To the new year!

Here we are, 2009, I'm still 20 pounds over my target weight, still wasting my $50 per month gym membership opting instead for late night movie sessions and sushi buffets. Rejected at my first choice, but still saved a few hundred grand just for a major in marketing, wrote the college essay of my dreams, but still too lazy to finish the January 19 deadline for scholarships (which is oh, 2 hours away, I should probably get to that). Still envy all the skinny bitches down at the French Riviera with their 6 foot + physiques and a glistening tan line enjoying the 70+ weather while I freeze my ass off here in winter Chicago (just a few nights ago it peaked at negative 19, whoopee).

Where is this whole depository of frustrations headed? No idea, probably just another excuse to criticize my failures, 2008 resolutions that fell though midway March, or was it February? I haven't done much growing but I have grown closer to others. Still haven't fallen in love but sure felt like it was mimicked with the people I've been with (and no, it wasn't lust). Got serenaded for the first time by some piano variation of a Korean soundtrack by a pretty Korean girl with a quirkiness that keeps reminding me why I'd choose friends over family any time of the year, when someone's there not because of some paternal obligation, but of sincerity.

And so I'm entering 2009 with less expectations for more possibilities. To the fuckups I've made in 2008, may I hope never to return to that place. 18 is around the corner, college looms, and I'm ready to take it all in.

Still waiting =)

College applications

(newspaper editorial for my school, whether or not this glorified bitchfest gets published is beyond me)

Ask any senior on the newspaper staff the source of their worries and they'd all probably respond with deadlines and college applications. Yes, it's that time of the year again when counselors seem fully booked and student services crowded during office hours. At last, the realities of college awaits, and no amount of procrastination could slow down its impending doom.
I spent the minority of November scurrying between counselors and my laptop, searching for the college of my dreams, and the rest trying to complete their applications. If only admission was a "yes" click away, perhaps our anxieties may lessen as we're allowed time to evaluate what we want to do with our lives, rather than where we'll be accepted.

Acceptance seems to be the word that causes those restless nights, an idea that separates us from crossing the threshold towards a guaranteed success that generations before have instilled in ours. Yet colleges are stuck on a predetermined path demanding prospective students to come in manufactured packages with a complete ten year plan, together with a string of generic qualities of determination, ambition, and leadership to tie it all in a neat little bow, which would look lovely on their brochures for future parents seeking that ivy league prestige (and a fancy bumper sticker to match).

Perhaps I've grown jaded and cynical by this whole process, but I find it hard to imagine that Colleges, regardless of status, could critically evaluate the values and merits of an applicant beyond numbers and statistics. As if all our aspirations could be condensed into an eight-by-eleven frame, twelve Arial font, on how we overcame "so and so" tragedy and how we became the qualities they're looking for (read; determination, ambition, leadership) because of it.

As we muddle through winter break wearily peaking outside to see what our mailbox has in store for our future, let us re-evaluate what we've done these past four years. If the bulk of AP classes and volunteer hours we readily gave our lives away for was a way to enhance our learning experience or if it were just another use of ink to fill an empty space under the title "goals and accomplishments" to make our resume prettier. I don't know about you, but nothing will make a better belated Christmas present (and justify those lost hours applying) quite like an acceptance letter, preferably in a red and green encrusted envelope.

Deadlines, ahh!

To the left of this laptop lies a stack of papers, worksheets, and deadlines that should be furiously digested and consumed for my education. To my right are notes for my high-school newspaper editorial. I’ve spent most of today making sure all my assignments were completed so I could have the rest of the night off for my writing. Well, I’m having a dilemma, because I have nothing to write about.

I’ve rummaged back and forth between my bathroom and sofa, hoping to be struck with some sort of universal truth/answer to my article; why do we, as students place so much stress, anxiety, and brain cells on college applications?

I don’t have an answer, nor do I think will I receive one by tomorrow. It’s frustrating when you’re waiting for the next great idea to smack you against the forehead like some sort of epiphany. I don’t know, it’s different when I’m writing based on introspection, and when a prompt is staring blankly at my face.

Hmm, I’m not cut out to be a journalist. Deadlines scare me.

Father.

With droplets of salt trailing down my forehead, the sweltering heat of Manila summers flushing my cheeks, I pulled out my favorite handkerchief to wipe the residue. The overbearing humidity was not enough to dampen my excitement. I gazed towards the skyline, trying to pinpoint her silver dungeon she called an office, knowing that every Friday, after school, I wouldn’t have to take the jeepney home, as she’d leave that building early, making use of her scarce hours to be with me. My eyes glistened daily as fellow classmates leapt into the arms of their mothers and fathers, but at last, I could finally be like them, even if for only once a week.

Earlier that morning was the monthly show and tell event in which a selected student was offered the opportunity to showcase their parents’ lifestyle and career. That day involved a Chinese man in a three piece suit. A prideful father who, just like the rest of them, boasted a hefty list of their assets and accomplishments. Every month, I watched these men come and go our classroom, searching for something tangible that I never had. None of them would ever do.

All I could do was continue my drawings to fill my boredom and ignore the man’s diatribe on the economy, the government, and my country. I often drew portraits of the three of us, with my mother and he sharing identical rings as our linear arms were joined under the streaks of a happy sun. I asked her if he could present for my class one day, and she replied with only fits of anger then tears. At nights I snuck into her closet, searching for pictures of him. Most were gone, while the ones that remained were saturated in holes and burns, which is why I could only scribble a generic smile for his face. After her first outburst, I kept these drawings to myself, they became the only memories I could hold onto.

All the children and their parents had left by then, as the sidewalk seemed much emptier than usual, yet the roads remained cluttered and dense, with its inhabitants wandering between every jeepney and taxi, swimming through endless skyscrapers without a sense of purpose. From my shortened perspective against the sprawling city, all I could see were spectrums of tiny atoms, bouncing wildly off one another in search of meaning. I wondered if he could be one of those lost souls, hoping that one day, he would bounce back and return to me.

The streetlights flickered open as hues of blues hovered over the horizon, with clouds carrying tears until no longer could it bear in its magnitude, cleansing my face, drenching my clothes. I could only imagine the weight of its loneliness. With feet planted, my resilience strengthened against the heavy downpour. My posture remained firm and poised. I wanted both of them to see the obedient son they had raised, if either one would come for me.

Squatting on pavement, feeling the swamped muck from beneath as streams of headlights passed, my hopes soon waned.

Thinking the showers seemed to have stopped, I noticed an umbrella overhead, held by a man in uniform, sat beside me, offering to seek shelter. However genuine his offer was, I refused with frustration, still stubborn and patient for their arrival. Yet his compassion was unwavering as he remained beside me, with an umbrella that sheltered us from the rest of the world.

While the rain eased, so did my anxieties, allowing the flow of the atmosphere and his presence to soothe my anger. He was well built and seemed capable, just like how I imagined him to be, yet to me, he meant much more. We sat there in silence, letting the world around us collide within its cramped walls, the waters glazing pavements as strangers and their destinies slipped and crashed into one another’s lives, then separated once more. I wished the rain would never end.

Beneath the haze I recognized her silhouette, whisking me into her arms as I looked back, taking in my final memories of him. The sun never came back like I hoped, and neither did he, but I could still feel the warmth of its rays, returning her embrace with greater intensity.

My mother and I continued our journey towards the dusts and smog of our reality. With the world in constant motion, I don’t feel so lonely anymore, as with each friction of contact ignites a spark of hope and meaning before we’re repelled into boundless directions and opportunities, filling a void that he never could.

Before we crossed the intersection, I took advantage of the heightened perspective from my mother’s arms. The crackles of engines and rain pounding against metal muffled into the distance, as I took one last glance towards the skyline. My eyes glistened once more - all I could see were lights.

Province - Final Revision

I’ve been holding off visiting the barren countryside. Becoming so adapted to urban living, it’s hard to imagine that my Philippines consists of nothing more than architectural pieces and star bucks lattes. I was in for quite an awakening as I stepped on the bus for Jones Isabella, looking like a walking logo with my Lacoste luggage and Armani apparel, only to witness seats filled with farmers and housewives, others with their children sitting on their laps as means to save an extra bus fare. I had to smile at myself, feeling ignorant for thinking that this was another international flight off to some exotic location. Eyeing for my spot, seat 22 sided right by the window, I groaned at the lack of space, providing less than your economy flight.

After 2 hours of Wong Kar Wai films, I found myself dozing off, comforted by the rocking of the moving vehicle. I was awakened in the middle of the night . We were approaching the peak of the mountain that separates myself from my final destination. I daze out my window; greens illuminated by the blues of moonlight, trees kissed by the summer breeze, all overlooking the slopes and clouds. It was nothing short of romanticism evoking its hidden beauty at me once again. My eyes lingered once more to the sky, then into my head…

I was greeted by morning calls. The conductor announced our final stop over before we arrive at Jones. It seems every time my eyes open a new side of rural Philippines yearns to boast its beauty. The moon gave way to the East, peaking out of its corner with hues of yellow, progressively hovering over the rice fields and grumpy herds of cattle. If only my mornings in the West were like these…

Passengers horde the aisles, eager to see their loved ones, or just eager to finally be home. I approach the steps downward only to be barged with tricycle drivers. In the midst of them all a boy around my age reaches out his hand for my luggage. I look at him, dumbfounded, then behind to see if it was for someone else. I felt sudden embarrassment when I realized it was my uncle, an old childhood friend of mine. I was a mere foreigner once more.
Time seems to have stood still in the countryside. Generations of relatives still living under the same roof. Those who are fortunate enough to venture out are often reduced to menial labor in their neighboring cities. Old aged values of filial respect are strictly enforced, in which double standards and gender roles still prevail. As the night comes, the drunks and the condemned come out of their closets with gin, brandy, San Miguels in hand, toasting to their grievances. Returning urban workers use their meager earnings they have to engage in lustful acts, making use of the young to fill their own aging loneliness.

Prior to my departure I yearned once more to visit the source of all my fondest memories. The only modern work of infrastructure, I walk along the newly built bridge with an endless string of intertwining metals. I look across, below, to watch water clash against rocks, only to continue once more. Nostalgia was felt. My eternal summers were spent there, in the nudity of my childhood innocence.

Yet, the river roars, continuing to flow, perhaps the only thing that keeps on moving in this vast emptiness. Summers end, youth subsides, and winter comes.

And so I drop my sentiments. I go on back. Time keeps going.

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

Hong Kong

You can give me the top 10 mega-cities of the world and I’ll choose Hong Kong anytime. There’s something so grandiose yet subtle in its beauty. At first glance, you’re enthralled by the skyscrapers of Hong Kong Island, surrounded by its mountainous geography of slopes and ocean. Once you work your way within its heart, lies its distinctive aura that leaves you paralyzed, stagnant in a river of pedestrians, the natural currents pushing them along to their purpose. Even then, it’s easy to lose yourself here, finding myself wandering between each crevice, building, and alleys, with a keen eye, observing the local flavor. What it lacks in its refinement (I.E Tokyo, seoul etc etc) compensates with its rugged diversity. Yes, the streets are often crowded, with sparse real state and shanty apartments towering over consumerist establishments, yet you’ll never feel that dull, homogenous feel of its eastern counterparts. It’s a mixed bag of Asian ethnicities, ranging from the usual Japanese tourists to Indian businessmen, harassing westerners with “sales” on suits, watches, and other counterfeit goods (which is why I often try to distance myself from Bryan haha). Hong Kong has always been best at night, saturated lighting of reds and yellows illuminate the compact spacing of shops and stalls, cigarettes puff amidst the contrasting smells of exhaust pipes, roasted ducks, and stinky tofus. The crisps burn, a symphony of stilettos chatter, slurping my noodles and cheap beer while the trendy beats of canto pop play, a myriad of taxis and trucks pass by, grazing my ears and back. However physically estranged I am from my homeland, I can still find that tangible warmth in a place where no one knows my name, nor speaks my language. There are those who find peace within the comforts of home, I find mine in displacement.

First Loves

A child braving the smoke and traffic approaches my window with swollen eyes, knocks and peaks through the tinted glass, asking for change. Only a poor upbringing could push such a thing through great extremes, rewarding his courage with the few coins I had in my wallet. I urge my driver to find an alternate route, only to leave our vehicle stagnant. How I loath watching the demise of this city, the far cries of its golden past long gone.

Apathy has been my approach nowadays. It’s easy to overlook the piling vermin by the roadside once the sun’s spotlight has burned out, leaving only the wonders of architecture that is Makati revel in its magnitude, towering over the flaws of its urban landscape. It is this place, this haven where I seek refuge for the night, away from the madness and chaos of my surroundings.

It’s nice to see my colleagues once again from ISM. They almost seem foreign, detach from the outside with their wallets dwarfing my mother’s financial assets. I like being around their kind. Their breeding may be different from mine, but my English proficiency camouflages my shortcomings. Conversations ranging from Prada’s latest seasonal collection to Yunhee’s brand new Porches allow only nods of agreement and the occasional smudges of knowledge I absorbed reading GQ. Absent are the issues on the urban poor and our dwindling middle class often discussed by their established relatives, guiltless in their unlimited pool of excess and extravagance. The gasps and giggles drown amidst the loud bass and rounds of drinks, trembling my eardrums and stomach. It’s time to call it a night, this atmosphere is too stifling for my meager tastes.

The door opens, the fresh air of diesel fumes and drunken piss suffocate my lungs. Even in the most posh of locations, the stench of third world poverty and politics remains. It’s unusually cold tonight, without a current of breeze. I dig into my pocket, pulling out wads of cash, crippled and stained with its lowest denomination in the four figures, those frugal cabdrivers are too stingy and conniving to offer me a large amount of smaller ones for such a short drive.

The outskirts beyond Makati’s concentration of wealth seem so condensed and packed with vendors, pedestrians, and myself wandering aimlessly. My stomach grumbles, empty, and I still need change. I settle for fine dining at a rundown eatery nearby, situating myself across a nestled group of college students, still in uniforms, drinking with delight. Slurping my congee without care, I look on with curiosity at their cheerful display. A dangling bulb overhead swings back and forth, offering glimpses of genuine interaction in between, its dim lighting enough to capture their joys and intimacy. I pay my bill, ready to leave until one of them stop me, aware of my disheveled state. I accept their offer.

It’s getting late, the streets empty of traffic, and I’ve never ridden pillion before. The motor sputters then roars, ripping through with exhilarating energy, down Malate’s dense placements of bars and whore houses, glowing with flashes of neon saturating the darkness, passing between Jose Rizal’s legacy and the bay’s pristine beauty, endless in its distance, gleaming against the fading moonlight.

I hold on tightly, such fleeting moments can only last so long. I urge the driver to hasten as hues of blues loom over the horizon, chasing us down to the ends of reality. The sun may eventually catch us, its glaring spotlight exploiting the humiliation protruding from the cesspits and landfills once again. We may never recover from the failures of our past generations, never contract the economic disparity that separates my two worlds, but right now, all I can see are traces of our history sparkling in momentary lapses of boastful pride. My arms envelop the warmth of a stranger’s generosity, beneath the somber tranquility of Manila, this is the city I fell in love with.