In college, I would have gladly given up any other P.E. class if I can enroll in tennis for all three requirements. Sadly, I couldn't find a friend who share the enthusiasm. Plus, I was too shy to ask my parents to buy me a racket when I could have enrolled in another class without a need for relatively expensive gear. So I took bowling (which I kinda like), table tennis (a cheaper alternative), and chess (which I absolutely hate but was good for my "too-lazy-to-lift-a-muscle" tendencies). One time, my bestfriend promised me that we'll borrow rackets and play on a weekend. She backed out at the last minute, which made me so frustrated I had to cry over it. That is how I was (pathetically) drawn to the sport. These days, nothing much has changed. I still find myself lacking in people to share this interest with, but I learned to enjoy the sport my own way. I regularly follow results and rankings. I never miss watching televised tourneys, most especially the Slams. I'm among the millions of fans salivating over the genius of Roger Federer [great as he is, I hope he doesn't exceed 22 Slams because that's Steffi's legacy. But I'm pulling for him to win the French this year]. It would still take a lot of work before I can say that "I play tennis" with conviction, but it doesn't matter. I'm happy as it is. I can't explain it, but the sound of a tennis ball being hit cleanly is music to my ears. The intricacies of the sport is another matter. But that would be something to discuss here.
So, the story is that I played badminton today and felt bad because I couldn't coordinate my feet and wrist again. I couldn't even remember winning a game in the two hours that I played. Times like this, I only think of three words, "Go down swinging."
This is a postscript to my last post.
Like Onyxx said, there's strenght to be gained from living down painful memories. I say, that's right. I believe in hardwork as much as I believe in natural talent. There's always room for improvement in every endeavor we take. So I'd like to share this video of one of my favorite Broadway songs, sung by Lea Salonga. You can find the lyrics here.
This song is called Nothing, and it talks about a would-be actress who had to dig really deep inside herself to realize her dreams. The lesson is simple: If at first you don't succeed, keep on trying [And, also, don't get disheartened by all-knowing people who easily put you down].
In the words of Ms. Salonga, "For everyone who ever said 'I can't', 'I shouldn't', 'I'm better off not trying', this one's for you…"
Pieces of Me
Frustrated athlete. Once in my life, I thought I was good at volleyball, but boy was I wrong! At a P.E. class in high school, I volunteered to be a part of the girls volleyball team for our section. I've played several times, but never really competitively. The reality of competitive sports was revealed to me in such a cruel and unforgettable manner. Apparently, I was the weakest among my team. How awful was it for me to realize that when I'm already in the middle of a game and the whole school was watching! The girls of the opposing team had a blast punching every return at my direction. And, I, disoriented and shocked, couldn't do a thing about it. My teacher, who I must say is a really scary guy (actually, gay), didn't give a sh*t about how poor broken students feel. Instead of just calling for a replacement, he shouted to me, at the top of his lungs, "Tanga!", with his arms flailing on all directions. I never played volleyball again.
Frustrated actress. My English teacher in high school believed in me so much, she convinced me that I should join a declamation contest. Would be good for the grades and good for my "personal development." She said to me, "Cmon', come out of your shell; challenge yourself!" I, who've always loved to challenge myself (at least in non-life-threatening ways), gave in. I memorized my lines, got to the stage, and said my piece. Did I say I was supposed to do a monologue about a teenager who got addicted to drugs and is now losing her mind? And, oh, I was supposed to cry. I shed a tear. But not so much. I thought it doesn't really matter because I had to lay there, face down to the floor by the end of it. After the performance, while my classmates were giving me nods of appreciation for having gone through it, i cried. No, I bawled! I couldn't stop crying because I suddenly felt so ashamed, I literally lost my breath for a second or two. The crying went on for minutes. I was inconsolable. So much for trying to come out of my shell.
Frustrated singer and musician. I've always wanted to learn to play guitar. About three years ago, I went inside a guitar store and asked for something that would suit a beginner. The guy in charge asked me, "Is it for a boy or a girl?" It strucked me that I must have looked pretty clueless so he thought I was looking for a gift. I pretended I was, so I can ask stupid questions. It wasn't until I bought my third guitar (with me all the time pretending to be buying for someone else) that I realized i'm never going to have the discipline to teach myself and be proficient at it. And, no, the guitar color and type of strings don't have anything to do with it. The guitars had to go. One time, we had an office party, I decided to do a number just for the heck of it. I told my friends, this is so I can list out an item on my "things I have to do in my lifetime." We practiced simple songs, favorite songs, and popular songs. I prepared three. In the end, I had to take a shot of tequila before I managed to sing a very simple song that anybody can sing in public. It was fun. But I don't think I'll do it again.
Frustrated artist. We had a project at school wherein we had to learn to do silk-screen printing on T-shirts. I had no idea what design I should do and no matter how hard I raked my brain, I couldn't come up with one. Well, I'm not the only one. So my teacher, who was too lazy to provide some inspiration, told us dimwits that we can just do letters. "Just print words - your name, your dog's name, your favorite song, whatever!" I, too lazy to look for an inspiration, moved along. My sisters got to wear that shirt when I became too big for it; but after all these years, it still gives me laughs (and not to mention jeers) whenever i read those words i printed on the back - Heaven Knows.
An old man too afraid to die unnoticed, a girl longing to rebuild her family, and the book that will bring them together "like a warm, desperate embrace."
For everyone who ever believed that first love lasts forever.
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering…
But then the war came. The girl was sent to America while the boy learned how to be invisible in order to survive. To follow his love. Fast forward five years, the man who had become invisible stood face to face with the only woman he would ever love, and then walked away. She bore him a son, but married another. She thought he was dead. So for the rest of his life, Leo Gursky lived for one reason alone - his son, Isaac, who never knew him. He watched him from afar, trying to survive just a little longer for him. But then he even outlived Isaac. Now at 80 something, he's making a habit out of being seen, too afraid to die without anybody noticing.
The first woman may have been Eve, but the first girl will always be Alma…
Alma Singer is fourteen. She lost her father when she was seven, and since then her mother had been "lost" to the world. But she needed her mother to be not sad. And her little brother, Bird, too, who thinks he might be the Messiah. So when a mysterious letter arrived, asking her mother to translate a book that had been her father's, she takes on an adventure to find her namesake, after whom every girl in the book The History of Love was named. She thought maybe she could find a husband for her mother, who never fell out of love with her father, and maybe save her family.
And that's about it. That's the story. But I'm not even close in capturing the essence of this remarkable novel by Nicole Krauss. It's not a huge book; barely 300 pages, with some not even taking up half the space. But it's the best i've read in such a long time.
It's a tale about love and loss, life and death. And everything that comes in between.
There are so many ways to be alive, but only one way to be dead. Now that mine is almost over, I can say that the thing that struck me most about life is the capacity for change. One day you're a person and the next day they tell you you're a dog. At first it's hard to bear, but after a while you learn not to look at it as loss. There's even a moment when it becomes exhilarating to realize just how little needs to stay the same for you to continue the effort they call, for lack of a better word, being human.
-Leo Gursky
P.S. The book The History of Love, which Alma's mother translated from Spanish to English was originally written in Yiddish, 60 years ago in a Polish village where the real author of the book, Leopold Gursky, grew up and fell in love. He wrote it for the only person whose opinion he cared about - Alma Mereminsky. He thought the book was lost in a flood. But it survived- it crossed oceans and generations, and changed lives.
There are a multitude of love poems out there. And just because the blogosphere is currently clogged with "love" entries , here's my share (not my compositions, but two of my faves):
Touched by an Angel
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.Maya Angelou
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his ending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Shakespeare, Sonnet CXVI
For anyone who hasn't read the book Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, I've found an online version. You SHOULD check it out.
Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write?
Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.
We all have our reasons why we do this. Why we write. In the old times, we used papers and pens. Others used the tree barks, the sand, and even the walls of public places. We write because we have to. Because there are words that need to be said. Words that need to be perceived by the eye. There are things that the writer needs to read for himself to find solace and self-realizations. Technology has afforded us to share our gifts, our minds, and our passions with a greater majority than ever before. Today, you don't have to put in so much labor just to get published. You just have to type, and click "publish." Aren't we all glad of that? We're lucky, you know?
Must I write? It begs the question, what should I write? I want to be able to write about all sorts of things. Books, music, movies, fashion, sports - all things that people are interested in. If I lack the necessary background, I can always do research. Since starting this blog, I've realized that there's a certain joy that can be found with writing about things that are closest to your heart. Things that you know by heart. But sometimes I fear that sooner or later, I'll run out of stories. One of these days, I may have to fill the void by writing about things that I don't care about. That's not beyond possibility. I may very well be on the verge of it.
So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember.
If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world's sounds - wouldn't you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.
I've found that it is easy to write about life because we all live it. As I always say, I've always wanted to write. But not too long ago, I sat in front of my room's window, stared at the drops of rain falling over the roofs, felt the wind on my face, and realized that I am empty. I do not have anything to share. I wanted to write novels because I thought that was safer. You don't have to reveal too much of yourself when you're writing about characters who never really walked the earth. I didn't go through any form of writing class, although I wish I had. Maybe someday, I will. But this much I know - You are what you write. No matter how much of our imaginations take over our works, there will always be a glimpse, a small opening wherein you can see the real heart of the writer. For what is a work written without heart?
I can't give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take the destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted
Now you spend an extra hour in front of the mirror every morning and every night. And now you'll be the one to walk into a room and scan it for who looks better than you and who doesn't. And as the years go by, the numbers change. One day you'll walk into a room and you're the last woman any man notices.
Claire
From the Barbra Streisand film The Mirror Has Two Faces, one scene lingers in my mind. When Rose finally decided that she doesn't want to settle for a chaste, for-companionship-only marriage, she tried to seduce her husband. If you haven't watched the film and you're starting to think I'm about to describe a graphic sex scene, i'm very sorry to disappoint you. She got rejected. Finding solace by hiding in the bathroom, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and was so disappointed by what she saw that she had to throw a towel over it.
Now, I don't intend to talk about physicality alone. Sure, everybody has his or her own quirks about how to look. But for me, it's all about personal preference. Everyone knows beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. But if you don't like yourself, then that's going to be a problem.
I am 100% positive that at least for the first six years of my life, I am the prettiest daughter my parents ever had. That was because I am a first-born and my sister didn't come until I was already starting school. I remember when she first came home from the hospital, wrapped in that neat, white cloth, I was so jealous because her skin was ivory white. For several years, I blamed it on too many trips to the beach that I became morena. I would nag my mother to reaffirm the "truth" that I used to be "maputi" but had too much sun exposure, baked with sea water. Even when I was older, I would still rummage for old pictures, hoping to find some "evidence." When she became old enough for me to bully, I would tell her that there is a possibility that she got swapped with another baby in the hospital. Because that's the only explanation why our skin color differs. My other sister, the third child, was born at home and she turned out morena, too. Imagine the power it afforded me to stand by my story. Ahh, the joys of being "panganay." My second sister turned out to be such a cute toddler that everybody was saying she may just turn out to be the prettiest of us all.
Anything in any way beautiful derives its beauty from itself and
asks nothing beyond itself.
Praise is no part of it, for nothing is made worse or better by praise.- Marcus Aurelius
I have nothing against paying and accepting compliments. Looking at something that pleased your eyes and being told that you pleased another is a great thing. It has to be appreciated. But try not to long for it everyday. Unless, of course, you're Angelina Jolie. Worrying about how others perceive your looks can be a pretty tiring thing. I used to pride myself for being simple - the "walang arte sa katawan" type. Four years ago, I went on a trip to Puerto Gallera with some friends. One person noted that I brought such a small bag. I thought to myself, "What's the problem with that? We're only staying for the night." Later on, I realized that I should've brought several pieces of swim attire. That is because we'll have a dip once after lunch, then swim after dinner and early in the morning. That requires three bathing suits to look great in the pictures. I'm not trying to be sarcastic. Not exactly the numbers, but I realized I should've brought something that would look better than my shirts and shorts. I accepted that I don't have to be myself all the time. Sometimes, there's nothing wrong with trying to "makibagay" with the people you go with. And I don't even have to cite here where such trying to fit in should stop. You have your own mind. Figure it out.
One of my most favorite compositions, Desiderata, says that "If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself." Everyday, in every person we meet, we find basis for comparisons. "She's got a great figure and a pretty face, but how does she pronounce (f)province again?…" How many times have we heard things such as this? How many times have we talked like that? I guess what I'm trying to say is that these kinds of comparisons are not healthy. Especially if we talk down others to raise ourselves up. I have a teacher-friend back in college who I admire very much. I think she's an intelligent, strong, and great person I can use as a kind of a mentor. But then I heard her talk about a friend of hers who she hates because she's trying to copy everything about her. I can imagine why she might have felt such rage, but deep inside I saw how much of it was because she loathes herself as well. "Loathe" may be a pretty strong word, but that made her more human to my eyes. That made me see that even real characters, even accomplished people, give way to self doubt.
Like Rose in the movie, we have to realize that we can't expect others to like us if we don't like ourselves. And again, you set the limits here. (One of my pet peeves is hearing someone brag about himself.) The good thing is, there's always room for improvement. Be it on how you dress, how you wear your hair, how you talk, what you talk about, and how you see yourself when you look at the mirror. Don't believe that anonymous person who once said that "Time may be a great healer; but it's a lousy beautician." He was widely quoted but he didn't name himself. Go figure.
So you found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts
What's so amazing about really deep thoughts
Boy you best pray that I bleed real soon
How's that thought for youTori Amos (from Silent All These Years)
What makes a person shallow? What makes another "malalim"? I ask because a dear friend of mine gave me a testimonial describing me simply as "malalim na tao." I'm not playing stupid. I know what she means, and why some people might think so, too. I was browsing profiles of my friends in these social networking sites, and someone described herself as "seriously serious." I flinched a bit. I can use that, too. The last time I visited cortez' site (I think he may be the first person to find me here at i.ph), there's something there about me being a "profound thinker." Darn, this is my nth attempt at maintaining a blog and I still can't hide that side of me. Can't I be that cool, funny, gregarious girl for a change? Can't I pretend to be a happy-go-lucky, antithesis of the no-nonsense persona I seem to be exuding in real life? Geez, I really am boring, hehe [eyes rolling over (thanks, onyxx, for this idea)] .
I was at a meeting today, and again I found myself sitting there with my mind wandering someplace else. It was as if my brain sometimes works overtime. Not really, who am I kidding? I was thinking of what's to write tonight for my blog. I was never the type who's compelled to talk, to raise my thoughts, or to offer insights that mean to blow everybody away with my brilliance. That's why when I sit at a meeting, I gather info and I try to listen. You'll always find me immaculately sitting at some corner, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Digesting the agenda would come later. There's always the e-mail facility to raise some concerns after. Postscripts are not taboo, at least where I work. I'm not saying this is the better way to do it. It's not, if you'll ask me. That's why I can't imagine myself at an administrative position. There's way too much practicality required that's bad for my emotionality.
So maybe I don't smile a lot with my upper and lower gums all flashing. Maybe I don't allow myself to laugh with my mouth wide open you can see my throat, or so loud you can hear me gaggling from the next building. Maybe I read books some people find boring. Or I maybe I do smash the shuttlecock or hit a tennis ball to the net with just a minor "Ay!" escaping. That's just me. It doesn't mean I scoff at people who do the opposite.
I intended this blog to be a repository of stories. A lot of times, they will be mine. Part of the reason why I love blogging is because I don't like talking for extended periods. By that I mean more than 2 minutes at a time. I may be sharing these stories with friends, but never in the same form you'll find them here. This is my space, my domain. Here I can go as deep as I want to be without compromising the time of possibly less kindered spirits.
Apropos, this is something I've written on a blog that I've deleted. I thought I may post here, just because.
Shallow and Deep
That's life to me now. I have a few thoughts on life, on love, on being happy, on being alone, on friendships, on virtue, on evil and good. The list goes on. Ok, I have a lot of thoughts about those things. I'm not going to bore you with them.
I wanna let you in on a secret… I am heartbroken. Because I realized that everything in life is a matter of choice. Nothing is absolute [Well, maybe God is. But that's a different story.]. Over things that happen by chance, by accident, by uncontrollable circumstance, we always have the choice between moving on and sulking up. Ergo, the freedom to decide what to make of your life. It seems to me that it all goes back to the uncanny connection between the mind and the heart. I don't think we'll ever realize which works better when they don't quite see eye to eye [for lack of a better term]. And by better i mean what would serve to make us happy, not necessarily right. It could have been a lot easier if we can see plain and clear the path where happiness lies. But then I heard even that is a relative term. Oh, crap!
These past few days, I have been discussing with a friend a lot of my idealisms. Things that I want for myself. Things that I am willing to give up and those that I think i'd spend a lot of my life searching for. Yes, I share your pity for my listener. For these things are not that easy to digest. Even to me, sometimes, they sort of leave a bad taste in the mouth. This is when I think of deep. Someone told me I am somewhat like that. I kind of agree. That's why i think maybe i'm shallow.
I feel old sometimes. Especially whenever I fail to laugh at a simple joke. But then, sometimes, when a clear blue sky would make me feel light and, well, happy, i feel young. When a cold wind and a few drops of rain would remind me of a lot of good things behind me, i feel reconnected with the world. I remember I am just a girl. I don't run the universe. I don't have to worry that much.
I think perhaps I am both shallow and deep. I was sort of hoping that would keep me grounded, leveled. And maybe in time both parts of me would lead me to a better understanding of, well, a lot of things i don't understand and those that i continue to misunderstand [for lack of a better description].
Whoa, enough of this now! Someday, I'll write something funny. One of these days, I'll try to make you laugh. I love the odds of that.
I received this on my e-mail and decided to post it here because even if it doesn’t make sense, it really made me laugh.
On the second thought, as legends go, it may actually make sense 
Noong unang panahon, sa bakuran ni Juan, nakakita siya ng tumubong puno.
Sabi ni Juan, “Ano ‘to?! Parang saging!”
Mula noon ay tinawag na itong saging.
Well, Onyxx tagged me and I'm yielding. I am supposed to write 5 things that have changed in my life since I started blogging. Hmm.. can I really list that much? Let's see…
I started a Friendster blog in 2005 but I decided to delete it several months back for no particular reason. I just felt the entries are getting old. Because of the popularity of Friendster, I guess one thing that's changed is that I was able to open up thoughts and experiences to a wider audience who knows me personally. That is, if any of my friends on the list ever took a peek on what was written there.
I was compelled to buy a laptop and acquire a faster internet connection (I was using dial-up previously, now I'm on Smart Bro).
I realized there are really tons of talented Filipino writers out there, from all age groups, and I'm proud to be among those crazy and courageous individuals willing to throw some (sometimes a lot of) precious time tapping over the keyboard to declare to the world what's on their minds, be there anybody interested to know or not.
My coffee intake became more than double my usual 3 Nescafe-vendo-machine cups a day. You see, I usually work till almost 12 midnight and then will attend to my blog(s) right after I get home. So we can add the fact that I became somewhat of an insomiac, when I used to fall asleep really easily before. I'm usually up till 3 or 4 a.m. these days.
I realized my sister writes well, if only she's not too emotional at times, hehe. Then, it dawned on me that when I was her age, I was writing angsty poems and other stuff. Once, we had a poetry reading as an office activity and I contributed about three of my works, which were mostly written during my college years. A colleague approached me to say, first that my poems are quite good; and second, "Stay away from sharp objects." He was a funny guy, heh heh.
So that's 5. Next stop would be to pass this on to five other bloggers. So I'm calling on mabskie, karmee, cortez, jogasaurus, & fencesitter to please tell us about the five things that blogging has done to change your life, one way or another. My account here is rather new so I'm listing the (owners of the) blogs that I've had the pleasure of viewing these past couple of days. Write on, people!
