Monthly Archives: March 2013

back from the dead zone

I know, I know, I know, you didn’t notice that I haven’t blogged for ages. Haha!

I missed blogging here on my online home. Things have taken a peculiar turn especially when it came to my profession. For years, I’ve done freelance work and taken up subjects for my M.A. degree. Coursework for that degree is almost over (assuming that I don’t fail my last two subjects). Next up is the Foreign Language exam most probably set in August this year. And then the dreaded thesis-proposal writing and the thesis itself.

The peculiar turn I mentioned came when I was tapped to be part of a judicial institution. The job opening was attractive because it meant dealing more with words than with people. It meant I would be with and learn from a couple of brilliant people. It meant flag ceremonies every Monday and early morning and late afternoon commute from Monday to Friday. It meant little and big things. It meant socializing and trying to be a nice animal in a professional jungle. It meant spending less time with the cats, less time with my personal space and more time staring vacantly at strangers who on more than one occasion have elbowed and harangued one another on train platforms. It meant dressing up and speaking with tact. It meant zero spontaneous afternoon meet-ups with friends and zero beer-drinking trips on a weekday evening. It meant less time on Twitter (HAHA!)

I am finally trying my damnedest to become an adult.

I realized that I need money to travel, I need financial security to retire comfortably, and I need more money to round up the people I am irritated with and wreak havoc on their lives.


Writers, movie makers, and directors have always had the habit of adapting the ‘not-normal’ into films and series.

I viewed a movie recently that talks about the condition I have. V even told me afterwards that I am like the female protagonist with all her tics. And yes, it was true. While my housemates were amused and entertained by her tics, I was horrified and overwhelmed. It was like watching a version of myself talking and flailing and making mistakes on the screen — only that female character was way hotter and had an amazing body.

In other movies that portray the same condition, I would usually question the validity of the characterization. It would most likely be too trivial or overdramatized for comfort. This movie, on the other hand, weighed just right. It portrayed symptoms of the conditions well sans the pretensions. Unlike similar movies that irritated me, this movie made me ponder and made me thank the heavens for giving me a handful of friends who accept me for who I really am. It also made me fear the worst of what I have. It can only be downhill from here, I tell you, unless I try my damnedest to counteract fate. That would take a lot of effort, time, and mental energy. If you’re up for the ride, do tell me. I may need people like you to prop me up and breathe away the bleak parts of the day.


I told someone that if I could borrow her brains for a couple of weeks that I would take all the intelligence-measuring exams out there and try to ace those: law exams, MENSA, and other similar exams. Then I would build a machine, a machine that would help yuppies accomplish household chores. Then I would write a DIY book, preferably on how to set up a business and make it successful. And when the two-week loaning period is over, I’d settle in a house in a province down south and converse with children for days on end.

Even if I am fascinated with poetry to the extent that I have made a mediocre practice out of it, I still can’t get myself to stop wondering about an alternative life if I had chosen a different path. What if I pursued a Psychology degree or a degree in Industrial Engineering? Would I have met the strange and fun people I like at present, would I have set up this blog and would I have the same sets of thoughts, tics, and neuroses? Would I have met you?

This is an excerpt from a Peter Orr interview with poet, Sylvia Plath. “I much prefer doctors, midwives, lawyers, anything but writers. I think writers and artists are the most narcissistic people. I mustn’t say this, I like many of them, in fact a great many of my friends happen to be writers and artists. But I must say what I admire most is the person who masters an area of practical experience, and can teach me something. I mean, my local midwife has taught me how to keep bees. Well, she can’t understand anything I write. And I find myself liking her, may I say, more than most poets. And among my friends I find people who know all about boats or know all about certain sports, or how to cut somebody open and remove an organ. I’m fascinated by this mastery of the practical. As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.”

This is why professionals in the field of manual labor and science fascinate me. This is why a welding machine attracts me, a windmill is like a working artifact that excites me. Right now, what could the alternative me be doing? Pasting labels on a bottle? Greasing rivets? Blowing glass? Testing the efficacy of a cask of wine? Walking a couple of dogs? Repairing the mechanism of a botched garage door?

Tagged , , , ,

dance dance dance

(title borrowed from Haruki Murakami’s novel, Dance, Dance, Dance)

my body is no longer a peaceful part of myself. it hates me. i have stopped giving it sustenance. art that is movement, movement that is art. i have left it to rot in the banalities of dailiness. i have stopped dancing for two semesters. which is to say my limbs have lost their purpose, which is to say my feet drag chains of steel.

somebody said that i don’t have a concept of time, of its linearity. that’s why i am open to starting from the bottom again never mind the years ahead of me, never mind the years past that were devoted to this craft. like carla korbes featured here in a creative video, i sense the lack and the emptiness and the staccato of gracelessness when i miss ballet classes in a row. what more a semester or two? my body slaps me once or twice to rouse me from this sluggishness. thus the surprising tap while gorging on cake, the pinch while i’m about to take a bath. my memory and my body’s memory are at war.

i will never be a ballerina. i am two and a half decades late to fulfill this dream, but i still wish to pursue learning the craft, strengthening my muscles, enduring pain that seeps in the very marrow of my bones. when i am alone with dance, i can lodge my secrets deeper and further. with every jump, push, spin, leap, and twist, fabrics and spaces stretch and yawn open where i deposit my secrets. my secrets are like the twelve dancing princesses. once they are barred from dancing, life slips away. which is to say dance is as close to my spirit as poetry and music. which is to say the things that keep me alive make noise, claim silence, and straddle life with gestures. which is to say now is the time to move, move as if my very life depends on it. which is to say Yes, it does.

Tagged ,