August 28, 2008

I have been working on my Research Methods pilot study for a while now, and I can't seem to revise my Introduction. The voices of bratty old philosophers create a steady hum of confusion in my mind, and I often find myself staring into the computer screen wondering what in the world I am trying to say. So here is my attempt at figuring out what it is I want to figure out. I dedicate this entry to all my '04 friends writing theses: It's our time. Haha.

People have argued (and continue to argue) what defines a sport. Dictionaries give us a notion that everything is or can be clearly defined. The Webster on my night table says that a game is an activity engaged in for diversion or amusement. But guys like Ludwig Wittgenstein, Roger Caillois, and Bernard Suits weren't content with that, and neither am I. I wonder sometimes, have we fooled ourselves into accepting descriptions as definitions? When did we decide to trade in the essence of things for skin-deep observations?

There are a bunch of guys that say a game can be defined by rules. Formalists, they're called. The rules create the particular conditions where there is a goal, and specifies the means to achieve that goal. What they mean is that it's because of the rules that carrying an oval ball to the other side of a field becomes a touchdown. The problem with this is the dilemma with everything else in the world -- we all break rules, and we know it. In fact, most sports already have written provisions for when rules are broken. Commit a foul? Shoot two free throws. Get a free kick. Two minutes in the box. It's funny really. The existence of penalties prove that we expect ourselves to go against the rules we've set.

Following the formalistic definition, a true instance of the game is only when all rules are adhered to. Football ceases to be football when someone hits the ball with his hand. Never mind that we actually call it handball and award a direct free kick for it. Everything else is a poor, imperfect version of the ideal game. I wonder, is this also the case in real life?

When we make rules about how we should live, aren't we really just trying to define ourselves? If that is the case, then we're just setting ourselves up for failure. Because I don't think there's ever been a game where not a rule was broken, and in fact there's only been one life on record where no sin was committed (and he was God -- go figure). What about the rest of us? Are we doomed to play pathetic versions of the life we imagine?

Maybe so. I have tried to set rules for myself, and become the good person I always thought I should be. And you know what, I've failed miserably. When I'm not breaking my own rules, I'm trying to make my way around them. I try to become my real self, but who is that apart from the rules I can't seem to follow? If I don't make these rules, there's nothing to define me. But when I do make these rules, then every time I make a mistake, I am not being myself. I am a fake, and I lose integrity.

It seems necessary, then, to look for something else to define us. Something more than the rules that trap who we are into words. The solution to this problem of definition is what they call the ethos of games. It comes from an understanding of the purpose of the game, and guides how the rules are to be interpreted in different circumstances. Ethos, the characteristic spirit of the game. It demands respect for the rules, but also provides for those who fall short. The spirit seeks to preserve the enjoyment of the game, even at the cost of breaking rules. Because if we were all legalistic about it, would anyone be left to play? That's why we wait five fouls before we ask a player to sit down, we give yellow cards before the red. Ethos. Spirit.

--------------------------

January 16, 2009

It's five months later and I'm writing my thesis. I've played around with my topic a bit, and decided to focus on Ultimate players' concept of fair play.

What I've learned over the past school year is that we've created rules, hired referees, and established penalties because we believe more in our inability to play fair than the ethos that we hold on to. Somewhere along the way, we decided that it was easier to have everyone follow rules than to depend on our own morality, and the morality of others. People are so used to having rules enforced upon them, that its absence will mean utter chaos. Nothing will stop anyone from breaking the rules. It will destroy the game, it will destroy society. Or will it?

I say, let's start trusting ourselves again. Believe in the goodness of others. Believe in your own goodness. If we fail, if we disappoint ourselves, then it’s okay... our only penalty is to try again. Let’s get the spirit back.  The ethos that understands the purpose of your life, and interprets the rules accordingly.  The spirit that tells you to go and live to the hilt. Who knows?  If we believe and try hard enough, we might find ourselves living the lives we've always imagined.

I woke up at 5 am to the howling of the wind.  Through my window, I saw the mango tree dance wildly over the cars below, its long arms enticing me to come out and play. I didn't, of course. But as I watched the tree cling to the small patch of earth while its leaves embraced the rain, I thought, "What a beautiful storm."

I love the rain.  It's amazing how it comes in tiny droplets but still covers everything. I mean, why don't they just pool together in the sky and fall like giant water bombs?  That would be incredibly painful, I suppose.  So I find relief in the raindrops, and I laugh at how much we fear them on rainy days like today.  We stay at home, hide under umbrellas and sport waterproof clothing.  I read somewhere that the biggest possible raindrop size is 5mm.  If it gets bigger than that, the force of the air through which the drop is falling causes it to break up.  That's amazing.  Nature has practically made it impossible to form water bombs.  Why then, are we so afraid? 

It's so sad that we think nothing of the rain but as an inconvenience. I think a long time ago, Metro Manila needed rain.  We needed rain to water the earth, to grow crops, to feed our families, to live.  But now we line up for hours to buy NFA rice, and we curse the weather that makes it such a hassle to go to the market.  And maybe this is just me hating the concrete yet again, but the sadness I feel today is not because of the gloomy weather but because we have built a city that is ungrateful of rain.  That is such a tragedy, because our land is so rich that anything can grow on it and yet we complain when God waters the earth.  In other parts of the world, people are probably praying for all that we have right now.

I love the rain. It reminds me that God is constant. No matter how many crappy roads we pave or how corrupt the officials that make them, despite illegal logging and faulty ships, He will send the rain.  Why?  Because He wants to water the earth, to make it grow, to feed us, to make us come alive.  This is the way He loves us, and He doesn't change.  But we have changed so much.  Once upon a time, we welcomed the rain.  Once upon a time, we embraced it like leaves thirsty for life.  I long for the day when we see beauty in the storm yet again, when we soak ourselves in the faithfulness of God... when we say, "Let the winds blow, and we will dance."

In their distress they cried to the Lord,
who brought them out of their peril,
hushed the storm to a murmur;
the waves of the sea were stilled.
They rejoiced that the sea grew calm,
that God brought them to the harbor they longed for.
Let them thank the Lord for such kindness,
such wondrous deeds for mere mortals.
Psalm 107:28-31

Until now, our maid spells adobo as adovo.  I found it funny the first three times, but now it is just a part of my grocery ritual – shaking my head at the ridiculously spelled food items she scribbled on the list.  As I walk down the aisles of Unimart, I decipher words such as chunck (shank), mosarila (mozzarella), and garbbaze plastick.  Over the past year, I have become used to the lengthwise cut yellow pieces of pad paper prepared for me every two weeks.  And in each and every list, there is that word – adovo. 

 

I usually get a kilo of pork adobo cuts.  As I order from the woman behind the counter, the countless adobo lunches and dinners of the past flash before my eyes.  I shrug it off.  There is no week that passes without adobo in our house.  And because I can’t think of anything else to buy, I don’t complain.  Adovo it is—isang kilo po, dalawang supot.  I then proceed to choose shanks.  The criteria are simple: a medium sized bone with the utak (marrow) for my brother, a portion of litid-infused beef for my sister, and a good chunk of meat without litid for me.  This makes for another weekly staple, nilaga. 

 

After getting meat and grabbing two whole chickens, I turn away from the meat section at the back of the grocery.  The aisles are spread before me, shelves full of carbohydrates, proteins and fats – the very essence of life.  This is Unimart, my turf.  Every grocery shopper has their own philosophy on how to maneuver around the aisles.  Some people just walk aimlessly around, finding the toyo on aisle 5 and then stumbling upon the mayonnaise on aisle 17.  Not me.  I head towards the sacks of rice and grab some peppercorns along the way. 

 

Every time I go to Unimart, which is perhaps the last remnant of the Greenhills Shopping Center of old, I take comfort in the fact that I have a plan.  A plan that has been ironed out through the years, passed on from my mom to my Ate, and now to me.  I’ve been taught to always start at the meat section, and only afterwards do I get some rice. From there I zigzag my way through every aisle, breezing through the food items without much nutritional value (the chips, the chocolates, and the canned goods).  It is a good plan.  As I reach for some dishwashing soap, I remember how my Ate would always calculate the price per milliliter before deciding which one to buy.  I choose the Surf refill pack.  I didn’t compute the prices, but I know it’s cheaper than Joy.  I cross it out from the list.

 

I load three sacks of detergent onto my cart, then I give myself an imaginary pat on the back.  The cart is getting heavy, but it’s not a problem.  I am a stickler for choosing the perfect cart, oftentimes it is a good predictor of how much you will pay and how long you will take.  I say never get the biggest cart unless you run a carinderia.  It’s better to get a cart that is too small; it might force you to cut down on the Doritos.  The first thing I do is check the wheels of the cart.  If they don’t look like they will disintegrate within the next three years, I then give the cart a push.  If it turns without my prodding, I leave it.  It has a mind of its own.  Nothing is harder to steer than a wobbly cart holding two sacks of rice and three packs of detergent.  I maneuver with considerable ease and I think to myself, “I am an expert grocery shopper.”

 

The expert shopper in me also knows that one should never go to the grocery hungry.  Take a snack, attack the free taste booths, or gulp down a liter of water.  Fill your stomach with anything.  Just don’t go in hungry, because it will make everything look appetizing and necessary.  So with my stomach full and my cart secure, I cruise along the rows of powdered juices and baking ingredients.  I grab some Tang orange juice for my brother and I pause near the one-step Betty Crocker brownie mixes.  I entertain the thought of baking up a batch of soft chewy brownies, but I’m interrupted by the memory of expired mixes only recently found in the kitchen shelves.  I move along.

 

I suppose all regular grocery shoppers have their own rituals in shopping, but I doubt that they proclaim them with as much pride.  It’s because I’m not supposed to be here.  I’m not supposed to be comparing the price per gram of canned whole mushrooms.  I am supposed to be at the tiangge, fitting blouses and picking DVD’s.  Instead I go to Greenhills to buy Domex and Johnson’s Wax.  It is a self-serving pride, one that is carried when you feel like you have been cheated out of something and still choose to be noble about it.  It is a sense of worth milked from the thought that you are out there laboring for your family.  It is silly; groceries are not really a big deal.  But I make it a big deal, patenting shopping routes and cart-picking guidelines.  It is the only way I feel good about what I do. 

 

I am a middle child through and through.  I work hard at being my Ate’s exact opposite, while trying to make my kid brother cool like me.  I have survived twenty one years in this world avoiding responsibility, not because I am scared but because it’s the way things are.  I am the second girl, the substitute, the backup plan.  I was not meant to do the groceries.  I would tag along with my sister sometimes, trying to sneak in some Pop Tarts and Pepperidge Farm cookies along the way.  She’d ask me to grab some Century Tuna as she lined up in the counters.  I knew where they were – to the right, just before the toothpaste aisle.  I helped her out only as a favor to her, trying to ease the burden left by mom’s unfortunate death.  I always thought that the burden was hers, though.  That was the plan.

 

But then things don’t always go according to plan.  Maybe we picked a faulty cart, or maybe we’re just not the ones steering.  When my mom died, she left us a home to manage.  Some single dads take it upon themselves to be both father and mother.  Ours didn’t.  He continued to be the provider, and gave the other responsibilities to my Ate.  But then she graduated and got an office job.  She had her fabulous single life to lead, a yuppie with purchasing power cannot be held down.  So it came to down to me.  I was bestowed a golden credit card and it was meant to be swiped at one place, and one place only... Unimart. 

 

So as I search the shelves looking for noodles with a green wrapper and Japanese writing, I think about how much food we really need.  My dad only eats breakfast at home.  He is out most of the week, presumably at a Taguig condo eating dinner with his girlfriend and her daughter.  They say she’s a good cook, so I don’t blame him.  We have a weekly dinner at home though, usually on a Thursday.  It’s on those rare nights that he gets to taste the vegetarian noodle soup I buy him.  That’s all I buy for him at Unimart, save the mushrooms and Coffee Crumble ice cream.  He has been a vegetarian since he was 14, so his adovo is really gluten from a Veggie store in San Juan.

 

My sister, a meat eater, lives for kare-kare.  But like my dad, she rarely eats at home.  She works near Rockwell, so I assume she dines out with officemates.  I avoid Nestle competitor brands for her.  But there was a time when I got mad at her, and I filled my cart with Alaska Milk.  She got the picture. 

 

My younger brother likes to eat food with at least a decent amount of MSG or trans fat.  Spam, pancit canton, bacon and hotdogs...  Even though he eats at irregular times, he always eats at home.  So I load my cart with spam, pancit canton, bacon and hotdogs.  When I feel nice, I grab some Cheetos for him.

 

With all these food items in my cart, I head for the counters and check my list.  I text my brother and sister to ask what kind of toiletries they need.  I like to imagine that I really am doing a noble thing, serving my family by doing the groceries.  I take pride because not many people my age have this kind of responsibility.  I feel a sense of security whenever I drive home knowing that we have something to eat for the next ten days.  But there is an overwhelming sadness when I come to the table to eat the fruits of my labor – the adovo cut, the peppercorns, bay leaves, Silver Swan soy sauce and Datu Puti vinegar – and I am alone.  I feel as though my family is living in the backup plan, in a house that the middle child has to run.  I want to do my best but sometimes I think, “What for?”  Our home is now just a house – a place to sleep, and sometimes to eat. 

 

Still I go to Unimart, and as I breeze through shelves and shelves of food, I take comfort that this part of my life has a plan.  When I am there, I feel as though I am finally taking responsibility.  I can pick a good cart, and I can steer it well.  Yes, I turned out to be the substitute, the one called in when others have left.  I rejoice not that they have left, but that I am here.  I am here for them and I wait for them to come home.  It is a good plan.

In basketball you either score a point, or miss. The results speak for themselves.  Dance however, offers no unbiased feedback.  You gauge your success based on the wall-to-wall mirrors or the reaction of the people watching.  There is no other way to measure your ability than to subject it to the judgment of others.  Sure, there are probably objective criteria for judging dancers, but then it's always contestable.  It's different in basketball.  I mean, who's gonna argue with a slam dunk, right?

For me to learn something, I need feedback.  I need information to be able to correct errors and refine movements.  The reason I have a hard time dancing is that there is no scoreboard I can check to measure my performance.  There are only mirrors and other people.  Yes, my dancing career is totally dependent on mirrors and other people.

I have a problem with mirrors, because they're only as honest as you think you are.  And here's the truth: the person I lie to the most is myself.  A person who thinks he's ugly will see someone ugly in the mirror, whether it is true or not.  I secretly believe that a person's self confidence does something to the mirror that distorts the image much like the ones we see in fun houses at the carnival. 

So that leaves the other people. Most college professors think this is their sole purpose in life, to give feedback.  They give papers, projects, and exams and return it to you with a grade.  The thing is, other people are actually the ones who can fix your mirror.  But none of us know that.  We are too busy worrying about the faults we see in our own mirrors.  Nobody ever tells us that it's the mirror that's bad, not you.  So we go around dancing like monkeys, thinking that we really were made this way and that dancers are born not made.

Dancing is a lot like how real life is for me.  I don't believe I can do something until someone tells me I can.  It's rarely like basketball, where I can shoot a three-pointer and it's of more value than Kobe's reverse lay-up.  It's more like a girl with huge calves standing in the back of the room trying to go unnoticed as she attempts to waltz.  You know, I hope I find a giant scoreboard in the sky, to tell me that I'm not too far behind.

What am I really trying to say?  I think I want someone to tell me I can dance.  Maybe I want someone to look to the back of the room and see that I'm trying my best.  Or maybe I just need someone to tell me, "It's the mirror that's bad, not you."

Written on October 10, 2007... just before midnight.

It’s brown out here in our house and I have approximately 1 hour left on my laptop’s battery.  Why do I write?  Because there’s nothing like the drama of writing by candlelight.  In fact, the things I do can fall under two classifications.  About 50% is done because I have to do it, and the other half is done because I want to.  And of that half that I willingly do, about 80% is because I like the drama.  The other 20% is just a bunch of random stuff like wanting to get slapped by a mamon or screaming ‘Good afternoon Cebu!’ in a crowded mall. 

 

You know what my greatest realization during my mom’s wake was?  It wasn’t some heavy life-love-death theory, it was a simple phrase in my mind, simultaneously uttered by my sister.  “Parang sine!”  That’s it.  With the chapel filled with flowers and my mom in a box, that was all I could think about.  The movies.  The drama.

 

There is no point to this blog entry.  A low batt laptop, a thick white candle on the night table and beads of sweat forming on my forehead... You get the picture.  I just had to write something, even if it’s rubbish.  The fact is, I do a lot of stuff because the world cues me to.  Run when it rains, raise your hands on a roller coaster and close your eyes when you wish...   Sayang yung moment eh.

 

Alas, the perfect ending to a bittersweet story: No means to post this entry because there’s no electricity for the wi-fi.  Watch enough television and you'll learn how to handle disappointment with a smile.  And just when everyone’s turned their heads, sigh and let go of the hope that the lights will be back.  This one’s a classic, folks.  Goodnight Cubao!

 

There is an Ikot Jeep in UP with the words "Time will Tell" on its 'forehead'. It's one of my favorite jeepneys, along with another jeep that says "Thanks God" on its glorified mud guard. It seems dramatic and cliché, but you can't argue with it. Yes, time will ultimately tell everything. But what is Time that it should have the answers to all our questions?

Sometimes I think of Time as a child untangling a giant ball of yarn. He takes one end and slowly distinguishes the past from the present, the present from the future. God forbid Time should get tired of his work of untangling, otherwise everything would happen all at once.

Other times I just resign myself to the idea that one day a wise old man started counting, and gradually convinced the rest of the world to count with him. September 1, 2007, 12:26:38…

 

But on rare occasions, I remember what a philo professor once asked, “If you were immortal, would you bother with time?” And on those rare occasions, I get an inkling that maybe I am immortal.  Those are the days when I forget about time.

 

On other days, I am bound by my inherited Tag Heuer watch.  Wake up at 5:45. Leave the house at 6:30.  Call time at 1:30pm.  The calendar in my phone is jam packed with reminders, reminding me to be on time.  To coordinate, to go with the flow, to hold fast to the world spinning, spinning, spinning. 

We think time binds us, but really we are the ones who won't let go.  In our tombstones, we sum up our lives as that hyphen between the day we were born and the day we die.  And that mass of minutes, days and years is everything that we are.  It’s hard to believe that there’s something more.  Somehow, eternity just can’t fit into our heads. 

 

It’s just too… big.  I don’t even know where to begin.  All I know is that time won’t exist.  There won’t be a logical sequence of events because every moment, every experience stretches on forever.  We’ll stop counting, and Time will be forgotten.  What about that poor boy who keeps untangling the yarn?  He will finally see it for what it is… a ball.  Then everything will happen all at once, not as an undecipherable mass of events but as a glorious realization of truth.  The truth that things don’t have to pass away, that we don’t have to be scared of forgetting. 

 

There are some days when I feel like I’m standing at the edge of time, about to fall into the bottomless pit of eternity.  It’s scary to even think about it, but it’s better than accepting the idea that people die and simply cease to exist.  Those are the days when I decide that I won’t wait for time to tell my story.  I’m telling it now.

Poveda 04 survey

Academics and Discipline

[X] Took home my IW

[  ] Submitted all IWs on the 3^rd Friday -- sa buong high school, mga 6 sessions lang ata na-kumpleto ko, okay. haha.

[X] Cheated in a test

[  ] Got caught cheating

[  ] Texted in class

[X] Brought cellphone to school

[  ] Creatively hid cellphone during inspection

[  ] Used the same issue of Didache for 1 whole year

[  ] Used someone else’s Didache for 1 whole year

[X] Got an E in at least one of Mrs. Borja’s reflection papers

[X] Had an egg baby that lived till the end of the project period

[  ] Had accessories for your egg baby—like bonnets, etc.

[X] Named an actor as the father of your baby -- does a pba player count? hahaha

[  ] Named a boyfriend or actual person as the father of your baby

[  ] Outstanding Student

[  ] Excellence in any subject

[  ] Excellence in your chosen elective – analytic geometry and intro to calculus elective ko eh... asa pa!

[X] Can still recall any maxim that isn’t “Piensa con frecuencia en el valor del tiempo.” -- gozate en el bien del proximo?

[  ] Actually read the text of Ibong Adarna

[  ] Actually read the text of Florante & Laura

[  ] Actually read the text of Noli Me Tangere

[  ] Actually read the text of El Filibusterismo

[X] Borrowed a lab gown from someone in another class

[X] Borrowed a lab gown from someone in another class without their knowing

[  ] Failed a subject

[  ] Took summer classes in Resalest

[X] Studied for a test the day of the test

[X] Did not study at all for a test

[X] Was ever a part of MTAP – Grade 7. late bloomer eh. haha.

[X] Slept in class

[X] Slept in the AVR

[  ] Slept in the MPR

[  ] Slept in the Little Theater

[  ] Faked dysmenorrhea to nap in the clinic

[X] Had someone else do your THE project/s for you -- dude, i never did any of them.

[X] Seriously studied for Lab, Computer, or PE finals --  career mode, pare. 

[X] Borrowed someone else’s recorder for music --  nah, i had the best recorder around.

[X] Killed time in the library during IW

[  ] Cut class

[  ] Pretended to have a problem to play hooky in the guidance office

[  ] Got caught cutting class

[  ] Had more than 10 tardies

[X] Ever had to talk to a teacher in the “conversation rooms” (yung mukhang confessional) -- ako pa?! hahahaha. dalawang teacher ata naka away ko. haha.

[X] Was a class officer

[X] Was a club officer

[X] Got to school before 6am to cram for a project

[X] Left school past 8pm cramming for a project --  sab pag and UN Day

 

 

Fun Stuff

[X] Had a Space Maker – Hindi noh, cool ako eh. hahahaha.

[  ] Used a Jansport backpack

[X] Had a class jacket

[X] Collected Lisa Frank --  grade 5 na pumayag nanay ko bilhan ako ng lisa frank lunch box eh. lulu!

[  ] Was in the “Unicorn Club”

[  ] Was in the “Stamp Club” --  hmmm we had a  'Stationery Club' that was really the 'Secret Club'... basta SC. haha.

[X] Loved the Spice Girls

[X] Loved the Backstreet Boys

[X] Loved the Moffatts

[  ] Loved Hanson -- naku kurot ang abot ko kay alicia.

[  ] Threw staples in my gradeschool Spanish teacher’s afro

[X] Ever sang “Count the nunal of Ms. Donato” --  and i really did count while singing. wahahahaha.

[X] Played piko

[X] Played patintero  --  of course. dun kami naging friends ni lop! haha.

[X] Played in the batch vs. batch patintero

[X] Played Chinese garter -- hanggang 1st year ata eh... kalaban grade 2. wahahahaha

[X] Wore shorts under my skirt so I could play Chinese garter properly

[  ] Took ballet in the Shirley Halili-Cruz School of Ballet --  i'm one of the few girls from  poveda that never tried ballet. woohoo.

[X] Took gymnastics with Teacher Weena

[  ] “Forgot” my PE uniform at home

[X] Actually forgot my PE uniform at home

[  ] Was part of the group who turned the bathroom into “The Lounge” --  hindi ako cool eh. haha.

[  ] Vandalized the bathroom doors in 2^nd year

[X] Had a Bakal Boy – NO WAY.

[X] Made takas to Galle -- yeah, but i never made tusok tusok the fishball til i got to college!

[  ] Made takas to Galle to meet up with boys

[  ] Had a prom date who was the fruit of the Xavier-Poveda interaction

[  ] Still friends with the Xavierians I met at the interaction

[  ] Was a facilitator at the interaction

[  ] Got jailed at any Poveda fair

[X] Went to the LaSalle Fair

[X] Went to the Ateneo Fair

[X] Went to the Xavier Fair

[  ] Plucked someone’s eyebrows in class/between classes

[  ] Had your eyebrows plucked in class/between classes

[  ] Made friendship bracelets in class

[  ] Had a kikay kit – Never had one.

[X] Danced during any assembly --  maybe. hahahaha.

[  ] Sang during any assembly

[  ] Led prayer at Monday general assembly

[X] Sang the National Anthem at Monday general assembly

[  ] Had a band

[  ] Performed at the fair

[X] Ate De Jesus fried chicken for recess AND lunch --  and dreamed about if during dinner.

[X] Ate De Jesus fried chicken with ketchup

[  ] Ate De Jesus fried chicken with gravy

[X] T-Bone

[X] Blue Marlin

[X] Blue & Gold mami --  ahem. border po ako.

[X] Mexican rice bowl

[  ] Lumpia from the De Jesus canteen

[X] Strawberries and cream from the De Jesus canteen

[  ] Peanutbutter bars from the Pastry Cart

[  ] BEGG sandwich

[X] Waited at least 20 minutes just to get food from the Jap food stall

[  ] Had a close encounter with Ms. Henny (from under the stairs)

[X] Ate at the covered walk (when there were no tables yet)

[X] Went shopping at the Lost and Found --  and found my own stuff. hahaha.

[X] Cried like crazy at all retreats

[  ] Snuck in contraband stuff during the retreat

[  ] Got a special palanca from a special boy (bonus points kung binuhusan ng pabango) – WALA! woohoo. hahahahaha.

[  ] Took pictures with Mang Baguio at graduation

Whenever I feel like thinking deep thoughts and analyzing my life, I always end up asking myself why I do the things I don't want to. Not that I'm complaining. I just find it ridiculous that I spend more than half of my time and energy doing things that I never asked for. For example, making a paper about the cardiovascular responses to exercise. Or on a less academic note, having pork chops for dinner or taking the starex to school. Sometimes it just gets tiring to do the things I HAVE to do.

I'm gonna sound like a kid, but here goes: Why cant I just do what I want to do? Why why why?

Okay, that would be irresponsible. And since I am 19 years old and semi-responsible, I am going to turn the question around. Why can't I just want what I do?

Let's face it. The world is not going to take pity on us and let us do whatever we like. But there is a loophole in all of this, and it's not because of the world's pity, but God's pity. God gave us the ability to desire. We just spend so much time focusing on the objects we desire, that we don't realize that the ABILITY is the real gift. I used to hate wearing feminine shoes. I was a sneakers type of girl. But then while passing by Charles and Keith one day, I realized that shoes are an acquired taste. Kind of like boys. One day they're just dirty and booger-filled, and the next day they're... well, let's just say they make you bite your lower lip.

The good news is that shoes and boys aren't the only acquired tastes around. In fact, shoved down your throat long enough, even ampalaya starts tasting good. My point is this: we weren't born with a specific set of desires (or in slum book terms, likes and dislikes). We were born with the ability to choose what we want. We are capable of liking homework. We are capable of being forced into something, finding the good in it, and enjoying it. We can turn anything to our advantage. A boring assignment into a scholastic endeavor, a simple pork chop into a culinary experiment, or a dirty van into a getaway car.

And I think this is how we can beat the system. This is how we conquer the world. We don't have to be slaves of what we want. Whether it is cleaning your room or serving in ministry, hang in there. Your ability to desire will catch up and if you allow yourself, you can want these things. The God who created us is pretty smart. He will allow us to want anything. But those things that we really need, He makes us love them.

The world may stop you from doing what you want, but nothing can stop you from wanting what you do. If you're stuck in a place you don't like, stay a while. Look for something you like. Let it grow on you. If there's nothing, then get out. If there's even one thing good about it, then smile and let the desire kick in.

Nowadays there seems to be a thin line between everything. Good, bad, right, wrong, or just plain useless. It's getting tiring to be tiptoeing through life. I don't want to think about every little thing I do. It's like having to think hard and well before you can breathe in and out. I'm not saying that I wanna go wild and not think about the consequences. I'm just saying that I wish life was a little easier to live. I'm not complaining about the level of difficulty. I guess I'm just tired of trying so hard to be what I naturally am. What I'm complaining about is how far from human we've actually become.

I guess this explains my fixation on the book of Genesis. Everytime I reflect, it always takes me to that place, that garden where everything was as it should be. Isn't it a wonder how the Fall of Man was as simple as eating one fruit? And what exactly did this one act of disobedience cost us? To be frank, it cost us Paradise. Even the very idea of paradise has eluded us. In fact, I don't know of any person who can fully grasp what it must have been like. We've lost more than we can imagine. And all because of one fruit?

All they did was to eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Was it so bad to know? To have their eyes opened? "The woman saw that the tree was good for food, pleasing to the eyes, and desirable for gaining wisdom..." (Genesis 3:6) Why then did it merit death?

I'm sure if you ask a priest or theologians or anyone else, they'd have good solid answers for this. But here's what I think. Maybe it's wrong, but it feels real to me...

To know the difference between good and evil for the first time must have been an indescribable moment. To realize that there exists something totally opposite and yet just as big as everything you've ever known, to finally see light and the shadows cast by it, to have this reality open up and set before you... it must have overwhelmed Adam and Eve. The question is, was it this knowledge that cost us Paradise? Sadly, yes. This knowledge sent us tumbling out of Eden, afterwhich everything became a choice.

In this day and age, we put such a high premium on choices. We want more flavors, more models, more brands, more channels... In fact, this availability of choices is what we've labeled "freedom". And yet, this is what pushed us out of Eden. The desire for knowledge, to be masters of our own fate. Isn't it interesting how God used the thing that caused the fall to be the very thing that would get us back? It is choice. To know good and evil, and to choose good. Sure, it's easier said than done. But who's fault is that?

I think death came in the picture because it gives us a deadline to make that choice. To live our lives is to see both sides, and decide which one we want to be part of. To go to the buffet of good and evil, and to realize what we are exchanging for the other. Every little thing we do, every breath we take, we make a choice. It is the very purpose of this life. To choose. And not just to pick any choice like our childish idea of freedom, but to choose well. To choose God.

In the end, it is a matter of preference. When we fell from Eden, God didn't get a chain and lock it up. It's still there waiting for us. We just have to use our lives as a statement that we belong there. Paradise isn't too far away. Death merely asks this question: Knowing what you know, would give up everything for it?

A few months ago, I was thinking about funerals and how for a few days, people's lives are turned upside down. But after a while their lives continue on, and it seems that the people who have gone ahead weren't really that essential. Though it feels cruel, it is actually possible to live and be happy without them. We can cope and perhaps even excel without these people. Not only the dead, but even those people who just suddenly drop out of our lives -- those who migrate, who shift courses, maybe even those who lose their cellphone contact numbers.

So you see, the world is okay without me, or you, or even -gasp- Paris Hilton. So what's the point, right? Why am I here? Well, my theory is because the world was never meant to be just okay. When God made man, He didn't say, "Okie dokie!" He called it good. Good. Sometimes I feel sorry for our generation, because good seems up the sky, with words like holy or happiness. We don't really know what it is. If we're lucky, we catch glimpses of it here and there. For me, good is the beef tapa from Pancake House, the sunlight peeking through acacia trees, the smell of the sea, or the rain splashing down your face. When you find something good, you wanna stay there. You know you belong there. Good feels like home.

Anyway, back to my theory. I was leafing through my Bible, and I saw a few differences in how God assessed the things He had made. When God created the sea, the plants, the stars, the birds, fishes and all the other animals, "He saw how good it was." But after He had created man, "God looked at everything he had made, and he found it very good."(Gen1:31) So here's the thing. The world, in all its beauty, is good. It doesn't need us to be good. Even if the people I love the most die right now, the world will continue spinning on its axis. The acacias will be there in the morning, and after a while I'll have my beef tapa and smile.

So what difference do people make? There is that four-letter word: VERY. Only after man came into the picture did God say "very good." Coming from a school with a descriptive grading system, there is a big difference between Good and Very Good. Very Good is the hug of a mother, a familiar face in a sea of strangers, or dancing in the rain with your best friend.

My theory ends here: maybe the world doesn't really need us. It is okay. It is good. But if it can be very good, then why not? Let's make it better. That's what we're here for. Someday, Someone will come and it'll be Excellent.

And you can tell everybody this is your song 
It may be quite simple but, now that it's done, 
I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind 
That I put down in words 
How wonderful life is while you're in the world.
- "Your Song" Elton John

I am so through with myself.  I am done thinking about who I am or what I want.  I have tried to look for myself, create myself and do all these silly things with my self.  But I have found nothing, created nothing, and have come to only one conclusion.  It is perhaps my greatest fear, and yet my most magnificent discovery.  The best failure of my life, and I say it with joy.  I looked inside and found nothing.  There was a lot of rubbish, but it’s all been cleared out.  Finally, I am freed of myself.  I am empty.  I am empty… and waiting to be filled.  Waiting to be filled.

 Some things you just gotta say twice.  One is for the world to hear, and the other is for your heart to accept.

 Man, this feels good.

I have always always been afraid of calling on the phone. Ever since I could remember, I have never been comfortable saying, "Hello, may I please speak with..." or anything like that. I was convinced that I would stutter, eat my words, and say the most embarassing things. So I never called anyone except relatives (whose maids I knew). Not friends, not classmates, and definitely not Pizza Hut, even when I was so hungry I was already crying.

I remember the first time I called for food delivery. It was from Davao Tuna to Go. My mom had asked me to order lunch (she had already seen me cry about my fear of calling, but you know how moms are.) So I gathered up my courage, memorized everything I had to say, and dialled the numbers. I wish I could say, "and the rest is history." You know how sometimes your imagination always seems more outrageous than what really happens, and you therefore conclude that your fears are irrational? Well, this wasn't one of those times. I mumbled, I mixed up the orders, and I obviously did not know what I was doing. And the worst part was when the Tuna Lady asked for my name. I hate giving my name. People always laugh. And she did. So that's how it went.

Of course, that first call wasn't totally useless. (By the way, I was in 3rd year high school then.) Somehow, the shame of saying "I have a phobia of calling so I won't," overshadowed the shame of stuttering. So whenever I really really needed to call someone, I did. This happened around 4 times, until I didn't really think I was "may-I-please-speak-with-phobic" anymore. My good friends knew better than to expect a call from me, so they called me instead. So anyway, I got by alright. Besides, everyone was just texting (for the record, paging someone on their beeper was the ultimate worst thing I could think of doing).

Now here's the good part. I got assigned to do the marketing (getting sponsors) for the student council. Great. They thought I had connections and everything. Of course, I was almost in tears when it was decided that I would type up the marketing proposal, call people I didn't know, fax them, and ask for their money. But I'm a big girl and I tried to act brave and professional. So last Monday, I did it. I called a bunch of companies, asked for their marketing executives, and tried faxing them the proposal I had poured out my formal writing skills on. And you know how everything just seems to come naturally and you realize that you were the perfect person for the job all along? That didn't happen. I messed up the fax to Nike, I sent the wrong proposal to Nestle, and I stuttered while talking to the one guy who was actually nice to me.

I made a mistake with each and every call, and I have been too scared to call again to follow up the proposals. And so what's my point here? Nothing really. I just wanted to congratulate God, for finding my weakness. Though I am the last person who should be doing this, somehow I am doing it. I could get angry, feel sorry for myself and wish that the world would just give me a break. But I am just too amazed that God set this whole thing up just so I would learn how to call on the telephone.

You know how sometimes everything just falls into place? Well sometimes it feels more like everything is just crashing down. But when the dust clears, you realize that God knows exactly where to put you.

My first pass was supposed to be at the artists' gate at the San Diego Sports Arena. The concert featured Yes and Black Sabbath, and I was stranded outside with a tape recorder for many hours, waiting for a road manager to appear with my name and then escort me back to interview the opening band, Wild Turkey. The backstage gate was guarded by an angry, scrawny man in a yellow-checked jacket, who took great delight in telling me that my name was not on the list, never would be, and I was to "go to the top of the ramp with the other girls." Not that I will remember that menacing guard or his name for the rest of my life (Scotty!), or even the name of the kind concert promoter who eventually took pity on me (thank you, Larry), but I did re-create a version of this scene in the movie Almost Famous to help exorcise the lingering pain. And it was Larry who knew the power and the iconography of the backstage pass when he finally pulled a stack from his pocket, withdrew one and handed it to me with great aplomb, bestowing a key to the castle with simple advice. "Put it in plain view," he said, "and look like you belong."

There are unspoken traditions that accompany the hallowed backstage pass. First, though you are always advised to place it prominently on your person, never place it too prominently. There must be a careless take-it-or-leave-it air to the location of your sticky-pass. Never place it in any obvious or prideful position, and always avoid any place a conventioneer might display a name tag. This garish display is reserved for the girlfriends of DJs or the parents of the artist. Best location: upper-right thigh, where a jacket might partially conceal it. This allows you to nonchalantly reveal the pass to any curious security guard and hide it from envious fans in an audience, who sometimes rip and run. Larry's prophetic words still apply. "Look like you belong" means, essentially, never expose your thrill of being in the rarified world of backstage life. Assume a pleasant, though ho-hum, demeanor as you step over cables, stroll casually past video cameras filming for MTV or bump into Brad and Jennifer. Which brings us to another unspoken backstage tradition. And this is important. Aggressively avoid looking at the actual stars of the evening. A casual peripheral glance is fine, but given the choice of staring directly at a gorgeous Gwen Stefani in full stage attire or the nearby exit sign, there is no contest. The exit sign wins. And the interest you show in any object or person other than Gwen adds to your mystique, and increases the odds that Gwen might speak to you. Such are the complex dictums that govern all that flows from the coveted backstage pass.

Cameron's First Backstage Pass

The original sticky-style backstage pass lives on, of course, but it has spawned many siblings. The bigger the tour and the larger the road crew, the more ornate the selection of styles and levels of access. A Paul McCartney or U2 tour will employ lanyards, clip-ons and various colors of hospital-style wristbands, sometimes featuring special artwork provided by the artists themselves. These boutique passes are designed to vector guests into many different stations of importance. One colored pass might send you into a room full of international journalists, another might introduce you to the artists' relatives. One more thing to remember: Even if you have been given the ultimate status pass -- the all-access pass -- you must never, repeat, never, go onstage with the band unless invited by the band members themselves. Many have stumbled on this last step to greatness and found themselves swiftly whisked back to the cheese trays with the international journalists.

There is another, slightly more sordid style of backstage pass. This pass, made famous by the hair bands of the Eighties, is actually a secretly coded sticker given solely to groupies or potential groupies. The wearer may never fully know the special significance of the colorful or cryptic pass they've been given by a friendly roadie. But a band member spotting this pass will know exactly what it means -- she's single, she's probably available, and her date has been vectored to another room with the international journalists.

And if all this gets too confusing, just go discover a brand-new band, playing a small club, before it's even designed its first sticky-pass. You'll find no assistants, no bodyguards, no palace-level security. Walk in that unguarded door and tell 'em you love their music. Just remember one thing: Look like you belong.

Courtesy of Rolling Stone #922 - Cameron Crowe - May 15, 2003
www.cameroncrowe.com