walk away.
my own maroon 5 video, scene four
I'm walking around a big festival, with stages in different places, with different bands playing simultaneously in each. I'm with my friends and we're walking around, singing, laughing. We almost run into him and his stunning girlfriend. She looks bored. He doesn't look at me, to the point that he avoids looking at me even if I'm right in front of him. I turn and walk away, dragging the nearest friend I could grab as the rest follow. He doesn't even watch me leave.
my own maroon 5 video, scene five
My friends call me up, gesticulating wildly. I shake my head and look at a framed photo of my boyfriend standing beside my phone. When I hang up, I pick up a book I'm reading, checking my watch, looking from frame to phone and back at my book.
(Notice how I found a way to explain what was going on without using conversation that the audience won't hear. I actually don't have a photo of boyfriend in a frame near my phone, and neither will he ever call me on my landline unless he asks me on my cell first, but this is only a video after all.)
He is onstage, playing a gig. He sees my friends at a nearby table and scans them with a frown. He looks around the room. He goes back and looks at his guitar.
I am still beside my phone. I am still looking at it, waiting for it to ring.
He is outside the club, looking at the people who pass by. His girlfriend joins him and he smiles at her. They walk away.
The song ends.
(Notice how I found a way to explain what was going on without using conversation that the audience won't hear. I actually don't have a photo of boyfriend in a frame near my phone, and neither will he ever call me on my landline unless he asks me on my cell first, but this is only a video after all.)
He is onstage, playing a gig. He sees my friends at a nearby table and scans them with a frown. He looks around the room. He goes back and looks at his guitar.
I am still beside my phone. I am still looking at it, waiting for it to ring.
He is outside the club, looking at the people who pass by. His girlfriend joins him and he smiles at her. They walk away.
The song ends.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
movies that speak to me
Considering how I love being in an airport, it would have been a given that I would adore The Terminal. I know waiting around in boarding lounges in airports isn't the bomb for most people, but I always enjoy it. I actually love the entire process: bringing my bags through the x-ray thingies, checking in, watching people waiting for their planes, getting on the plane, flying, arriving. I think the entire "I'm gonna be flying" thing gets to me and everything involved with it is a shoo-in. It doesn't even matter where I go.
Anyway, Tom Hanks' character gets stuck in an airport terminal. He's from a foreign country, a fictitious Slavic country (north of Albania daw, haha) that was overrun by a coup d'etat while he was in the air. So when he landed, his visa and passport were deemed invalid because his country did not exist to the US. And it was bad because not only could he not leave the terminal and the money he had didn't have any value, he couldn't speak English so it took a while for him to figure out what was going on. It was all so dismal and horrible at the start of the movie, so much so that I wanted to run into the screen and give Tom Hanks a hug.
Anyway, the movie gets better and is one of the best movies I've seen this year. I recommend it to anyone who has ever been at a point in their lives where everything seemed hopeless. And to anyone who would love a good laugh.
Another good laugh is 13 Going On 30. It's a story about making a mess of your life and needing to be 13 to be able to see that the person you are at 30 wasn't the person you wanted to become after all. I'm going to ruin this part for you - at one scene in the film, Jennifer Garner asks her mother, "If you would do something in your life over again, what would you do?" She replies nothing, because "even if I had made mistakes, those mistakes had taught me how I can make it better." And I realize, if I didn't make mistakes in the first place, I wouldn't be the wiser. I thought that it was such a cool way of looking at making a mess of your life.
Creeping me out though was this is my age bracket. At 13, also in such a hurry to grow up, I was wearing leggings (*cringe*), listening to the Go-Gos and kissing the TV as Rick Springfield would sing "Jesse's Girl." And now, I'm 30. But I had learned early on not to let these mistakes that I make bother me. As I was telling a new friend I made, I have gotten to the point where I've realized acceptance is way easier than angsting about mistakes.
By the way, Gollum is in that movie!!! Not the CGI, but Andy Serkis. It was such a trip.
Being a bum around the house has never been so much fun.
Anyway, Tom Hanks' character gets stuck in an airport terminal. He's from a foreign country, a fictitious Slavic country (north of Albania daw, haha) that was overrun by a coup d'etat while he was in the air. So when he landed, his visa and passport were deemed invalid because his country did not exist to the US. And it was bad because not only could he not leave the terminal and the money he had didn't have any value, he couldn't speak English so it took a while for him to figure out what was going on. It was all so dismal and horrible at the start of the movie, so much so that I wanted to run into the screen and give Tom Hanks a hug.
Anyway, the movie gets better and is one of the best movies I've seen this year. I recommend it to anyone who has ever been at a point in their lives where everything seemed hopeless. And to anyone who would love a good laugh.
Another good laugh is 13 Going On 30. It's a story about making a mess of your life and needing to be 13 to be able to see that the person you are at 30 wasn't the person you wanted to become after all. I'm going to ruin this part for you - at one scene in the film, Jennifer Garner asks her mother, "If you would do something in your life over again, what would you do?" She replies nothing, because "even if I had made mistakes, those mistakes had taught me how I can make it better." And I realize, if I didn't make mistakes in the first place, I wouldn't be the wiser. I thought that it was such a cool way of looking at making a mess of your life.
Creeping me out though was this is my age bracket. At 13, also in such a hurry to grow up, I was wearing leggings (*cringe*), listening to the Go-Gos and kissing the TV as Rick Springfield would sing "Jesse's Girl." And now, I'm 30. But I had learned early on not to let these mistakes that I make bother me. As I was telling a new friend I made, I have gotten to the point where I've realized acceptance is way easier than angsting about mistakes.
By the way, Gollum is in that movie!!! Not the CGI, but Andy Serkis. It was such a trip.
Being a bum around the house has never been so much fun.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
We took the golden An to Fran
When I joined my first (and only) college org, I was immediately liked by most of them (I think it was because I was always in pekpek shorts and I had thighs of steel) but I only made a few friends right away - and I mean the kind of friends who last this lifetime and the next. I mean, I did make those kinds of friends in the org as time went on, but as luck would have it, I formed early bonds with a few. It's like we knew right away that we were going to be really tight for the rest of our lives. One of them was Lala, another was Reitch, and a third one was Fran.
From early on, Fran and I were hugging and cooing and being all motherly together to the rest of the Quillfolk, although I have to admit she was better at that than I were. She taught me to embrace my ditziness (I was in denial), that it was okay to be smart and ditzy at the same time because, well, we can. She inspires me with her beautiful and optimistic, yet quite realistic, view of the world. She also taught me that you can write erotica and children's lit, just be careful what you give to whom. She is both Charlotte and Samantha on Sex and the City and she is the only person who can pull that off and make perfect sense. She is probably the only one who really understands the native brown woman chip on my shoulder, and, interestingly, we are actually both happy to be such cliches. She is my shrink, my co-hobbit, my Piglet.
My favorite earliest memory of Fran is we went on a UP rally together and it started to rain and she just smiled at the sky. She was so beautiful. She still is.
My favorite second earliest memory of Fran is how, while I was talking to this guy who was then about to ask me out (ahem), she sat in between us in mid conversation, enveloped me in her arms, gave me a squeeze and then stuck her tongue out at my then would-be suitor.
I have many memories since then. Le sigh.
Fran actually inspired two stories I've written - well, one story, and part of another. You Could Be Superman was borne while I was watching her have this conversation with Alex Gregorio. He was probably going on and on like the genius that he is and she was probably only half listening because Alex is so damn gorgeous. And now, that conversation they had (of what, I have no idea) is immortalized.
A few years later, I wrote a story about me and this man I loved (perhaps still love), and it was a story about a girl and her eyeglasses. In the story, the main character (okay, okay, me again) talks about her friend who takes her glasses off even if she can't see without them. It's one of those things that I love about Fran, and it will be one of those things that I will really miss.
Franny is going away. But not forever (so she says, haha). I miss her already, but I'm actually not worried that I will lose her. For a while, we (the island of beautiful putahs) had a group blog, but we discontinued it because it was just me and Fran talking. After that, we tried an email group. And then, you guessed it, it was just me and Fran talking. Not that we minded talking to just each other. Talking to each other will always be something I'm sure we'll always do.
There was this one time that Fran called me and asked if I was busy, or going to be busy. I asked why she asked that and she said she was just checking if I have time to talk to her. At the time, I was quite busy with all this stuff (as everyone who knows me knows that I am only most alive when my headless body is running in all directions) but I felt bad that I didn't even have time to sit and talk with one of my good friends - no, one of my great friends on the phone. And the thing that really killed me was she really didn't mind, she was just being practical. You know that girl in the Roger Sanchez video, the one carrying the big, big heart? That's Frances. Except, her heart doesn't shrink. She won't let it. And that will be the most wonderful thing about her.
Come back to the Hundred Acre Wood, my dearest Fwanny. I'll be cleaning your Trespassers W sign for you while you're gone. Love!
From early on, Fran and I were hugging and cooing and being all motherly together to the rest of the Quillfolk, although I have to admit she was better at that than I were. She taught me to embrace my ditziness (I was in denial), that it was okay to be smart and ditzy at the same time because, well, we can. She inspires me with her beautiful and optimistic, yet quite realistic, view of the world. She also taught me that you can write erotica and children's lit, just be careful what you give to whom. She is both Charlotte and Samantha on Sex and the City and she is the only person who can pull that off and make perfect sense. She is probably the only one who really understands the native brown woman chip on my shoulder, and, interestingly, we are actually both happy to be such cliches. She is my shrink, my co-hobbit, my Piglet.
My favorite earliest memory of Fran is we went on a UP rally together and it started to rain and she just smiled at the sky. She was so beautiful. She still is.
My favorite second earliest memory of Fran is how, while I was talking to this guy who was then about to ask me out (ahem), she sat in between us in mid conversation, enveloped me in her arms, gave me a squeeze and then stuck her tongue out at my then would-be suitor.
I have many memories since then. Le sigh.
Fran actually inspired two stories I've written - well, one story, and part of another. You Could Be Superman was borne while I was watching her have this conversation with Alex Gregorio. He was probably going on and on like the genius that he is and she was probably only half listening because Alex is so damn gorgeous. And now, that conversation they had (of what, I have no idea) is immortalized.
A few years later, I wrote a story about me and this man I loved (perhaps still love), and it was a story about a girl and her eyeglasses. In the story, the main character (okay, okay, me again) talks about her friend who takes her glasses off even if she can't see without them. It's one of those things that I love about Fran, and it will be one of those things that I will really miss.
Franny is going away. But not forever (so she says, haha). I miss her already, but I'm actually not worried that I will lose her. For a while, we (the island of beautiful putahs) had a group blog, but we discontinued it because it was just me and Fran talking. After that, we tried an email group. And then, you guessed it, it was just me and Fran talking. Not that we minded talking to just each other. Talking to each other will always be something I'm sure we'll always do.
There was this one time that Fran called me and asked if I was busy, or going to be busy. I asked why she asked that and she said she was just checking if I have time to talk to her. At the time, I was quite busy with all this stuff (as everyone who knows me knows that I am only most alive when my headless body is running in all directions) but I felt bad that I didn't even have time to sit and talk with one of my good friends - no, one of my great friends on the phone. And the thing that really killed me was she really didn't mind, she was just being practical. You know that girl in the Roger Sanchez video, the one carrying the big, big heart? That's Frances. Except, her heart doesn't shrink. She won't let it. And that will be the most wonderful thing about her.
Come back to the Hundred Acre Wood, my dearest Fwanny. I'll be cleaning your Trespassers W sign for you while you're gone. Love!
Monday, September 06, 2004
you're the best man I know
One reason why I'm not dying the last few days (asides from the fact that the events resulting from our disappearance have actually strengthened the reasons for leaving) is I got a reply email from my thesis adviser, Sir Patrick, last Friday. I had sent him the concept paper for my thesis and apologized profusely for not being able to enroll this sem - I was supposed to be in his Research class, which is all I have left to do, besides the thesis. He wrote me back that there might be a glitch in his being my thesis adviser because they had just assigned him to the National Museum (I swear, I love that he is such an important guy) and UP may not allow him to be my thesis adviser because he has to be full time employed. I have to ask the Department their stand on this; if there's going to be a problem, I have to look for someone new. But I liked what he said before he told me about this glitch: I am committed to you.
It's inspiring because he really does want to work on my thesis and believes it will turn out great. Well, interesting, at the very least. I'm thinking, he could have said anything else to humor me about being my thesis adviser but he used the word "committed." It's enough for me to start going and going and going until it's ready to submit.
Honestly, I hadn't been working on my thesis as religiously as I would have wanted. I would bookmark relevant articles online when I surf for Angel Corella reviews, but not much else. I was trying to finish that concept paper, which I believe is the hardest thing. It was trying to determine what I was really trying to say and what I needed to discover while writing my thesis, I had to get those thoughts to form a coherent whole so that they wouldn't be just my muddled thoughts (I really want Sir Patrick on board with me because he helped me organize my muddled thoughts; the very idea of his not being there advising me was really imperceivable). I realized once I had lain them out with a clear path of where these thoughts were going, and assigned specific ideas to the correct sections and not repeating myself over and over (like how I separated Evolution from History, hello), writing out the long version would be a piece of cake.
I'm supposed to propose that Ballet is important in the Philippines, even if it's not a local dance form, because it can be used as a measure of the nation's progressivity; the defining marker of my thesis is the pas de deux because number one, it's the most important part of the ballet as it's usually its climax, and number two, Filipinos can always relate to two people dancing together and Philippine folk dance has its own version of the pas de deux in its dances, also usually its highlight. Sir Patrick came up with the title, Performing the Pas De Deux: Translations of Ballet in Philippine Dance.
I have to write a letter of request asking that he be retained as my thesis adviser. I hope they grant me this request. Finding a good man is hard enough; getting him to commit is already priceless.
It's inspiring because he really does want to work on my thesis and believes it will turn out great. Well, interesting, at the very least. I'm thinking, he could have said anything else to humor me about being my thesis adviser but he used the word "committed." It's enough for me to start going and going and going until it's ready to submit.
Honestly, I hadn't been working on my thesis as religiously as I would have wanted. I would bookmark relevant articles online when I surf for Angel Corella reviews, but not much else. I was trying to finish that concept paper, which I believe is the hardest thing. It was trying to determine what I was really trying to say and what I needed to discover while writing my thesis, I had to get those thoughts to form a coherent whole so that they wouldn't be just my muddled thoughts (I really want Sir Patrick on board with me because he helped me organize my muddled thoughts; the very idea of his not being there advising me was really imperceivable). I realized once I had lain them out with a clear path of where these thoughts were going, and assigned specific ideas to the correct sections and not repeating myself over and over (like how I separated Evolution from History, hello), writing out the long version would be a piece of cake.
I'm supposed to propose that Ballet is important in the Philippines, even if it's not a local dance form, because it can be used as a measure of the nation's progressivity; the defining marker of my thesis is the pas de deux because number one, it's the most important part of the ballet as it's usually its climax, and number two, Filipinos can always relate to two people dancing together and Philippine folk dance has its own version of the pas de deux in its dances, also usually its highlight. Sir Patrick came up with the title, Performing the Pas De Deux: Translations of Ballet in Philippine Dance.
I have to write a letter of request asking that he be retained as my thesis adviser. I hope they grant me this request. Finding a good man is hard enough; getting him to commit is already priceless.
I haven't been blogging because ...
Number one, I'm always busy during the weekend and if the computer's free, I've already fallen asleep since I have to be up by 6:30 Saturdays and Sundays, and Number two, Lucas used up all my internet hours. What's the use of free internet between 12 to 7 if you don't use it that early in the morning? I'm just peeved because he didn't understand my little planned set-up and went online all day, after 7. But then, I shouldn't be peeved because he didn't understand my little planned set-up. How was he to know I only bought nine hours?
Friday, September 03, 2004
better by numbers
I'm okay.
I don't feel bad anymore. Number one, while I thought that I was never going back, that isn't quite the case. There will always be chances of returning and it won't be as bad as I thought it would be. Number two, even if there wasn't a chance to return, it won't be as bad either. I've always been a survivor, good at adapting, receptive to change.
Number three, there's nothing I have to prove to anyone anymore. It took a foreign choreographer who didn't know anything about the politics of local ballet to reiterate what status I was in the company I was slaving for. If I was ever worried that nobody appreciated the hard work and good dancing I've been putting in, well, it's been appreciated. I actually hate to disappoint him but it had to be done. The people we left behind (specifically the 2 people we left behind) really don't deserve us. Number four (which should have been number one, but I need my priorities straightened out), we really don't deserve how they've been treating us, just as none of the dancers here deserve how they've been treated all this time. Well, maybe not all, but some.
Number five, after the line "They're beautiful dancers, but there are other beautiful dancers...," I'm all inis and thinking, is that threat supposed to make me want to come back? How inspiring.
Number six, my dad bought me DVDs of The Two Towers and Return of the King to make me feel better. I super take back the Dead Poets Society analogy. Today, we're more like That 70s Show. It's the same guy, but I'm approaching him in a different way.
I'm not sure what I'm going to be doing the next few weeks, asides from filing for my leave of absence from school which I have to do because the deadline is nigh, plus I need the time away from my dad. It seems scary because I seriously get jittery when I don't have anything to do. But I feel calm.
Number seven, I cleaned out my drawers again today because my side of the room was getting really cluttered. As in, I was sleeping in my bed with unfolded clothes and books I've been reading and not reading and magazines I was going to set aside. The side of my bed was decorated with bags full of stuff I move back and forth from my weekday to weekend houses, I was always in transit. I won't be for the next few weeks, so I might as well clean up. I threw a LOT of trash out, accumulated from college and from my last two jobs, and it felt cathartic.
So, I'm okay.
I don't feel bad anymore. Number one, while I thought that I was never going back, that isn't quite the case. There will always be chances of returning and it won't be as bad as I thought it would be. Number two, even if there wasn't a chance to return, it won't be as bad either. I've always been a survivor, good at adapting, receptive to change.
Number three, there's nothing I have to prove to anyone anymore. It took a foreign choreographer who didn't know anything about the politics of local ballet to reiterate what status I was in the company I was slaving for. If I was ever worried that nobody appreciated the hard work and good dancing I've been putting in, well, it's been appreciated. I actually hate to disappoint him but it had to be done. The people we left behind (specifically the 2 people we left behind) really don't deserve us. Number four (which should have been number one, but I need my priorities straightened out), we really don't deserve how they've been treating us, just as none of the dancers here deserve how they've been treated all this time. Well, maybe not all, but some.
Number five, after the line "They're beautiful dancers, but there are other beautiful dancers...," I'm all inis and thinking, is that threat supposed to make me want to come back? How inspiring.
Number six, my dad bought me DVDs of The Two Towers and Return of the King to make me feel better. I super take back the Dead Poets Society analogy. Today, we're more like That 70s Show. It's the same guy, but I'm approaching him in a different way.
I'm not sure what I'm going to be doing the next few weeks, asides from filing for my leave of absence from school which I have to do because the deadline is nigh, plus I need the time away from my dad. It seems scary because I seriously get jittery when I don't have anything to do. But I feel calm.
Number seven, I cleaned out my drawers again today because my side of the room was getting really cluttered. As in, I was sleeping in my bed with unfolded clothes and books I've been reading and not reading and magazines I was going to set aside. The side of my bed was decorated with bags full of stuff I move back and forth from my weekday to weekend houses, I was always in transit. I won't be for the next few weeks, so I might as well clean up. I threw a LOT of trash out, accumulated from college and from my last two jobs, and it felt cathartic.
So, I'm okay.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
dream maker, you heartbreaker...
Morpheus
You're like the Greek God Morpheus, of dreams. Believing there is something bigger out there, and often lost in thought. You're imaginative and smart - not always a leader, but usually the one who came up with the plan. You often ask, What if... and long to get out of the darkness and through the window.
?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla
I think if I wasn't so depressed and trying to be all zen and shit, I probably would have turned out to be another god. Or, preferably, goddess. Though I doubt I would have become Athena; to get to be her, you had to answer a lot of "I hang out at the library" and "I love education!" options. Duh.
Excuse the vapidity, I'm trying to distract myself.
this is so dead poets society without the killing yourself
I have been withdrawn from my career from powers stronger than I'll ever be. While the past two weeks have been a period of waiting and seeing and trying not to explode, this morning, the dealbreaker to end all dealbreakers finally, unfortunately, pushed through.
It stuns me though that it wasn't even my last week of dancing professionally. Just my last three days.
They were the best three days of my life. Wherever this takes me, I know I'll be okay.
Still feels crappy though.
It stuns me though that it wasn't even my last week of dancing professionally. Just my last three days.
They were the best three days of my life. Wherever this takes me, I know I'll be okay.
Still feels crappy though.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Joelle may not reply because she is Idle On The Phone Busy
I like Yahoo messenger more than MSN messenger - the former has definitely cuter emoticons that, get this, move. Like if you type out :)), you get the blinking emoticon, who actually bats her extra long eyelashes at you. And that's only one of my favorite ones. I would probably only use Yahoo Messenger, but three of my bestest friends in the world use MSN messenger (in fact, they're the only people in my MSN contacts list), so I got that too and even consider it more important.
I was in a very long conversation with my best friend from college. I was mad at her quite a while back, but I got over myself, because hello. Not even worth discussing, just call me enlightened and contrite. This best friend and I used to read each other so well that we went around believing we were kindred spirits. We were even starting to look alike. Then, over the years, we had grown up into quite different people and somehow, that used to make me feel sad and disappointed. These days, I'm thinking we're lucky to have really good people to have as friends. It wouldn't kill me to stop being such a dork, right?
Anyway, we were leisurely discussing stuff and making emoticons at each other (though, those emoticons would have been more fun and funny if they were moving) and I show her a photo of me in costume as a geisha for Madama Butterfly. We already had a prior conversation (again on MSN Messenger) where I told her about this ballet being staged, what I liked about it, did it bug her that the singers were in the orchestra pit? She's a soprano, you see, and will one day wow the world. She tells me it didn't bug her; we should be thankful that there's live music at all.
I was thinking, just last Monday, how cool it would be if Marga was here in the country (she's in Dallas, at first to get her MA, now she's graduated and exploring her options), they could hire her to sing Butterfly. The last time I danced in something with a live orchestra, they had hired a soprano and tenor I knew from college, whom I only knew through Marga. So it shouldn't be such a far off stretch for Marga to be singing for us, if ever there was a chance. I was just thinking how cool that would be. And then I completely forget that I thought that.
So we're talking and she suddenly blurts an expletive and announces this realization: were she in the country, she could probably be the one singing for our production. It's moments like these that make me think we may have grown up away from each other but our spirits remain kindred, regardless.
She's suggesting perhaps one day, she'll still be given a chance to sing for a future staging. And maybe then, I could be dancing Butterfly. Although I seriously doubt it's gonna happen, I have to admit that that would be so cool.
I was in a very long conversation with my best friend from college. I was mad at her quite a while back, but I got over myself, because hello. Not even worth discussing, just call me enlightened and contrite. This best friend and I used to read each other so well that we went around believing we were kindred spirits. We were even starting to look alike. Then, over the years, we had grown up into quite different people and somehow, that used to make me feel sad and disappointed. These days, I'm thinking we're lucky to have really good people to have as friends. It wouldn't kill me to stop being such a dork, right?
Anyway, we were leisurely discussing stuff and making emoticons at each other (though, those emoticons would have been more fun and funny if they were moving) and I show her a photo of me in costume as a geisha for Madama Butterfly. We already had a prior conversation (again on MSN Messenger) where I told her about this ballet being staged, what I liked about it, did it bug her that the singers were in the orchestra pit? She's a soprano, you see, and will one day wow the world. She tells me it didn't bug her; we should be thankful that there's live music at all.
I was thinking, just last Monday, how cool it would be if Marga was here in the country (she's in Dallas, at first to get her MA, now she's graduated and exploring her options), they could hire her to sing Butterfly. The last time I danced in something with a live orchestra, they had hired a soprano and tenor I knew from college, whom I only knew through Marga. So it shouldn't be such a far off stretch for Marga to be singing for us, if ever there was a chance. I was just thinking how cool that would be. And then I completely forget that I thought that.
So we're talking and she suddenly blurts an expletive and announces this realization: were she in the country, she could probably be the one singing for our production. It's moments like these that make me think we may have grown up away from each other but our spirits remain kindred, regardless.
She's suggesting perhaps one day, she'll still be given a chance to sing for a future staging. And maybe then, I could be dancing Butterfly. Although I seriously doubt it's gonna happen, I have to admit that that would be so cool.
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