Weekly Ablution

Often times we put up with crap that comes our way: crap from people we care for, crap from people we can't help but to care for, crap from people we can't care less for, crap from school, crap from work, and the list goes on indefinitely. Nonetheless, there's always that one thing that somewhat strums your strings in the most evocative kind of way, not necessarily it's because you love it first, but you can't refrain from loving it even when you tell yourselves otherwise, from time to time. And no, it's not just about the movements, but it's also about the fellowship that follows, about the experience in entirety that sucks you back in, no matter how many times you thought you have fallen out of love with it. I am really blessed to have been endowed with the gift of passion: to irrationally, helplessly and at times unconditionally be passionate for that one cause. It can't be faked, it can't be denied-- even when you tried your hardest at it because you know it's for your own good. Hopefully I'm not lecturing; I'm just sharing, since if by some turn of event, through equivocality, I could persuade you to share this gift, in your own way, I be damned-- in a good way that is-- because really, the feeling it gives is just incredible.

Child Of Happenstance

I am a lucky devil, birthed through a series of happenstances. Sometimes I do believe (good) things simply happen because, inter alia, Lady Luck is batting for my team. It does seem unfair, if undeserving, at times, especially if one looks through the lens of an outsider. This is in no way a form of self-aggrandizement. On the contrary, I feel that I am so acclimated to this state of co-dependence that when Lady Luck takes the benchwarmer's seat, everything, including I, just turns bananas.

Isabel Allende, when she was mulling over Daughter of Fortune at a diner one evening, just happened to spot her novel's protagonist, Eliza, who was working her night shift as a waitress. That stony gaze matured into one literary masterpiece. Similarly, this little turn of a leaf is exactly what I can say about my going on the Hong Kong trip weeks ago. The trip was too short (as what I've been telling every single person who asked me about it), but the one thing that made it momentous was watching these great dancers there simply being great. It was utterly a humbling-- no, sobering ("humbling" suggests that there was something to take pride thereof to begin with)-- experience.

One of the many troupes who graced the stage on show day was this throng of superhumans from Taiwan-- they were the love-children of Elastic Girl and The Hulk-- and they were, in colloquial terms, infinity and beyond. At first when they did their stage marking, they looked ridiculous with their safety shorts and high socks, and nothing else, and I thought Isn't this a tad too R21 for a concert titled "Dance Teens"? However, to my chagrin-- and rightfully so-- once the music played, they transformed into these dance stallions (which was, by the way, the compliment that Mia Michaels made to Danny from Season 3 of SYTYCD, and this comparison is warranted, really), although perhaps they were more like dance ponies, because they were so goddamn young. They were effectively fetuses. You got close to them enough, you could smell the amniotic fluid transpiring. But jokes aside, their techniques and strength were so exquisite, you totally forgot the disturbia that was their horrid costumes. Then again, if you had those lines that went on for days, weeks and light-years, why would you want-- or need-- to cover them? *Glanced at my sarong*

It was really a sheer happenstance for me to watch them live, and more importantly, to dance in the same item with great dancers whom I gratefully had come to know personally. One thing that I brought home with me, literally and otherwise-- other than my best-buy-- was the realisation of how far the runway was: the one that I sought to trail, rather ambitiously. It was a realisation that one had tasked oneself to sail through the Pacific with a dinghy and a paddle. So I landed that morning at 3 a.m. (curses the delay!), back to reality, and I told myself I had had enough. No more fighting. Remember the feeling where you wanted something so bad that you threw yourself into it-- in entirety-- and you let yourself feel belittled because you didn't think things were going right? Why that feeling? Because you fight, and you fight hard. But for me, I have my fair share of that battle, and it's time to waive the white flag and accept defeat.

And so, I met one Professor Kumar. I walked to his office-- the nerves slightly got me on my tippy toes-- and he was sitting on the other couch with these record slips that he'd been flipping for some time. I was the seventh person he saw that day. What happened?, he asked. Impersonal, business-like, authoritative. What are you going to do about it? Impersonal, business-like, authoritative. Then, he broke the ice. You want advice? Stop trying. It's for your own sake, your own sense of mission. If you say "try", you give yourself a leeway to bargain. Just do what you can, and if more is expected, just say you need to get your priority straight. Because you do. It's not just about the money, it's about the prestige as well.

Funny enough, it's a(n awkwardly) good feeling, to have someone telling you to do and not to do something. I came to live by myself when I was 14, and I realised when I sat there in his office-- eyes glued to the floor-- that I'd not had the feeling of being slapped in the hand (figuratively speaking, of course, he didn't slap me really) for the longest time. To put it in legalese, I'd substituted that with "voluntary exercise of self-restraint". And it was-- is-- tiring, more so that I thought it would be. Ergo, it was comforting, in a Jungian-Freudian sort of way, to have an authority figure, so-to-speak, scolding me for what I've done wrong. It's liberating to have my options obliterated.

Unfortunately, I am only human.

I want to be a child-- a child of happenstance-- but even if things were ceteris paribus, I had to don a cape and save Townsville. There's a reason why there aren't many popular child superheroes out there. I just pray, and I pray hard, that Lady Luck lingers for a tad longer, for me to save Townsville, for me to save me from me.

New Year Resolutions

I've never really been a big fan of cliches, Tumblr, or Stickies, but I don't really want to verbalvomit on these things, especially when it's a tad late in the new year for any form of articulation of feigned positivity, and little-- if not nothing-- has been resolved. However, these few words below struck me quite considerably when I chanced upon them today during my morning daze adventure. Last year was too tiring a year, so to put it in a nutshell, let there be one, and only one, 2010, and blessed it be. Hopefully these Stickies-formatted, Tumblr-inspired cliches may be a good reminder of what I wish to not come back to.

And perhaps most importantly,

A Year Of A Headache

This post sprung out of utter impulse. Basically, waking up, I'm seized by the urge to mark this day-- the first day of the new year, of the new decade. 1-1-'11. That's a lucky number right there.

Anyhoo, last night was a nightmare. Just a heads-up to my fella calories-addicts out there: no head-bashing before breakfast. Make it a golden rule. Heck, make it The Rule if you must because otherwise, frequent head-bashing at low blood sugar level may very well translate into a migraine trigger. Yesterday I had my first meal at 6 p.m.-- shocking and stupid, I know. Anyway, seven hours of enduring pain is clearly no way to welcome the new year. So this pathetic-then-turned-phonophobic-and-photophobic-self succumbed to the throbbing pain, hitting the bed at 11 p.m. on new year's eve (if this isn't sad, I don't know what is), with five tablets of paracetamol circling my system. This was then followed by waking up at 4 a.m. when the sharp pang came back with vengeance. And this still-pathetic-self had to drag myself out of bed and get myself two oranges, some cereal and some tea (i.e. sugar and caffeine), as recommended by www.wikihow.com. Acht-phoo-ey! All of these while continually massaging menthol oil on my right temple to soothe the debilitating pain, albeit to minimal effect. Bummercity.

So now I'm on my sixth tablet in the past 24 hours, two more before I'm flopping on the floor like a fish with foam in my mouth. Either the painkillers have severed the nerved endings connecting to my right brain, or that awkward sleep has thankfully led to increased blood supply to the hipoxic region there, but anyway, the pain currently goes on and off, depending on how violently I change the position my head. Talk about improving my posture.

I'm sure everybody else had a better countdown experience than I did-- so happy new year. And remember, no head-bashing before breakfast. Let's hope this migraine doesn't set the tone for the rest of the year. Fingers crossed (and toes too).

Grinchsome Christmas

The month of December is a very special month. Ever since Pope Julius I decided to choose the 25th day for the Feast of the Nativity, and the Coca Cola Company fabricated the icon of an overweight Caucasian septogenarian-- who despite the cold and old age persists to slave-drive a bevy of Rudolphs to pull his sleigh to travel the big big world in one night-- the month of December has become a month much-anticipated by most people, especially those in schools and offices. And this year-- two years before the apocalypse-- is no exception. I was actually looking forward to this month, and for what it's worth, it hasn't been all boo-hoo and ba-donk-a-donk. Some exciting stuff took place this month: fun stuff, cool stuff, hateful stuff, inspirational stuff, new stuff, hurtful stuff and aspirational stuff. However, notwithstanding the infectious glee that has raided Facebook, my favorite TV programmes, and-- most flashy of them all-- Orchard Road, I can't help to join the grinch this Christmas, or more specifically post-Christmas.

Once again for the umpteenth time this year, I feel drained-- really, physically and mentally. Against countless warnings from loved ones and my better judgment, I let things get to me (to say the least) and they got to me hard. This is not a call for sympathy. In fact, one of the most comforting things that a dear friend has said to me-- although come to think of it, it's poignantly ironic-- is that: There's nothing that I can say that can make you feel better. I'm all ears. It's true. That's why it's so (ironically) comforting because she understands it. I mean, I am light-years away from what you can label an ideal law student, but one thing I can do is to argue left and right, and it's nice to have another individual that's not quite me to get to it-- to that awful conclusion-- without me having to peel the problem off layer by layer.

Put it in another words, my solution is simply: I just need to be more mature-- a euphemism for just-suck-it-up-and-get-over-it. Sometimes I wish someone can educate me, give this bird-brain another definition for maturity because in spite of twenty one years of living, that's the best definition I can formulate, and frankly it's quite pathetic.

As I said before, this Christmas hasn't been all brown slush and bitter toffee. A rendezvous with an old friend turned out to be a cheer-us-up session, though accidentally, yet pleasantly. Back in the days of yore, he was a great man: a man of stature and eloquence. He carried himself with poise, his words redolent of wisdom and enviable upbringing. There was an air about him of venerable pedigree. Yet, as time went by, he lapsed into the pith of great depression. It got so bad, it bordered on clinical. I'm not saying that I'm anywhere near that-- that would be blowing this way out of proportion. Nevertheless, as I told my story to him, for just one split second-- I even almost missed it-- something twinkled in his eyes. It was a glitter of recognition. It was as if, for that one good second, a doppleganger popped by and said Grüß Gott! Then, soon after, he told his story-- a story not unlike mine. Just like that, there was someting liberating about that moment, which now I try to get back to every chance I get, though somewhat it's been muddled with, if not lost to the abyss of my frail memory.

He did say that he reached a stage where he talked to himself, aloud. A nut-case? If you asked me six months ago, I would probably say: yes. Yet now, I see it. There is something about telling a tale of tattered souls that is-- disturbingly-- therapeutic. You see it everywhere. Isabel Allende writes in Interminable Life:

To exorcise the demons of memory, it is sometimes necessary to tell them as a story.

The great Oscar Wilde in The Picture of Dorian Gray writes:

It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us ablution.

Telling that tattered tale is, at the very least, palliative. And sometimes the only person you want to convince is nobody but yourself. It makes perfect sense, doesn't it? You talk to the person whom you want to persuade and convince. Again, personally speaking, I do not talk to myself (and hopefully I will never have to). I'm just saying that sometimes we need to talk to the person within to hack off the roots of the problem; be it through confessions, crying, praying, writing a journal, counseling, blogging, binging, or even-- if need be-- simply talking aloud in places where no one's around. The answer doesn't come overnight. Sometimes even when you reach a stage where you are perceived insufferable, called names, or institutionalised, it doesn't come still. It comes when it comes. Sometimes you tell the tale because each time you do, a part of the pain withers-- with each word a thorn is chiseled out. And when you know this, you know that all you need is all ears.

So yes, I am tired. I am tired of myself being tired. I want time for me to get away and lick my wounds-- at my own pace. But time I do not have. Whenever it feels like I'm acting like a don in distress, I tend to pull out wide and imagine what others have to deal with in their lives. Cliches like Shit happens! or Life sucks, deal with it! come to mind and deprive me solace. What makes you so special? Cue paragraph 3 (see above). But the way I see it, if I don't mourn for me, who in hell would? Screw maturity, I'm gonna be a brat. I'm gonna be a brat because I can. Because sometimes, to act, think and whine like a don in distress is the only way to destress.

Happy grinchsome Christmas.

Pretty Much?

Pretty much.

Hey, It's Pat/And Carolyn

Hey! So after an uber long mopy post about life and whatnot, this blog is in desperate need of a major mood make-over. It's incredible how your hormones can mess you up your head sometimes. Anyway, to inject a dose of laughter and positivity (you don't see this word on this blog often), I've decided to share my superheroes with the world: Pat Sandora and Carolyn Clark. This was the first of their vlogs that I encountered when I was caught up in the So You Think You Can Dance craze, and I've been obsessed with them ever since. They're funny, caustic, yet insightful at the same time-- really, my kind of humour. They probably are the very people that made me started blogging. They're also the main reason of me watching Top Model, just so that I can understand what they're saying because they too do Top Model recaps. Their situation is pretty much like Will & Grace, and they both work in media (if my memory doesn't fail me).

If you follow their vlogs, there's actually a story you can sort of see, like how they used to be roommates, then they got their own places, Carolyn underwent some operation, Carolyn got married, they were once invited to go on Oprah (so you know they're legit), et cetera. It's nice to watch them make fun of people on TV, and it's nice to see them just enjoying each other's company-- though to be honest, I like Carolyn more. Something that's sweet (again, another word that perhaps will never appear on this blog ever again, unless I decide to talk about food) is this: Carolyn blogged about Pat's birthday, the post titled A Moment of SPARK: Birthday, and she wrote:

Today is my best friend Patrick's 28th birthday. Many of you know Patrick and I from our vlogs and blogs. We have known each other for a long time and as I said to him in his birthday card....we just fit. Of all the people in my life Patrick and I are probably the most alike. I am incredibly lucky that I have him and while I am thankful for the NBC page program for getting my career started...I am probably most thankful that it brought me to Pat.

Ok, cheese overdose, I know. But it's almost Christmas, and in anticipation of the festive season, I guess it's ok to get some cheese on this blog. Anyway, guess there's nothing much to say other than: these two superheroes rock life! And I hope that their vlogs bring you guys a good, well-deserved dose of laughter and positivity this holiday season.