Monday, November 16, 2009
1245
I've already fought my wars
A slew of languages swirl around me. Japanese, Chinese, broken English. Occasionally I hear shouting. This environment is slowly destroying me, day by day. I cannot stop biting my nails. It's a habit I had since I was a child, I stopped a long time ago but when I am nervous or disturbed, it comes back. I try hard to control it. Bitten nails are an ugly sight, so I limit my biting to a few selected fingers, and force myself to stop once I'm done with my allowance.
#
Three nights ago, I met her again for the second time. I'm not sure if she remembers coming over to me and introducing herself when she saw me talking to her boyfriend a couple of years ago. I didn't want to shake her hand this time, so I waved instead and she offered me a forced smile. Does she remember? I cannot tell, for we both acted like it was our first time meeting each other.
#
I hate that we've both chosen silence. Is it because I subconsciously show my contempt and you know it? I cannot talk about this without crying. My eyes hurt, and it is easier that we both just lead our separate lives. It kills me when I catch glimpses of the person you used to be, I hardly know you anymore, and it kills me.
#
The good times: reading in bed, listening to music in bed, putting on your shirt for the walk to the pool, the play-wrestling. The bad: The tears that have never stopped.Empty tears.
#
I'm tired of longing, of waiting for your name to appear on my screen. So I'm making the decision to stop. Today. Right now.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
1113
Yesterday's Forgotten
My earliest memory of writing and enjoying it was when I was 11 or 12. We had to write stories about food and my teacher would submit it to be published in the children's column of the local newspaper. My story did not get published, they only mentioned my name and what my story was about. Was it too gory? Illegal? Because I wrote about seeing Grandpa hanging a snake high up in a tree branch, stripping it out of its skin, ripping out its innards (some to be kept, some discarded) and making soup out of its meat? I'll never know why they chose not to be publish it, and if it wasn't good enough at that time, it did not affect me much.
When I was 15 or 16, I had to write an essay about Dad. It was Father's Day and my job was to read it aloud in front of the church congregation. I wrote it, read it aloud while sniffling in front of everyone, and afterward, got many praises for it. I did not know what or how to feel, so when I got home, I crunched the paper and hid it. I don't remember where I hid it, and its words are lost to me today. I think I felt so much love (for Dad, for the love of writing) and contempt (I don't know why) for it, that my heart would be ripped if I looked at it again, so I hid it, never to be found again.
English was always my favourite subject. In college, we had to write short stories, and it was then when I really fell in love with writing. In the end of the course the tutor expressed surprise when she had to give me an A. Was I insulted that she undermined my ability? Don't know. But it was then that I knew that writing would be my career, that it was the only thing that I want to live for.
So I joined a publishing house, and for the longest time I was really happy just writing. Of course seeing my peers making more money than me hurt, but I did not care because I was doing what I love. My boss asked me one day "So is a career in publishing what you want?" And I said to him, "All I want to do is write." So I said no to promotions to become editor of some sort, because all I wanted to do was write.
Then, why did I leave the job? I felt like I was stuck, I couldn't survive on that salary alone, so many reasons come into play. In the end I was glad to leave it because I needed to move on and grow. That means compromising my first love and doing something in-between that wouldn't bring so much satisfaction, but....but what? But would pay more?
"I don't know you that well, but I don't think you'd be happy working in the corporate environment," he said. At that time I only wanted to prove him wrong, but he knows me better than I know myself.
So now, I know what I will be doing for the next six months, but nothing else beyond that. I'm getting too old to make career switches and since it is impossible for me to pack my bags and just leave, I'll just have to sit out the next six months and then figure it out for myself.
But I want to much to be that girl I was three years back, who just wanted to write and only write and didn't care about the money part.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
1039
When You Finish Me
Sadness envelops me. I don't know why, I've been resisting the urge to cry since last night. To beat this, I offered to buy a friend some birthday drinks, so we went out, and we talked and talked and talked. I love talking to friends. It almost always makes me feel less alone.
I come home and sleep eludes me. So here I am at work, with my earphones on, music with the volume on as loud as possible. The tears are almost here.
But what is it for? For the dreams that never came true? Is this all just self-pity?
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
2257
Starscapes
The girl who became a bride today. Getting married in a foreign country, with the only people she's familiar with being her new husband, her mother, father, and uncle. With girls she's never met before as her bridesmaids. How was it for her?
The girl who left her family to be with the man she loves. Her mother dead, her father in jail, her sister who needed her guidance, her aunt who wanted to understand her, but couldn't. Turns out, the man she loves is a useless jerk, but she cannot leave him. Not when she's developed an accent suited only for the place she's living in now, not when she has a three year old. How is it for her?
The guy who you thought meant everything to you. The one you allowed to drive your car, to smoke in it even if you didn't like it. The one who offered his hand to you while crossing the road, whose hand you did not hold in the end. His face, a blur now. How was it for him, for you?
The girl who cannot stop talking about herself. The guy who only remembers you when he is lonely. So you give, cause you care. But things remain the same. What are you to them?
It's all in the mind. Memories turn to mush, and they come back again, like new, again and again. Each time a better version than the previous one, till you feel good about yourself. Till you cannot differentiate fact from fiction.
Monday, October 12, 2009
1444
Foreground and background
The two boys next to me at the bar made me smile. I couldn't hear what they were saying over the loud music, but from their gestures, I could tell they were good friends, and that made me smile. How do people connect? Over the love of something? By loving each other? They looked different. One, the typical indie wearing a CYHSY shirt and the other, just in from work. He told me they were in a band, I asked what was the band called, and he said they didn't have a name. "We're just playing because of passion." We shake hands and he tells me his name. It reminds me of a dream I once had, about a boy whom I never met.
We dance on and off; on when the songs we love comes on, off when our least favourite DJ comes on. We sing out loud, jump, raise our hands in the air, do the jiggy. We get the thumbs up from strangers, we step on people's toes and apologise. I sing till my throat is sore, but I don't care and don't stop.
Text messages flow in. I don't really know how I feel, so I just say thank you. Just like that, I am a year older.
Afterwards, the place turns into one filled with leering men looking to get laid. They looked like they belonged more in a club in Ibiza. What has become of the night I couldn't get enough of?
The lights turn on, and we find a place to sit before the drive home. Were we even semi-drunk? I don't know. We talk about the music, we talk about our lives.
The next day, the club smells foul. The lights are dim. Things that used to excite me, does not excite me anymore, so we leave to get food and to go buy books.
At the book warehouse sale, I feel like I'm in heaven, and I don't even notice the heat. A surprise bump into a friend leaves me speechless and all I can manage is a 'hey'.
I think about: Missed connections. Crushes. Lust. Friends. Anger. Songs. What Is The What.
Just like that, I am a year older.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
0955
Songs for the broken hearted
Zen Habits tells me that there shouldn’t be the phrase “I don’t know” in my life. I should make decisions on where to eat if there’s a dinner plan, eventhough I am not that keen with the place I picked in the first place. Which I should do. My mind is always telling me, “There’s no such thing as I don’t know” and I need to always, always remember that.
#
It finally rained today, after many scorchingly hot days. I now work in an environment so completely different than what I am used to. The people speak a different language, websites like facebook and meebo are blocked, there is no music, no one wears jeans, and there are more girls than guys. I find myself out of my element everyday, out of my comfort zone. This might or might not be a good thing, I need more time to find out.
#
Things that I have been doing to get extra money: dogsitting, ironing, driving (a car), translating and transcribing.
#
We were sitting in front of the TV, and she was watching a Chinese drama while I barely paid attention. At times she’d explain what was going on, but again, I didn’t pay much attention. Then she said, “Look at that man, so trigger happy,” (it was a cop holding a gun). I was surprised. “What did you say?” She went on to explain that the cop liked to open fire whenever he pleased. “Trigger happy,” I repeated after her. “You surprise me sometimes.” She smirked and said, “Yea but it’s all goin down the drain from mixing with people like (insert name) who don’t speak proper English.”
#
At work both parties resort to speaking a language they aren’t comfortable with in order to communicate and understand each other. I’ve repeatedly used the few words I know, and have asked for a word’s meaning many times now. Only four people, including me, read the English paper. It feels strange, and two weeks later I’m still adjusting.
#
I look forward to my lunches now, whether its food brought from home or food that is bought.
#
After many days of being quiet, he smiled for the first time today. Then he laughed the next day. It was good hearing his laugh, amidst the gloom in the air. The fact that he said he’s come to accept his situation, so long as it did not hurt anymore. With each trip to the doctor’s bringing more bad news, it was good to hear his laughter again.
#
We were on a rooftop of a school, and it was on fire. No where to escape. A boy came to me and said if he catapulted me in a car, I might be able to survive. I was afraid, but thought, I’d die either way anyway. So I agreed. I sat in the car while he pushed it. “What’s your name?” I managed to shout to my lifesaver. “Arif,” he shouted back. I survived, and he greeted me downstairs. He saw my arm, the one that was broken before and now fixed with a screw. He showed me his, and also the arm of the guy standing next to him. “Hey you can join our club,” he said. I said ok. I met them in a coffee shop, and it was possible that we discussed some book or something. Then I was back in his room, with him. It was small, and dark. A bed, a floor lamp that emitted a warm orange glow, books everywhere, a lazy chair, a toilet. We took a shower. A few guys came in the room and played him a piece of music to get his approval. He told them to play it to me instead. (I can’t remember now what I thought of it). After they left, he wanted to take a nap. I said “Ok, just for 20 mins,” We laid on the carpet and I held him in my arms.
I woke up remembering the dream in detail, and it gave me a good feeling the entire day. That was over three weeks ago. Writing this down now, it just occurred to me that this dream might have just reflected part of my desires, my life, what I want. I won’t deny that I want someone to love, but wtf; why did I need to be rescued in the dream? Why did it have to be one of those (pseudo) intellectual guys?
I had vivid dreams the next two days, but Arif wasn’t in them anymore. One was about Dad, and the other was about babies.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
1243
Hard Times
The past few days have rendered me emotionally incapable of handling anything. I cry at the slightest things (a phone call with mom, in the movies, etc). (If) In my previous post I seemed self-assured, but I'm far from it right now. I didn't get the job as hoped, they decided they couldn't hire me because of money issues. Needless to say, I am (or, was) crushed, because I had more than a 50% chance of getting the job. The people around tell me I made the right decision, in refusing the little pay they offered me. Mom tells me to play it cool. My voice cracked when I told her about the job over the phone (I couldn't tell if she noticed this) and she told me to play it cool. Minutes later she calls me again and asks me if I ever thought of going back to school...
I've tried to write about this a few times now and it is proving to be difficult. My thoughts are jumbled, and I don't know where exactly to start. I jump between feeling angry and sad all the time because there's too much on my plate. I guess I'll just lay low for now, till things get better.
Friday, April 17, 2009
2123
Kingdom of Rust
Wow, has it been that long already? It didn't feel like it, because I didn't have the urge to write. 2009 came without a bang as I spent it back home with my parents. It's now April, and I'm in a state of frustration over my joblessness. To cut the long story short, a full-time job that was in my grasp since March is in limbo because I cannot seem to contact the person in charge. "It's like the company is running a front for something else," I laughed half-heartedly as I told a friend today.
So, today I attended an interview for a copywriting job with a company that owns several TV stations. Strange, when I was asked what books I read. Strange, because no one has really asked me that with genuine interest, and talked about authors with me. It was like a whole new world just opened up to me as I sat there, excited but overwhelmed as my interviewer told me about the job. The interview went ok, I came back with some print ads I need to do copies for, and will only know if I've gotten the job in two weeks.
I'm just writing all this down because I was always adamant about not doing copywriting. Looking at all the people at ad agencies, I guess part of me wasn't confident enough that I could come up with great ideas. I thought I could never fit in with said people. And I didn't want to sell my soul. har har.
I'm not as anxious over the two-week waiting period as I would have been six months ago. Not because I'm not excited about it, but because I think I've grown over these few months. When I whine about my not working, N would tell me "You're just taking time off to find yourself," with conviction that I didn't really believe. But yes, maybe I have gained a little bit of my self back. That, and learning so much about family, friendship, love, and patience. I'd like to think that I've grown to be less self-centered, even though I still have to remind myself not to be that everyday. And I'm learning how to treat myself better.
So till then, I will continue playing with the dog (we have a new puppy!), bake muesli bars, watch The Sopranos and Mad Men, read, and sit with Dad for his eye surgery next week.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
2227
Beginning and end
"What bring ah ma to heaven?" he asked me.
I didn't know how to answer because while he went to Sunday School, his parents believed in a different religion. So I made Cel answer instead.
"Angels brought her," she told him.
"But how did the angels bring her?"
"They have wings, so they can fly," I said.
I didn't cry. If I had, it would have been for the wrong reasons anyway.
It was Thanksgiving week. I have many things to be thankful for, and I'm most thankful for learning how to let go of the things that do not belong to me.
Friday, November 21, 2008
1821
We're turning into ordinary people
On Monday, I started a new job at an MNC. And I hid in the toilet to cry on the very same day. I came home, sent out a resume for a writing job, and typed out my resignation letter. After frantic text messages and tears over phone calls, most of the people said, hang on a little longer, and two told me why should I wait, just quit if I was unhappy. No prizes, then, for guessing who my two favourite people were that day.
On Tuesday, I decided to hand in my letter in time with the notice period to ensure that my last day would be the end of the month. I've thrown my work ethics, manners that I've kept for years and years out of the window just like that. So coming Monday, I will hand in my letter.
I've made one of the biggest mistake of my life, thinking that I could leave writing behind and start a career in the corporate world. But I can't. It's a mistake that I'm paying for everyday of this week, and possibly next week too. But I also learned again, as a few years back, that writing is the only thing I'm willing to do. I guess being jaded the past year made me forget this.
I got a call yesterday about the resume I sent out on Monday night, and in a few days I go for an interview. "Bring you published, and unpublished work," the editor tells me. I don't have any recent unpublished work, and instantly my mind starts weaving stories that I cannot wait to pen down. Having not written a single thing for a month, I've forgoten what joy it is to write. At this new job, the boss struggles to find a word for a letter she's writing for the CEO, but the word comes so easily to me. This again, has proven to be what I've known for years but seemed to have forgotten: that I will live and breathe writing for the rest of my life.
What does this mean, really? Part of the reason I stepped into the corporate world was to make more money, and if I go back to writing, it will mean I have to watch my expenses carefully for the rest of my life. No more extravagant meals, no more buying nice things, trying to keep up with friends who have the money to do the things I really want. Can I resist? I think I will have to, for the next two or three years, if not the rest of my life.
PS: What kind of company do not have casual Fridays?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
1328
Say Ah
Ten days ago, I went for an interview and thought I didn't really do well. The interviewer was such a negative person, and I decided the job sucks anyway, and they cannot pay me the money I want. Surprisingly, I got a callback for a second interview. A couple of phone calls later, I said yes to it. It's tomorrow morning at an ungodly hour, and in this process, I've proven to myself that I am timid, and am a bad liar.
I'm most afraid of not exercising my brain while unemployed, and feel like it's turning into mush. Thankfully, a job came in this week so I have three days of creating nice sentences now.
Otherwise, the days have been spent going to quiz night and winning a pint of beer, live music, bumping into the same frenger three days in a row and hearing how I remind him of ghostworld and listening to stories about the good old days of local music, drinks and more drinks with friends, Sigur Ros comparisons that made me crack up, buying my Kraftwerk ticket, mango cheesecake, a nice buffet, house sitting, crapping with two of my fav people in separate occasions, phone calls from mum and dad telling me they're behind me, bumping into old colleagues, and etc, etc.
Now, to go look for something corporate to wear.
Monday, October 6, 2008
1543
I know this much is true
I haven't written for many reasons - mainly because I feel like I've got nothing to say anymore. I make up for the lack of writing here with many things: besides the usual dose of music, books and fights, a lot of thoughts swim around my head- thoughts that I cannot make sense of.
So I've left a job I loved at the beginning and hated towards the end. I yearn for a new start in life, but that isn't going very well.
One year older and none the wiser, the only thing I can vouch for is that I can never stop loving.
Kings of Leon, you disappoint AGAIN.