Eternal Hourglass Trickling

"In the trickle of time’s eternal hourglass, in this little existence of mine, something must have even a smidgen of significance, something else must be worth trying."

Writing requires a strong heart? The writer must be able to withstand the extremities of emotion, to have prudence from being consumed by the fires of one’s own passion, to bear emptiness and fill it up. To turn the must frail gesture into the most pompous event, and the most pompous event into a frail gesture. To take nothingness, to take Being, blend it and put into paper. It takes a strong heart to be a writer, instead of the merely written about.
Instead of just being a big writer-wannabe.

Where did my writer’s voice go? Has it drowned it the drone of Makati’s early morning traffic? Suppressed by the small squabble or the vicarious venting of irate customers? Did my voice die and resurrected into a --- beautiful buzzing bee? The simplest explanation turns out be the right one: Ockham’s Razor. I am suspicious about that and think that this medieval philosophical principle is obsolete, if not terrifically false. Nowadays, it would have been more likely to adhere to a principle such as: the stupidest explanation turns out to be the best one. This is what we tend to believe. Like, the earth was formed out of this big fucking bang. God created the universe in seven days. Jesus Christ is an alien. Human beings came from monkeys. Like, the Truth is a great loneliness.
I think it was Einstein who said, “There only two things infinite --- the Universe and human stupidity… I’m not sure about the former.”

“I’ve given up on being brilliant.” I forgot who said that. Or perhaps I’ve quoted it too often that I forgot it was I, like reverse pumping ego or labelling theory.

With all this fuss about my sky-rocketing blood pressure and having an impending heart attack, I had to eat healthy. And I began running again. Running to have a little less paranoia. (I have discovered that running not only relieves you, but also effectively reduces your fear of anything. This must be scientific.) I ate less, and am grateful for my Ops Manager’s concern. She slated me on dedicated e-mail that made my work not much of a drag. Although required visits to the doctor, and buying expensive medicine actually is a real nuisance. I barely even drink anymore. I smoke 2-4 cigarettes a day.
Life is a series of compromises.

It was my self-love, my excessive indulgence, which weakened my heart.

And why have I not imparted my love? Is something noticeably lacking in my life? I can’t prevent myself from asking silly questions. And I am tired of sophisticated rationalizations, or yielding into self-pity. The answer is simply because this perfect-idea girl of mine has not miraculously popped up from the world of ideas and assume perfect human form to amuse me with her witticisms, be insanely in love with me, my groins, my ankles, and be all that I want her to be. Now, that’s something ultra-hyperbolic. The more obvious truth is that I even though I start regularly meeting up with someone, love chooses to conveniently lurk in a limbo. So I am blissfully alone: loving myself, loving myself too much, and that pretty little figment of my vivid imagination. I’ve sporadically asked myself why I’m alone, but I never complained. In a moment of weakness, I would jump at the chance on anyone who would spread her legs apart. How difficult it is to even fall in love --- to revel in something that is rat’s ass stupid.

Meanwhile, my aloneness steadies.

My aloneness is an oxymoron: it is preferred-adapted.

Success is merely a stubborn insistence.

I’m beginning to collect enough determination to quit my job very soon, maybe sometime around summer. Maybe after (1) saving for a little investment in case I’m bumming for a month or two or three (2) another trip to the beach. Or maybe I should add (3) after tempestuous, multiple-orgasmic sexual intercourse with a dashing officemate while in the office. Right.
When I took this job I promised myself that my maximum length of stay with the company would be two years --- and that is if I get to enjoy what I’m doing. I think the estimates were too rough. It’s been one year and six months, and statistics would say that I actually enjoy myself only 11% of the time while I’m in the office and absolutely enjoy myself 89% of the time when I’m not in the office. I’m closing the time of my life to learn to laugh at the risks I’m going to take, and learn to humble down when it is life’s turn to laugh back at me. This must be a way to allow living to open to my being. I’ve enjoyed mentally drafting my resignation letter. I’ve hatched a few interesting plans, about what to do after resigning, or while being in the torturous, indeterminate state in between jobs. One of them, of course, is to find out what it’s like to have other jobs.
While working on my resume I had to describe what my work consists of:

My work consists of providing comprehensive and quality customer service. It has been my task to efficiently and effectively resolve customer service issues while multi-tasking across multiple channels and capably utilizing technology tools and business systems. These generally outlined duties and responsibilities are performed meeting all client-imposed service levels, with a customer-friendly yet highly professional quality of work that is constantly monitored and assured. This type of work not only requires in-depth client-based knowledge needed to help its customers, but also demands that the representative make sound judgment calls in implementing business policies and decisions, and promote a lasting customer relationship. Given continuous and extensive training on business policies, business tools, and business strategies to handle client-specific needs, (particularly in Internet-based travel service, domain registration, hosting and other website services,) and the skill it thus yields, this work experience earns one an excellent customer service background.

Or what my work may really consist of is:

My work consists of kissing the customer’s ass. A lot of American dotcom companies outsource their customer service department since they see it as a mere necessary evil. They can take advantage of cheap Philippine labor, and cut down on costs. The irony is that the reps in this country are smarter, friendlier, more committed, bred in the best Philippine schools. They are talented, but they compromised to sell their soul to capitalism, intelligent but more interested in having the higher middle class lifestyle, more than willing to kiss customer ass for dough. The companies probably would only have to shed out half as much for these reps. While we try to genuinely help customers, we mostly endure their vicarious venting, bear the burden of their disgust, then muster up excuses, spout our spills and stress ourselves out on a 24x7 basis. Globalization, American Imperialism brought to you by Voice Over Internet Protocol. The land of milk and honey comes to you. They pay the new grads relatively better wages than most companies would, we get sick (physically or figuratively) but also get good health benefits, and the Americans chip off a lot of cost off their shoulders. What this experience thus yields: another newly grad who took on the job discovers how this world really works.

In the trickle of time’s eternal hourglass, in this little existence of mine, something must have even a smidgen of significance, something else must be worth trying.

“Against boredom the gods themselves fight in vain.” – Nietzsche. I haven’t told this to myself in a long time. Maybe, I’m just bored.

How did the rest of your life begin today? The night at work becomes less and less tedious and the least bit stressful since I’ve been slated on dedicated e-mail. Moreover, my stats are impeccable on the performance metrics this month. A perfect 100% for QA sessions for three consecutive weeks, and I’m meeting the prescribed average speed of answer more than 150% above standard. I don’t know long this will last, but with this work I do not feel like Atlas bearing the weight of the world.
I know that going back to the voice channel will be like paying a great penance.
After work I turn on auto-sleep mode in the bus after taking a walk to the loading zone. The January mornings have been chilling. Upon arriving, I eat a light breakfast and take the car to CCP. I’ve been running with increased speed and endurance. I catch my breath while walking around the film center, in the shade of these tall magnificent pebble pillars, and maybe even in the presence of the infamous phantoms of construction workers who built this beautiful edifice by the sea. On one side, the buildings of Makati are clouded with smog. Buildings that has eaten up so many lives.
Compared to other hobbies or sports, the great thing about running is that it’s very basic. All you have to do is run. In it’s basic form, you don’t have to devise sports techniques, coaching analysis, consider team work or any requited concentration. You can let your mind sink deep in thought. Right after running I treat myself to a currant-flavored sparkling water at the Figaro. I enjoy the jazz music that pipes in, and the view of the trees dancing with the wind, behind the window blinds.
On some occasions after work, I wait for the movies to open and have myself one of those chicken popcorns or Baskin Robbins ice cream while watching. Seen on film, The Lord of the Rings is a slightly easier version of something like Homer, Ovid or Iliad. It seems, however, to be something made specifically for blockbuster cinema, a little bit more idiotic in execution, but heavily fancied up with eye-popping special effects. I’m really glad though, that some theaters in Robinsons already have neck rests, cup holders and THX surround sounds, and you only have to pay half as much compared to seeing it Glorietta or G3. And then I’d stay at the mall to get decaffeinated coffee and maybe some sweets, while eying pretty ladies of all ages.
Or after work I listen to my records. I haven’t gotten over MOS Chillout annual 2002, and surprisingly enough, Rivermaya’s live and acoustic is an excellent local find. I also put this compilation of songs from high school, most of which I downloaded from the net on a nostalgia trip. And of course there’s Jazz.
Or after work I read a little and write my journal. When I read the first story on Ian McEwan’s “First Love, Last Rites,” I already decided on getting another book from him. The first story reminded me a lot of Jeff Noon’s “The Cabinet of the Night Unlocked.” Only, I think McEwan’s seems to have mastered that dispassionate tone of delivering themes that passionately. He powerfully produces a familiar estrangement and fascination. You can see all the elements of the story, and each gesture work towards that strong, surprising ending.
And then I sleep it off rid of those disturbing dreams since less distress is due to me.
How did the rest of your life begin today? The rest of my life is beginning to start off better everyday.

December 2002

In the meantime, my life floats aimlessly. Like fallen, dry leaves led to a dance by the wind.

Day after Christmas 2002. Sometime this week I called for fever and I was figuratively sick of work. The next day when I tried to get my medical clearance, the doctor informed me that my blood pressure is shooting up to 160/110. She prescribed some medicine. With such high blood pressure at age 21, I was alarmed by my deteriorating health.
I’m a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.
I can imagine how the arteries and valves of my heart are clogged with cholesterol, animal fat from all that bacon, all in all forming human rust in my heart.
Stirred both by what was happening to my body and my attitude towards life, my subconscious began to feed me strange and unpleasant dreams. Until now though, I have not deciphered what the message is. One day I had a dream of finding a live pig when I opened the bathroom door. One day I dreamt of an airplane crash. From flying above the clouds, the plane tried to decrease altitude. In the extraordinary geography of dreams, the space between the clouds and the water disappeared, or that space has also been covered in clouds. Thus, when the plane moved down vertically, it plopped straight into the water. One day I dreamt that an epidemic hit the city. Many people were half naked, and everyone coughed out in pools and puddles of blood. I was on my way to the hospital. One day I had a dream about a train derailing. I dreamt that a short train ride was constructed, like a train shuttle service, from Ayala Avenue to Greenbelt. I was in the train together with some friends and family. Some angry workers led it off track to an under-construction part of the rail. The train fell. Everyone in the train died, except I. I had a magical ability to defy gravity. I found myself crying hysterically in my mother’s shoulders. Last night, I had a dream about playing soccer again. I scored five goals. The word “Talent” kept appearing in that dream.
My dreams, and my failing health, agitate me awfully. I feel that I am paying the consequences of my over indulgence for food at those pricey restaurants and at fast food chains. I could say that I even minimized drinking during the last two months --- but the bottle is most probably --- also a culprit. My work, of course --- is always a great deal of stress.
My ever tautological issue thus strikes again. The issue of whether I should resign or not, or to regret or not to regret later on, never comes with a smooth and sleek answer. Say I resign. I still wouldn’t know what I want out of life anyway. Say I don’t resign. Can I even continue to live my life this way? This issue never seems to run out of steam. The more I delay a decision with finality, the less I’m likely to arrive with a better answer.
In the meantime, my life floats aimlessly. Like fallen, dry leaves led to a dance by the wind. In this season of supposed merry, this has been a sickening, sad dance.

Somewhere in Italy, scientists have discovered a unique gene in the DNA map of a family. The Italian diet includes a high amount of cholesterol. This family apparently developed a gene that allows them to have a higher than usual quantity of cholesterol without risking heart disease.
How I’d love to have this gene. We do evolve after all.

Despite all of this I'd like to believe that life's all right. It’s December --- and happiness is almost a given. I continue to dwell on my self-indulgent pleasures, although I minimized the more heart-ailment-prone ones. In this “season of conspicuous consumption,” (as it was so accurately termed in of the Jeanette Winterson books) I spent some dough for presents. I also got myself some simple gifts such as pirated DVDs that you can illegally acquire in Harrison Plaza. They are: Dead Poet’s Society, American History X, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, and Madame Butterfly. I was also able to spend Christmas with my family this year, and got a few more days off after Christmas. I treated myself to a massage treatment, and read a couple of books. The best Chillout CD buy I got this month was Ministry of Sound’s Chillout Annual 2002.
It’s even surprising how some officemates bothered to give me gifts. Thoughtfulness is as rare as interesting women to date.

This year’s Christmas greeting goes (from Jessica Zafra): “In a season packed with fake plastic trees, Styrofoam snow and false cheer, I hope you find something real.”
Something real, eh?
And what is my reality?

I’m twenty-one. When I was thirteen, until I was around nineteen, my greatest fear was to become mediocre. Now, I’m even afraid to quit my job and step into a more meaningful pursuit.
“Oh to struggle against great odds. To meet enemies undaunted.”
As matter if fact, I have the faintest clue of what a meaningful pursuit is, or where to find even a smidgen of significance in life. I just slack around a lot.
“To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports.”
I once proclaimed to have had my truth, my beauty. I embraced the determining finality of Nothingness, and seem to have understood what it all meant at that time. Now, I cannot get to convince myself to even believe anything. I just drift, go on living, unknowing of what I want out of life.
“Oh I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave.”
Often, I’m afraid, or just mere lazy, or lethargic… to do anything.
“To mount the scaffolds. To advance the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance.“
Sometimes, I am shallowly happy.
“To dance, clap hands, exalt, shout, skip, roll on, float on.”
I thought I had something, a verse to contribute. Nowadays, I’m having a hard time to get fresh ideas for my journal.
“Oh to have life, henceforth the poem of new joys.”
I am mostly alone. However, I seemed to have had the “perfect idea” that God (both of which is highly likely not to exist) would’ve been jealous of. What a fucking consolation.
“To indeed be a god.”

November 2002

The character talks to a dog destined to be a Christmas present and tells it, “You’ve got to have a dream.” She tells herself, “I don’t know what I want. I’m just drifting.”

As though it were something pathological, I’ve been having a mounting compulsion to document everything. It would have been much easier if I subscribed to the idea of eternal recurrence, and relived my life, to the detail.

How can one run out of words you are trying to document something such as fascination or happiness? One can only dig deep into that wellspring.

Right after watching a TP play in CCP, I went home and had dinner. I spent the night watching Pulp Fiction while having a few beers. Quentin Tarantino’s craft is so original. All the gruesome violence in that non-linear form of storytelling. The script, or the conversational dialogue of the film, came out naturally with its easy, yet intelligent, funny conversations with a lot of fuck, motherfuckers and fuck yous on the lines. It’s like Douglas Coupland on drugs and made violent. The film’s plot and its events, from a wannabe writer’s point of view, was something I myself may never have thought of. It’s worth a million praises. Only a Quentin Tarantino could have pulled up a feat like that.


A Midweek Interlude. I just had two days of easy, dedicated e-mail days at work. Upon arriving home I read a little of Jeanette Winterson, listen to my CD’s, and get the full relief of an eight to nine hours sleep. After work today, I walked with one of my officemates to Glorietta. We went to bookstores and that part of G4 for home furnishings, candle shops, and then to Tower Records. The best part of my day was getting good Jazz find --- a compilation with 2 titles from Thelonious Monk, 2 from Miles Davis, a song from Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker and some others. Since more and more coffee shops began increasing in number, as though they were algae on trees, more people have been widely interested in this music. It’s not mainstream but it became more commonplace. The advantage is that the music becomes more available on the market. A Philippine record company released this one, together with a local coffee shop --- Figaro. All these artists in one good compilation for the glorious bargain of 250 pesos, with good packaging and a coupon free upsize on any selected drink at Figaro. That’s how we market Jazz in this country. I can probably get a pirated copy later on, but I can’t wait. I just might buy the other ones in the collection in pirated versions.
We had lunch at Italiannis. I was pretty stuffed. And now I read some more, have coffee and listen to jazz and no matter how brief the sleep would be for work tonight, no matter how few the money in the bank I have left, nothing beats the feeling of almost having everything you fucking want.
Look at the now and you can throw your dreams away.

“This is it!” sounds so much better now.

After almost eighteen months of walking around the vicinity of Valero, I finally found the doughnut place in front of Philam Life Tower’s Valero side. Like discovering the shroud of Turin. I may occasionally grow weary of life, but I will never be weary of Croissants for breakfast. As though it were Holy Communion, croissants make my life less wearisome.

Perhaps it’s just me, or how I read it, my own eye that spots the element of human alienation in Jeanette Winterson’s chracters. I read (while having a beer or two) most of the stories upon arriving home from a rather alienating occupation. I’m slanting towards relating to the alienated characters of The Green Man, The Green Square, Disappearance I, or O Brien’s first Christmas. Winterson is sometimes like Camus made more dreamlike, more boldly playful with her worldly, other worldly and mythological images. Sometimes the stories or events that take place wherefrom, aside from being fascinating, are just plain disturbing --- which in my measure is therefore good.
“Orion” proves to be the best project for feminist reading, and would best demonstrate her ingenious storytelling. I once thought of making up my stories using, or alluding to the Greek gods.
Her imagery and ideas are just fascinating: from pasta machines, cities where it’s illegal to sleep, to islands where coals are more valuable than diamonds, tortoises named after books of the bible, to families who jointly dream up of traveling the world in model aero planes. The images in the stories are of course, suggestive ideas which comes from the title, “The World and Other Places.” You start to wonder where she draws up these kinds of images, these plots for stories, and deposit them in this seemingly mesmerizing language to delicately and carefully form the fullness of an excellent, entrancing story. That kind of storytelling is something that I want to imitate. But I never tried to. If I did, I’m bound to fail. How could one ever dig up from the facet to the very depths of vivid imagination, like having your own divine system of creation, weaving each fabric of your character’s fate --- write stories, and make it so seemingly easy?
However, some of these stories require a more intensive scrutiny in order to appreciate her literary genius, e.g., The Poetics of Sex. It’s a profoundly interesting read, but I can’t say I understand it. That’s something that requires secondary readings and discussions in class.
The Christmas story had the mushiest ending. The character talks to a dog destined to be a Christmas present and tells it, “You’ve got to have a dream.” She tells herself, “I don’t know what I want. I’m just drifting.” I sniff my tears back.
I like the “Green Square” best, since it’s the one the affected me the most. The phrase “Green Square” is endowed with a whole new meaning right after your read it. I realized how so few of the squares in the calendar are marked as special occasions.
I also especially enjoyed “Disapperance” because the premise of the story was so clever yet simple and elegantly executed in a story. Marquez or even Lightman already brought up the idea of a sleepless city in their novels, but this one cultivated it.
Tired from work, I let the dreams come, and slept so well after reading that, already looking forward to ending work and begin reading again.

October 2002

I belong to a generation who sleeps in the morning.

My fountain pen is lonely. It seeks both a partner and a substitute. I will take one which looks exactly like the last fountain pen I sold. Tomorrow, they will be together and they will both be mine.

While it isn’t too bad. I’ve been complaining a lot for the past few months. Yes, work is wide pacific fucking ocean of stress. But it dawned on me, as it did before, and as it always does: perhaps things aren't that bad. So I started to take notice of what isn't. Little incidents that change the tide and propels me hopefully through:

Buying dinner for my family last Sunday at Banana leaf, and walking along with them in the new part of Greenbelt.

Watching the New York Philharmonic Orchestra at CCP with my high school friends. It’s amusing to see, once more, the glittering jewels of the lumpen fucking culturati that almost matched the sparkle of the crystal chandelier. And then drinks, and lots of laughs.

The postcards and the Berkeley shirt which H.'s pasalubong from the States, and burning for my copy of his Aimee Mann CD.

During my one of the four days-off this October: Watching a movie alone at Greenbelt, Wong Kar Wai’s “In the mood for love” and then watching a Jazz Band and drinking wine with ____'s friends at Monk’s Bar in Rockwell.

Helping out my parents whenever there’s some catering to do.

Getting a lot of good, Sunday night music from wherever my younger brother gets it.

Discovering the pleasure of my older brother’s favorite Starbucks drink which we usually on Sunday nights.

Sleeping at the PVP bus on the way home.

Reading, writing in my room: which is all I want it to be.

Whenever new hires are around in the office, I’m glad I’ve lasted this long.
Somewhat similar to the butler in “Remains of the Day,” I look forward to work with a certain motivation: to feast my eyes with the pretty women in the office. But I also don’t have much complacency is considering them as prospective long time partners. I saw some pretty interesting ones who carry something like a copy of Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco. What else is there to say? As I always said, many people in the office are closet intellectuals who no longer have room to channel that sort of wisdom, occupied as they are with more mundane concerns for a better customer-serviced US of America.

Drinking Pale Pilsen with D.N. and A.V. in front of the store at two in the afternoon.

Walking along Valero St. at five in the morning.

Finally, going to Boracay next week with expectations of just being able to enjoy and take it easy for a while. At least, I had a plan that materialized. Another desire fulfilled. Someday, there will be time to demand more out of life.


I’m tired now. I saw one of my classmates this morning, and she’s working at a call center near our office. My office has an office in their building as well. I have two blockmates whom I work with in the same vertical. I think 60% of our employees went to La Salle also, and most of us have common friends or have probably met before, was the boyfriend or girlfriend of whoever, have been classmates before, I’ve met two of whom I made out before. Most of us all have the same jobs now. It’ a generation with a low profile, but not exactly a superlatively easy job with a relatively higher income, and on a graveyard shift. A working class who feels none of, or have forgotten all about imperialist exploitation.

I belong to a generation who sleeps in the morning.


Why, life continues to be kind to me! Work’s trend came to a very relaxed stance even if I only had four hours of sleep in the past fourty hours. It’s been a full week without a single irate caller, which has then turned having some laughs with my officemates, and actually enjoying work. Right after work this week I literally rewarded myself. I took the car on a Saturday afternoon, went to PowerBooks and bought myself an Ian McEwan. I took a peek at a few more titles, and prospecting the women peeking at the titles.

On Saturday night, I felt thankful for my brother’s concern for the stress I’ve been encountering, together with his own mounting impulse - I suppose. Along with another cousin, we went to a place called Miss Universal. We marveled at the finer results of billions and billions of years of human evolution in this universe. It was Miss Universal. And compared to the audience in "Coyote" bars, since this crowd watches in a gentlemanly fashion as the beauty of the universe unfolds before the eyes. I got a good massage, a lot of prawns from Gambas, and a really good drink.

The next day I got one of those board shorts in Greenhills. On Sunday night, I watched Amelie again, this time in a pirated DVD copy that showed exceedingly good quality.

As each detail in the film Amelie is fascinating and beautiful, I feel that so is my life this very second. Amazingly enough, Monday morning is the only time I’ve been able to get some good sleep. I feel some part of me refuses to shut down.

I feel that sad part of me sleep inside, lying dormant, like something awaiting extinction. Why wallow in sadness when there is not a hint of sadness to console.

From my window, with the glow of lamps I just watched the sky transform again, as I listen to Aimee Mann, the Salinas Sessions then Moby and Chicane.

I look around the room and I’m pleased with what I see and what I can look forward to: more reads, thoughts to ponder, smells to smell and the one of the best places in the world to be in --- in Boracay with my happy solitude. I’ll be taking an island to such an island.

Why, have I pondered happiness and felt it.

September 2002

I simply grew woozy about the existential dilemma, like having so much cheese, or so much chocolate. Now I have nothing to explain my plight in life.

Leaving. L___ is leaving for the States to study photography. Unlike me, there had always been a deep boldness in her to pursue her passions, embrace life or maybe take semi-calculated risks.
She gathered many of her friends the night before she left. It was at the newly reopened Penguin, and a great Jazz band played that night. Genuine Jazz.
Half the crowd were L__’s friends, half of it artists from CCP (I recognize some of them from Tanghalang Pilipino, from my ushering days, although they would have no idea whom I was). It made the crowd more interesting with all the artsy women in their artsy clothing. There were smartly-dressed good-looking guys who were old and gay. It was the best crowd I’ve seen in months, and the best party I attended in a long time. A lot of philosophy majors, lit majors, DLSU mountaineers, and a lot of people from Madison came to the place. Everybody grew up a little, and lot of them grew prettier and dressed better. The cosmetics they applied looked more expensive. Or maybe my tastes have changed. A lot of them launched off their careers as editors or writers in magazines, Law school students, MA students in Philosophy or Music, Call Center Reps, or what not. One or two got married. I remember getting lucky with one of them. Many of them were just the types you’ve always dreamed of: very clever, pretty, excellent taste in everything, passionate, and most importantly: you can’t have them. Maybe the hype lessens when you put them under the microscope.
Aside from getting all boozed and listening to the music, I got a chance to talk to____ about getting an MA in Philosophy.
After the party, the people just drifted away. Who can tell when life will be kind enough to have us, or ever meet and gather up again? I’m eternally glad I wasn't at work tonight. Beautiful comets rarely land on earth.

Restating a redundancy. Why did I have to learn of, experience, reason with, and eventually get over the phenomena of existential angst at so early a time in my life? Although I never really resolved it (it was merely a matter of getting over,) I simply grew woozy about the existential dilemma, like having so much cheese, or so much chocolate.
Now I have nothing to explain my plight in life. The only other issue I could take up with myself is how excruciating work is, especially recently. I don’t occupy myself with matters such as romance or related trivialities, politics or society.
Here I am with my redundant, my tautological issue. Whenever I think about quitting work, I think about what I might lose. I have to take a lot of crap from our customers and even some co-workers, fuck them all. But then I may also lose on the lifestyle I’ve been sustaining. For the past three hours, I’ve been just able to live with the kind of pleasures that I want to reap: reading Kundera, in the coziness of the room, watching the late afternoon sky’s nimbus clouds liquefy into hues of orange and purple as if it was deliberately brushed and stroked by a painter’s skilled hands. I listen to a fitting set of Chillout, while big, fat drops of rain chant outside with the chorale of passing cars.
Is it my job that positions my life in this reciprocal arrangement? Perhaps heavy stress and high intensity is required to be able to take it easy.
What was the last real risk I’ve taken? None.
I resolved that I at least have to stay in this job until December. But I have filed most of my remaining vacation leaves which has left me with almost a week’s vacation each month. I resolved to just take it easy at work, not minding my metrics too much. Maybe I’ve taken it too easy, and I’m foreseeing my warnings.
As a result, I’m able to take it even easier when go home. It was Sunday morning yesterday, and I was able to go running again at CCP yesterday. I took a warm shower right after, some good coffee, reading the papers with the excellent editorials of Today, and then new book by Jessica Zafra again in the relieving sanctuary that is my room. Sunday night at work was relatively relaxed, though I had to encounter a grueling one and a half hour call with the usual, vicarious venting of a customer. And then it’s home again. I had a monster breakfast out. I saw most of the shows in the Juice channel and it amuses me a lot. It’s addictive. It showcases modern urban living in a candy-coated reality. Nothing ghastly ever happens in that channel, or if ever there was, it has already been dissipated. Most of the features are about fetishes, on fashion, beautiful spaces, good living, good health, vacations, trendy recreations, with very interesting advertisements in between, and drop-dead charming hosts. It helps to have a dose of those. It helps to be happily ignorant of harsher realities. Right after, I had a serving of some pornography and even got to see a video on the newly acquired DVD player. I’m not fond of suspense thrillers and with my weakening constitution; my heart jumps and began to wonder how strong this coffee is.
And then I woke up, to my last day this week, anticipating my days off. I woke early enough to see the 70’s show and Frasier tonight. I figured, this at least, should be rewarding enough.

Indulgence. I wanted to feel I had friends. – Bargo with D.N., M&L, and then Café Adriatico with ___…. Eiga Sai afternoon and then dinner with J.K. and his friend at Don Henricos. Saturday Morning: North Park with officemates… M.'s birthday bash at CPK and then a few drinks at Malate during Saturday night.
Tuesday Night: W___'s birthday at his place, then Café Adriatico again with ___.

Without regard to being superfluous, I feel the need to register this profound sense of fulfillment during my days off. It comes along so effortlessly, for the fact that there is no work tonight. I decided not to go out on the night of my day off. I spent the night alone in the room, where everywhere I turn to is pleasing to the eye. The Ministry of Sound and Real Sound of Ibiza CD sets a relaxed, perceptive mood. Jessica Zafra is an easy read. She speaks of reality with a mildly angst-ridden, but tasteful, and truly intelligent voice. The language is rich and her voice is distinct enough to stand on its own. It thus produces a genuinely insightful, well crafted and humorous read that never fails to turn against and put up a fight against all that is phony and maintain strong contempt for all that is moronic. There was a time when I though she no longer had anything left to say. Now, I just envy the life she lives. Except for my job, I love my life to the little-lest detail, especially nights like this. The sky is enveloped with this blank mantle, the city sleeps, the streets and lighted with pink and orange halogen lights. I lay ever comfortably in a room which brings me so much relief. I’ll be watching some DVD’s in a while, and maybe get some take out when my stomach starts to grumble.

Am I inventing my difficulties? I make my fulfillment with the moment fluctuate as often and as quickly as the flapping of butterfly wings. For here I am, exclaiming my complaints about my job again. I have seriously considered resigning, for maybe about 6,976 times now. I know that this kind of decision would momentarily give me a great sense of liberation. Momentarily, yes. But it builds no confidence for the future. I want to be immersed in new experiences in life, and I want to savor previous pleasures I have been missing. But I do not wish to regret later on, if my semi-calculated risks turn out to be enormous disasters. And then there’s the a long list of clichés to advise me:
my own cliché: Life is a brief pause in a bleak world.
Some people just shut the fuck up and work. Either they have found what they wanted out of life, or struggle to maintain what they already have: families, houses, girlfriends, cars. Some people simply don’t know what they want and let others tell them what to do so they shut themselves to work. Some of them have occasional sex, keep an apartment and a pet. Right now, I recite my litany of complaints about my job. I worry, I try to decide, foresee my possible regrets, foresee some momentary joy, hope for some meaning, and while I do this: life happens. Life happens, even if you didn’t have any plans.
For all I know, my life has already, rather so quickly, just flashed my eye and passed by.

The Dancing Zarathustra. The last schedule rotation blessed me with weekends off, beginning this Saturday night. A spontaneous blast of party mood coursed through my body. I took my brother along to where the ladies slightly younger than us flock and fall in line at the entrance.
Young women are eternally crazy about dancing, while young and old men are eternally grabbing the opportunities for chancing while dancing with women.
When you're there it just happens. You go home and you wonder why you have additional entries/digits in the phone book. She danced so well, I can never call her anymore especially when she saw me as the Dancing Zarathustra. Even ___ was restraining his hyseric laughter.
The disappointing end of the “The End of the Affair.” One Monday afternoon while more ordinary people are working to make a living, I lie in my room watching DVDs. The End of the Affiar is just the type of movie that suits afternoons such as this. The moving, melancholy musical score, the delicate movement, even the color, setting and screen play fits well with mood I set.
Everything in this film is notable. The theme itself has a simple (almost conventional) storyline that was made rich with the complexity of the characters (matched with excellent casting), dramatically powerful setting and cunning storytelling.
I love the way it measures and equates love with jealousy. It raises jealousy to a higher platform, a kind of pedestal where jealousy turns into love. I have never thought of it as sensible. This is where I saw jealousy, hate, desire and betrayal as meaningful components which embraces love. This film seems to have demonstrated that. For a few seconds, I missed having that ilk of passion.
The script was remarkable, and since that DVD afforded my to read subtitles and allowed me to literally dissect the film, I noted a down a few good lines:

I am a jealous man.
I am jealous of this stocking.
Why? Because it does what I can’t. It kisses your whole leg.
And I am jealous of this button.
Poor innocent button It’s not innocent at all.
It’s with you all day and I’m not.
I suppose you are jealous of my shoes. Yes.
Why? Because they take you away from me.
I measured love by the extent of my jealousy.
And as my jealousy was infinite,
Anyone who loves is jealous
My love should have been infinite too.

Everything was notable except perhaps for the ending, where the protagonist falls into self-pity and surrender to a belief in God. I don’t really give a fuck if the film aims to divulge a proof of God’s presence through a story of sexual jealousy, infidelity and desire, but I see it as a kind of Deus Ex Machina where God intervenes to make himself triumph.
Despite the disappointing ending, I’d say this afternoon was nothing but terrific, as terrific as the many afternoons I had before. The sort of thing I live for. It’s amazing how the coffee I myself make nurtures the spirit, how something as given and available as the weather: occasional drizzles and the murky clouds --- gives me glee. I opened the room’s window to let some light in, while a playing a freshly burned CD compilation of film themes. I had a terrific weekend, and this is the icing to the cake. I don’t think I’d even bother to sleep.
All’s wonderful, for now. And I think of it all: the films that I see, the music I hear, the reads that I read, the walks that I walk, the weight that I carry, the lightness that falls on me now, and yes, the loves I had, the love I lost, and even the love that I do not have.

August 2002

My brother had all of a sudden developed an eager and expensive enthusiasm on sleeping well and living well. He decided on fixing up the room upstairs and connived with me. So much for my salary disspating concerns and the cause and costs of consumerism. He took so much effort and spent so much as well, that most of what I had to do was reap its results, sleep comfortably and pay for some of the stuff. It surely paid off well for the comfort, the smell, solace, the good sleep and the new spirit of the place. Just last month I mentioned that “there should be some income draining at the mall and some faithful upholding of consumerism.” It may be hysteric and unnecessary, but i can also be very pleasant.

___, who is in Sacramento right now is getting married in September. Together with some other high school friends at ______, we met up at his old house in Sampaloc. His uncle made a video footage for best wishes. H. will be going to the US for a 3 month long research, and will be able to surprise Mark on his wedding. H. treated us dinner at Ongpin. We went to this place called Estero. The prices were more reasonable and the food was at the caliber of more expensive Chinese restaurants. After that, we had a drink in Malate, inside New York Café where I once again noticed what seemed like an antique GE electric fan. What I enjoyed the most for the night and was quite vocal about, was the perpetual pleasure my friends give me. It’s good to see that we all get by, and everyone’s still interesting. I’m most glad for their company, and for having a bunch of them who will be willing to stick around.

I’ve been working for over a year now, and there several occasions when I felt happy and looked forward to work. The past several weeks, getting a positive outlook towards work becomes more and more difficult. That state of sedation has left and for some reason I have to admit no matter how gravely, that I feel vulnerable now.
One cannot help to wonder how people pull their act together. My mother worked for the same company for twenty-six years. I’m starting to wonder how could I last one more year at work. I’m starting to wonder what I’d do next. I start worrying about the future again. I do not even know what I want, or what is worth it.
All I want to be is a librarian. Something like that.
But I guess we don’t always end up doing what we want, just the things we’ve got to do, and maybe sometimes what we really want to do, if we muster enough strength.
“We are not here to be happy.”
Whatever happened to simple joys?
“If you are willing to have one joy, you must be willing to have a thousand pains.”
My ten minutes are up, and I have to take a shower. This feeling only lasts around 2 hours, and then 9 hours of work, a few minutes of commute, and the rest of the day trying not to think about it. And maybe I shouldn’t really worry.
Things may look different in the morning.

The next morning. Since 8AM I have thought of nothing but being absent for work tonight. Or maybe even since 10PM last night. The night was unexaggeratedly difficult, given my frame of mind. My metrics were at its most terrible. I attracted half the supervisory calls in a random queue. It’s the scene in a movie where you’re suspended on a twenty feet high wire, about to damn fucking find out about gravity.
How long has it been since I’ve last screwed up? I haven’t felt this fucking anxious since I flunked trigonometry in the first quarter of third year high school. Only a Cather In the Rye could have saved me.
I have not the strength to iron out the mess I’m currently having with work, neither to overcome my fear of losing the job to launch myself out there and see what the world has to offer. I have not the passion to squander my soul. I have confined myself in what used to be a coven of complacency now The only way to go about the screwed up psychology of working is to simply ignore it and watch TV or something. Adapt to artificial happiness and say farewell to long forgotten passions.
The final ritual is to stare at the mirror, and wipe the indifference of your face. Conjure the feeling of sedation and even enthuse in saying and listening to yourself saying it, as if the deception is real. This is the best fucking job in the world.

Tuesday Night. I met up with M., supposedly to catch up on the Cinemanila at Greenbelt. Since there’s an hour interval between the time we arrived and the beginning of the movie, we decided to have a drink at NSG. It proved that drinking had always been some sort of point of no return. We ended up ordering more and more 25 oz draft beers, betting for the bill on billiards and having a four cheese pizza. I won the bet, of course, but paid for the pizza.
We headed to Malate afterwards to go to a coyote bar, which has quickly turned into a fad nowadays. Semi-decent performers who seem pretty enough (and non-prostitute enough) dance on ledge while the libido-crazy, crowd chants in all their testosterone, “take it off.” It was fun to see M. get drunk and publicly dance a little, which would be crossing the borders of our character. I remember having a similar experience in Libis with my brother and MM.
It’s always fun to see how men fall behind the lures of women, while men luring women seems to have been a lost art, a lost archetype.

Wednesday Night. I have been longing to see ___ ever since we got in touch again. She had bestowed a lot of insight, humor, sensibility and even a little sense of adventure in my life.
We met up at this new portion of Greenbelt to have coffee and crepes at Café Breton where they played a lot of Nina Simone and Frank Sinatra. Her friend ___ was also with us at that time. They both lived in Madison before. It’s good to be around someone who’s read the same books you did, listened to the same music, saw the same films, shared the same angst or lost the same passion. The first conversation is always the most refined.
After an hour or two of laughs, conversation, and regret for the past being a gladder experience than the present, L__ had to go because she had to meet up with her boyfriend.
___ and I decided to stay along and watch one of the films in Cinemanila. We took walks along the new Greenbelt. We saw a Japanese film, Kikujiro. It was so hilarious that I laughed like a hyena and almost had a heart attack because I laughed too hard. Having a child into the picture makes it real touchy. Like most Japanese films I saw, it’s touchy, but not nauseatingly touchy. This story and this comedy is so liberating that I felt like going on a road trip or laugh out loud on all the world’s gloominess. The plot is not complicated, and is actually something line one of those Filipino cheap flicks, only more clever and more well executed.
After watching the film we headed to Malate for a drink. Cafe Adriatico's a a classic. The heavy, wooden furniture which ridded the place of the phony interiors of new bars. It had a sense of history. It looked like an old Malate-house-turned-bar and has stood there to watch every other bar disappear. The place was filled with old photographs, oil on canvas paintings portraits by local artists, as well as (and what I loved the most) a drawing of the Illustrados. The Indios Bravos. A bunch of smart, coño (and occasionally horny) old boys who wrote well and revolutionized society.
That was around four thirty in the morning. A few tables away from us, an old man was seemingly seducing an expensive, flawless looking prostitute, conversing in Chinese. On another table near us, a pair of homosexuals flirted. Malate would’ve been cold at this time, the orange lights of the streets shining brightly as a supernova. I was drunk, and as my non-sober side goes, I probably talked a lot. She was inquisitive, and her voice was deep and husky.
It’s been a while since I had a long conversation. At 6am, we had breakfast at the Mcdo in La Salle and I gobbled, still drunk as I am, as if it were the last day of my life.

Sick leave on a Sunday and Monday night. After a long self-deliberation on whether this would be an irresponsible decision or not, I landed on the choice to consume two straight sick leaves. They say it is normally the tendency of employees to screw up a little after they get good appraisals.
This is my only chance to stay home, enjoy the room, have coffee and buttered toast and lounge around, read all night, and get some TV.
The return of the 70’s show and Frasier becoming daily, makes another major impact in my life.
After two days of staying at home, I went to the mall and went for a little impulsive shopping. Got a good buy off National Bookstore, “Eros Pinoy,” an anthology of contemporary Philippine art and poetry. Most of the good authors had something in there. The good thing about working and having money, is that you don’t get second thoughts spending your own hard-earned money off the things you’ve always fancied. Expensive Columbian coffee included in the list. Although I must admit that I’d really gotten used to the thicker Italian or French blend, or even that cheap yet classic Café Puro jade blend.
Sunday Morning. The night at work came to pass and I was able to get through it uncomplainingly. The sun glowed Sunday’s magnificence on the last day of August. I’m glimmering with gladness again.
It’s seven in the morning and there’s a bottleneck in Taft Avenue. 4,761 law graduates will be taking the bar exam. There are so many lawyers and there's even more lawlessness. Despite the increasing number of lawyers, there is a seeming scarcity on those who would actually defend against poverty and injustice. So many things are uneven.
Not that I myself had done anything about it. I rest my case.
It was a good thing I bought a copy of Today when I got off Buendia. It’s strange how something as regular as reading the papers had made me felt so alive this morning. I grew a bone of sensitivity about upholding my citizenship. Reading the editorial had suddenly awakened a long forgotten passion. I remember how I had such strong convictions on national issues, on doing what is honorable, or simply being principled. Reading that editorial on Filipinos in Sabah being deported and maltreated, seemed to have rebuilt from the rubble of failed idealism I had left in me. I was in the jeep and heart went into a quick pace and my eyes were starting to moisten out of pity to what happened to fellow citizens, and out of pity to what had become of me.
I sold out to the Americans. How many times have I rationalized myself on this account, to the point that I can unpretentiously admit that I’ve simply grown lethargic on the big ballyhoo of raising the banners of nationalism, especially in a time when America considers the Communist Party of the Philippines as a terrorist organization.
The world is a magic trick. This has been made known to some. Some choose to look the magician in the eye, others choose to be blinded by the trick and simply play along.
My industry makes a lot of money for the government and for American Coporations. It makes money for me as well, who willingly allowed myself to be enslaved by the strangling hands of imperialism masqueraded as globalization, with the internet as the new playfield.
Reading on Today, I relished each delicious word the writers wrote. There’s this article on the Weekender about the war against poverty. Like Today editorials, it was written with so much elegance, wit, with a touch of humor and keen irony. Most importantly, it was framed with a backbone of their respectable ideology. The language is ordinary, with heavy words once in a while. It also comes with metaphors that work to deliver a point more strikingly, and always with a sense of history.
The smell of the crisp morning paper, it’s lay out, the font of choice, makes it more encouraging to read. It gives its identity that that is distinguished, and I believe would appeal to one’s better taste. I saw this paper start back in second year high school and it has always been maintained with excellent standards. There are still people who write for an occupation, no matter how unattractive the monetary rewards are. Contrary to the cliché, there are writers who live by, and are fed by their idealism. They must live humbly yet so nobly, living up to the obligations of their prized nobility.
And I went home to the life I choose. Having a hefty breakfast, lunch at home with my family, running around a lot and playing with the kid. Since its Sunday, my family switched to the home improvement mode again. I write ramblings that I write for myself, while having strong Columbian blend of coffee I’ve always wanted to buy and try out, listening to the new, the new Coldplay album, and a compilation of a 6cd chillout album. This room is a sanctuary. I’ll get a few pages of Kundera, then off to slumberland, thankful that I can take it easy.