Answers are, and have always been, a scarce resource of human civilization. Granted, answers can be easy to get given the right approach and/or resources, but really, how many of us have that capability? For the rest of us tortured souls, the answers we seek require a bit more questioning, time and luck. It is even unfortunate that due to certain circumstances that we face, some of us will have to suffer never getting answers to the questions that plague our conscience. Truly a breeding ground for regrets and failed aspirations. Meh, you'll live.
Then again, there are times that the answer simply comes with no work on our end. It could be in the form of self-realization or external stimuli. Frankly, such things are quite welcome considering just how much better it is to know what the score really is rather than be in the dark on such personal matters. Creating allusions to the truth, blinding and misleading. A lot more painful and disheartening in the long run to be quite honest.
The difficulty in knowing the answers is dealing with accepting them, if not the repercussions associated with them. Worse even, it seems answers always come in the form or rejection or disappointment that one is forced to ponder on the benefits of being clueless vis-a-vis knowing the truth.
Once accepted however, the answer becomes a thing of humor, a lesson, a reminder. It serves as a case study that you were once foolish, naive, and petty. I've always said that recovery is just a matter of getting to Point B from Point A, the in-between may be difficult, painful and depressing but you will eventually get there.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Questions
We've all experienced times when we, after an activity or long day at work, are forced to go into a auto pilot state. Of course, the state is hardly without brain activity, as the time spent on this long arduous trips back to our place of dwelling is reserved to more introspective matters. This commute is reserved, rather, for internalizing a million questions in our mind, wondering how this day, or the events prior to it, could've gone another way.
Once alighting your vehicle of choice, the outside world seems to hardly matter. The wonders of the human brain comes into play, despite an absence of focus, we manage to find our way home, whether driving or taking numerous stops via public transportation. Some may claim this time to be therapeutic, and it truly is.
We finds ourselves asking questions that we fear to ask another person, simply because the notion of vulnerability this implies scares us more than any we can imagine. The truth, the most honest to goodness facts are there, ripe for picking. While a few close confidants may know or have an idea of such, they will remain a closely guarded secret. As for how long, that, to be quite honest, is relative.
You find yourself empty, filled with uncertainties and nothing more. While this may constitute as self-inflicted torture to some, the mere act of asking them, even internally, is a form of release. Because as each question is left lingering and unresolved, you realize that in those few short moments, you confided in the best person in that situation: You.
Once alighting your vehicle of choice, the outside world seems to hardly matter. The wonders of the human brain comes into play, despite an absence of focus, we manage to find our way home, whether driving or taking numerous stops via public transportation. Some may claim this time to be therapeutic, and it truly is.
We finds ourselves asking questions that we fear to ask another person, simply because the notion of vulnerability this implies scares us more than any we can imagine. The truth, the most honest to goodness facts are there, ripe for picking. While a few close confidants may know or have an idea of such, they will remain a closely guarded secret. As for how long, that, to be quite honest, is relative.
Was it something you said? Did you do the right thing? Should you have waited or did you wait too long? Should you have said the truth? Maybe it would be better if you lied back there? Would it better to just forget it? Is this something you will regret? Is this what you really want? Were you being stupid? Do you really love her? Does she even feel the same way? What does this mean to you? How will this affect you? Can you even go through with it? Does she know? Do they know? Think you can trust her? Can you trust them? Why are you even asking yourself this questions? Will you even find the answers? When the time comes, can you really say that you will do the right thing, or falter in the end like you've always have?
You find yourself empty, filled with uncertainties and nothing more. While this may constitute as self-inflicted torture to some, the mere act of asking them, even internally, is a form of release. Because as each question is left lingering and unresolved, you realize that in those few short moments, you confided in the best person in that situation: You.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Zeezoobic
Recently, our gracious employers had the courtesy to send our rag-tag group of misfits and Internet meme geeks to the beaches of Subic. This so-called recreational trip, dubbed Zeezoobic, was months in planning, and the anticipation was on an all-time high. Granted, I already went to the former-military -base-turned-tourist-spot the week prior, the idea of mentally dissecting these diverse individuals was a welcome distraction to the day-to-day boondoggle that we subject ourselves to.
Of course, such long trips would require us to rendezvous on the godforsaken hours of the early morn like some deprived, militaristic gaggle of grunts. Suffice to say, the best solution for some was to forgo the comforts of their own beds and relatively clean bathrooms. Considering I had a prior engagement that night, I decided my best course of action was to give the Sandman the proverbial finger and make him wait until I was riding the bus before I succumb to his restful whispers.
True enough, I arrived early, lacking sleep and in desperate need of a caffeine fix. As exhilarating as the dawn's breeze was, the long trek on foot to the only convenience store of worth and the decision of skipping my usual 4 hours of slumber was beginning to prove foolish. Still, this was caffeine we're talking about, and God forbid I miss out on my daily intake.
The bus arrived rather early, which was a good thing as it only enticed us to consider further the hedonistic pleasures that we were about to be subjected to. Then again, perhaps hearing one such as myself asking for someone to lead a prayer erased all that, a foreshadowing of what lies ahead is a bizzarro world wherein the Rambler is actually religious. Guess what, there is that bizzarro world and you're living in it. You think you know, but you have no idea.
The trip itself was a blur, this was a far cry from my other travels with those of my usual circle of ...well, friends. That, and I was asleep majority of the time except for eating meals and answering the call of nature. I could go on and ramble further about the philosophical value of dreaming in a moving vehicle but quite frankly such things are best kept secret.
In the instance that we arrived I immediately felt the urge to gather insight upon seeing the pristine waters and fine grains of sand that lie before me. The rays of the scorching sun licking my exposed epidermis and the salty sea air has a mystique all on its own. Yes, poetic bullcrap once again, you'll get that a lot when the Rambler travels.
The food was a welcome development, any self-respecting kampampangan will tell you that. Insult their cooking and you're in for a world of fast-paced verbal assaults the likes that would make even the most brutally dry British tosser blush. Other things of note was the various amenities available to visitors. Clean bathrooms, karaoke machine, a makeshift volleyball court, jetski, banana boats, a billiard table and a gigantic chicken that probably owed its existence to Chocobos. Yes, this little shindig was proving to be well worth the price of admission (Seriously, the bathrooms alone are worth it).
Onwards to the itinerary. A pseudo-Amazing Race activity built to explore just how twisted the minds of the committee members are when it comes to formulating subtle tortures toward their fellow man. Weeks of scheming would come down to this, and expectedly, road bumps marred our well-planned gauntlet. Still, there's something about seeing co-workers suffer through a series of tests of your own making. Let's just say the Rambler felt a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.
The rest of the day allowed all to enjoy the amenities Sunset Cove had to offer. Despite the atrocious heat of the sun and sand, the time spent was quite relaxing. While the concept of seeing colleagues scantily-clad in their swimwear provided new... erm.. observation towards such persons, it was the landscape that proved to be quite impressive. The refraction of the setting sun's light against the calm waters painted a wonderland of orange and purplish horizons. The mountainside was donned with a tangerine veil that only added to their enigmatic aura. Greens and blues gave off a different tint, making one think this was some sort of messed-up crossover collaboration between dirty hippies and a drugged-up Van Gogh.
In a manner of moments, it was nightfall and this means only one thing. Booze and merriment. While the unfortunate few may have missed the happenings of that evening, those moments, those little glimpses of possibilities will live on in my memory forever, for the sake of blackmail of course. I could go on detail on the events that night, but then again, let that be our little group's secret. While the Rambler did wish for certain things to happen or to develop, the idea that everyone was enjoying themselves was perhaps enough, and whatever selfish reasons I had were best left in the back burner, or better yet, forgotten forever like the futile pursuit that it was.
After awakening from alcohol-laced sleep, I was surprised to find out most of memory was still intact.... much to my chagrin. Still, this day could only prove to be even better. While it was less controversial as... say, the night prior, the enjoyment was still present. By the way, beach volleyball is fun, as long as the ball does not come to you.
It was time to go home and it felt bittersweet. The idea of going back to your comfort zone is always nice, but leaving Zeezoobic felt a lot like leaving unfinished business. Whatever that business is, I don't know. Still can't help shake the feeling that there was something that I should have done. Meh, such musings are boring at best I always say.
The return to normalcy can be a downer, but the idea of going back knowing that we bonded with each other can be quite exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time. I'd like to think that Zeezoobic is but the first step to a lot of things in our little slacker company's future. For ill or for better, Zeezoobic will always be ours, no matter what.
Of course, such long trips would require us to rendezvous on the godforsaken hours of the early morn like some deprived, militaristic gaggle of grunts. Suffice to say, the best solution for some was to forgo the comforts of their own beds and relatively clean bathrooms. Considering I had a prior engagement that night, I decided my best course of action was to give the Sandman the proverbial finger and make him wait until I was riding the bus before I succumb to his restful whispers.
True enough, I arrived early, lacking sleep and in desperate need of a caffeine fix. As exhilarating as the dawn's breeze was, the long trek on foot to the only convenience store of worth and the decision of skipping my usual 4 hours of slumber was beginning to prove foolish. Still, this was caffeine we're talking about, and God forbid I miss out on my daily intake.
The bus arrived rather early, which was a good thing as it only enticed us to consider further the hedonistic pleasures that we were about to be subjected to. Then again, perhaps hearing one such as myself asking for someone to lead a prayer erased all that, a foreshadowing of what lies ahead is a bizzarro world wherein the Rambler is actually religious. Guess what, there is that bizzarro world and you're living in it. You think you know, but you have no idea.
The trip itself was a blur, this was a far cry from my other travels with those of my usual circle of ...well, friends. That, and I was asleep majority of the time except for eating meals and answering the call of nature. I could go on and ramble further about the philosophical value of dreaming in a moving vehicle but quite frankly such things are best kept secret.
In the instance that we arrived I immediately felt the urge to gather insight upon seeing the pristine waters and fine grains of sand that lie before me. The rays of the scorching sun licking my exposed epidermis and the salty sea air has a mystique all on its own. Yes, poetic bullcrap once again, you'll get that a lot when the Rambler travels.
The food was a welcome development, any self-respecting kampampangan will tell you that. Insult their cooking and you're in for a world of fast-paced verbal assaults the likes that would make even the most brutally dry British tosser blush. Other things of note was the various amenities available to visitors. Clean bathrooms, karaoke machine, a makeshift volleyball court, jetski, banana boats, a billiard table and a gigantic chicken that probably owed its existence to Chocobos. Yes, this little shindig was proving to be well worth the price of admission (Seriously, the bathrooms alone are worth it).
Onwards to the itinerary. A pseudo-Amazing Race activity built to explore just how twisted the minds of the committee members are when it comes to formulating subtle tortures toward their fellow man. Weeks of scheming would come down to this, and expectedly, road bumps marred our well-planned gauntlet. Still, there's something about seeing co-workers suffer through a series of tests of your own making. Let's just say the Rambler felt a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.
The rest of the day allowed all to enjoy the amenities Sunset Cove had to offer. Despite the atrocious heat of the sun and sand, the time spent was quite relaxing. While the concept of seeing colleagues scantily-clad in their swimwear provided new... erm.. observation towards such persons, it was the landscape that proved to be quite impressive. The refraction of the setting sun's light against the calm waters painted a wonderland of orange and purplish horizons. The mountainside was donned with a tangerine veil that only added to their enigmatic aura. Greens and blues gave off a different tint, making one think this was some sort of messed-up crossover collaboration between dirty hippies and a drugged-up Van Gogh.
In a manner of moments, it was nightfall and this means only one thing. Booze and merriment. While the unfortunate few may have missed the happenings of that evening, those moments, those little glimpses of possibilities will live on in my memory forever, for the sake of blackmail of course. I could go on detail on the events that night, but then again, let that be our little group's secret. While the Rambler did wish for certain things to happen or to develop, the idea that everyone was enjoying themselves was perhaps enough, and whatever selfish reasons I had were best left in the back burner, or better yet, forgotten forever like the futile pursuit that it was.
After awakening from alcohol-laced sleep, I was surprised to find out most of memory was still intact.... much to my chagrin. Still, this day could only prove to be even better. While it was less controversial as... say, the night prior, the enjoyment was still present. By the way, beach volleyball is fun, as long as the ball does not come to you.
It was time to go home and it felt bittersweet. The idea of going back to your comfort zone is always nice, but leaving Zeezoobic felt a lot like leaving unfinished business. Whatever that business is, I don't know. Still can't help shake the feeling that there was something that I should have done. Meh, such musings are boring at best I always say.
The return to normalcy can be a downer, but the idea of going back knowing that we bonded with each other can be quite exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time. I'd like to think that Zeezoobic is but the first step to a lot of things in our little slacker company's future. For ill or for better, Zeezoobic will always be ours, no matter what.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Sometimes, Games Are All We Have
It is quite normal that people associate life with games. After all, there are certain rules that govern our existence, some to be followed, bended, or simply broken. Some people are better at it and some are not. Suffice to say, whether we like it or not, we all play our own little games.
Our propensity to play these games differ from person to person. At the end though, it is all a matter of knowledge. Knowledge on the other players, the field of battle, our own capabilities and whatnot. Some use influence, physical beauty, sweet and enticing words, wealth and other creative factors that can help in managing the hand we've been dealt with. There's something to be said about people who can do this on conscious level over those who only do it subconsciously. Frankly, caution with dealing with such individuals is the first reaction, unless of course one is capable of going with the tide of the game, scheming, plotting and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Otherwise, it is only pure luck and the randomness of human emotions that decide the outcome of such unbalanced interactions.
Now, this may sound all diabolical, only because this Rambler does not ascribe to the notion that such mind games are intended to one-upmanship and harm. Games are meant to be fun after all. The witty banter and clever retort of two scribes, the listless dance of flirting and the mystery of budding relationships can prove to be just as complex and strategically interesting as the most putrid and disgusting web of lies some players are capable of weaving. Games, just as anything that mankind can cook up is a neutral tool - its intent, motivation and moral direction dependent on its wielder.
The more serious of us would claim that life is not a game. Yet the metaphor matches so well that one wonders if such ideals are but another way of playing. While these people may believe in their hearts of hearts that they are not partaking of such parlor activities, others may still be playing with them, or worse, playing THEM.
After all, try us we might, the world does not revolve around any of us, and a thousand games, each with their own set of rules and nuances, are present in all interactions and relations we have. But there is something that holds such things together, something deep and meaningful, something that goes beyond mere games. Be it genuine interest or the sincere longing for social interaction, the games we play may actually revolve around that very thing. Whatever it is, it must be really worth playing for. Otherwise, and it would be quite melancholic to think so, games are all we'll ever have.
Our propensity to play these games differ from person to person. At the end though, it is all a matter of knowledge. Knowledge on the other players, the field of battle, our own capabilities and whatnot. Some use influence, physical beauty, sweet and enticing words, wealth and other creative factors that can help in managing the hand we've been dealt with. There's something to be said about people who can do this on conscious level over those who only do it subconsciously. Frankly, caution with dealing with such individuals is the first reaction, unless of course one is capable of going with the tide of the game, scheming, plotting and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Otherwise, it is only pure luck and the randomness of human emotions that decide the outcome of such unbalanced interactions.
Now, this may sound all diabolical, only because this Rambler does not ascribe to the notion that such mind games are intended to one-upmanship and harm. Games are meant to be fun after all. The witty banter and clever retort of two scribes, the listless dance of flirting and the mystery of budding relationships can prove to be just as complex and strategically interesting as the most putrid and disgusting web of lies some players are capable of weaving. Games, just as anything that mankind can cook up is a neutral tool - its intent, motivation and moral direction dependent on its wielder.
The more serious of us would claim that life is not a game. Yet the metaphor matches so well that one wonders if such ideals are but another way of playing. While these people may believe in their hearts of hearts that they are not partaking of such parlor activities, others may still be playing with them, or worse, playing THEM.
After all, try us we might, the world does not revolve around any of us, and a thousand games, each with their own set of rules and nuances, are present in all interactions and relations we have. But there is something that holds such things together, something deep and meaningful, something that goes beyond mere games. Be it genuine interest or the sincere longing for social interaction, the games we play may actually revolve around that very thing. Whatever it is, it must be really worth playing for. Otherwise, and it would be quite melancholic to think so, games are all we'll ever have.
Friday, April 4, 2008
What dreams may come
Dreams have always boggled mankind. A bevy of mental images strewn by our complex subconscious, dreams hold many meanings, some of which we easily misinterpret. Even the so-called experts of dreams have yet to find the definitive truths regarding the uncharted realm of our minds. Of course, can we really blame them? Consider for a moment that no two people are exactly the same, and then you have numerous ideas clashing together in a maelstrom of emotions, biases and whatnot. It wouldn't be a stretch to claim that dreams are unique to their owner, oh no, not at all.
I like dreams, they are certainly preferable to nightmares. But nightmares are just bad dreams, a representation of what we do not fully comprehend. It is simply our imagination twisted by that ignorance, giving birth to the bastard children of inherent reluctance to the unknown and lack of understanding of what is beyond our bubble of knowledge.
I would daresay however, that certain dreams are far worse than nightmares. Take for example, a dream that presented itself quite recently. In this lifelike vision, I saw the past change, shifting to a more desirable outcome, one that has eluded me in reality. Oh Lady Reality, you heartless bitch. How I loathe and adore thee.
What made this imagery even more loathsome is presence of a current prospect, forced to watch as I shut her off abruptly from the possibilities of our collaboration. Would she really care? This musing was fleeting, as bliss took me captive, promising a delightful prison of which I would joyfully cage myself into, or so I thought. While the dream was indeed so life-like that I found myself asking if this is really happening, the truth was slowly beginning to manifest itself. Starting as a slow murmur, it built itself up, slapping me silly and finally reminding me of the cold, harsh truth. This was not real.
One might ask, why do I consider this vision distasteful? Surely my truest desires are coming true, only in my head yes, but the normal reaction would be a pleasant one, correct? It is perhaps my new found grasp of morality, or despite how badly I want this fake reality to come into being I know it to be nothing but a lie. It's a distinct possibility that I did not want to ruin the present, no matter how uncertain it is. Or maybe, just maybe, this was not what I really wanted?
It is for this very reason that despite waking up without the cold sweat and uncontrollable shaking akin to vivid incubi, I would gladly welcome such minute irritations over the nagging feeling of mixed wonderment and muddiness. The aftermath of having dreams that border between true desire, clairvoyance and wishful thinking have a tendency to make us stop and look, wondering what might have been, what could be, and even what may never be.
Questions have a way of popping up like mushrooms, and in this case the figurative fungi was sprouting out in full force. Was I looking at an alternate reality, a path that I was unable to explore in the storyline of my existence? Or was I looking at a sign that there is a second chance and would ignoring this sign close that window of opportunity for all eternity? Or was I simply looking at the mirror image of my regrets and failed aspirations taking shape in my dreams?
Dreams like these, hopefully come and go, however the fallout - the markings - that they leave will probably come back to haunt us over and over again, and unfortunately, the answers and the solutions, may never come to us in this lifetime.
I like dreams, they are certainly preferable to nightmares. But nightmares are just bad dreams, a representation of what we do not fully comprehend. It is simply our imagination twisted by that ignorance, giving birth to the bastard children of inherent reluctance to the unknown and lack of understanding of what is beyond our bubble of knowledge.
I would daresay however, that certain dreams are far worse than nightmares. Take for example, a dream that presented itself quite recently. In this lifelike vision, I saw the past change, shifting to a more desirable outcome, one that has eluded me in reality. Oh Lady Reality, you heartless bitch. How I loathe and adore thee.
What made this imagery even more loathsome is presence of a current prospect, forced to watch as I shut her off abruptly from the possibilities of our collaboration. Would she really care? This musing was fleeting, as bliss took me captive, promising a delightful prison of which I would joyfully cage myself into, or so I thought. While the dream was indeed so life-like that I found myself asking if this is really happening, the truth was slowly beginning to manifest itself. Starting as a slow murmur, it built itself up, slapping me silly and finally reminding me of the cold, harsh truth. This was not real.
One might ask, why do I consider this vision distasteful? Surely my truest desires are coming true, only in my head yes, but the normal reaction would be a pleasant one, correct? It is perhaps my new found grasp of morality, or despite how badly I want this fake reality to come into being I know it to be nothing but a lie. It's a distinct possibility that I did not want to ruin the present, no matter how uncertain it is. Or maybe, just maybe, this was not what I really wanted?
It is for this very reason that despite waking up without the cold sweat and uncontrollable shaking akin to vivid incubi, I would gladly welcome such minute irritations over the nagging feeling of mixed wonderment and muddiness. The aftermath of having dreams that border between true desire, clairvoyance and wishful thinking have a tendency to make us stop and look, wondering what might have been, what could be, and even what may never be.
Questions have a way of popping up like mushrooms, and in this case the figurative fungi was sprouting out in full force. Was I looking at an alternate reality, a path that I was unable to explore in the storyline of my existence? Or was I looking at a sign that there is a second chance and would ignoring this sign close that window of opportunity for all eternity? Or was I simply looking at the mirror image of my regrets and failed aspirations taking shape in my dreams?
Dreams like these, hopefully come and go, however the fallout - the markings - that they leave will probably come back to haunt us over and over again, and unfortunately, the answers and the solutions, may never come to us in this lifetime.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A Trip Down Memory Lane
Maundy Thursday started off quite differently than expected. After the previous night of revelry, binge drinking and playing mind games, a phone call in the early morn was came as somewhat of surprise.
Shaking off the hangover, the voice behind the call was somewhat familiar, it was only seconds after that I realized that it was my dear brother, asking if he and his significant other could join the previously but hastily planned trip down south in the valleys of Tagaytay.
After asking my companions for permission, one that they immediately considered unnecessary, I got up and prepared for this long-awaited sojourn. Granted that having a drinking session last night was a probably a bad idea, but I was hell bent on going on this trip, by hook or by crook.
It was in my residence that we first gathered, my brother and his SO, and my long time douche bag that I otherwise call as a friend. Calling a cab to our house (surprising they're still active at this point in time), we headed to the next rendezvous point. An old friend of the days of our youth came in her brand new black Honda City. Suffice to say this trip was indeed down memory lane, literally. Considering that history between all five of us would span nearly a decade. God, I felt old.
Traffic was expected. Being stuck with four other people in a sedan may not be appealing on a comfort level, but the exchange of tales made the long crawl of the Godsforsaken South Luzon Expressway bearable. Shock and genuine interest hung in the air, finding out people you knew back in the formative years proved to be quite disconcerting. A sign that perhaps age has finally caught up with us and the calls of maturity would soon engulf our seemingly carefree lives. This and that were either married, getting married, had a kid out of wedlock, already up to their nth child or just left the country never to go back. Bah, it was silently agreed that our little collective would delay such things as long as we could.
The first stop was uneventful, a short break to partake of sweet, sweet nicotine and menthol, all the while discussing plans for the midday meal. While the agreement was that we were to dine in a restaurant not found in the Metro, we ended up in a pseudo-Italian restaurant.
In consolation perhaps, the view of Lake Taal made this lunch experience different from the usual. Brother dearest pointed out the crater of the small and dormant volcano submerged some hundred feet below the lake. Lake Taal seemed, at that time, a picture perfect example that even some of Mother Nature's most destructive tools can be beautiful, given the right form, in this case, dormant volcano that isn't spewing molten magma and covering the clear skies with its foreboding ash. A wee bit poetic perhaps and unfortunately, there might be more of that later on.
The meal was enticing, pizza ala Fruti de Mare, buffalo wings reminiscent of those found in Don Henrico's, Beef and Mushroom Calzone, and Putanesca that was a bit bland, save for the flavor given of by the capers and olives. I asked for a watermelon shake, only to complain that our friend got hers in a waaaay better glass. (I swear, the waiter either has the hots for her or that guy has something against mestizos, racist bastard). The topic was our juvenile exploits of yore. Granted, we've done this storytelling so much that the "Oh my god!" shouts gets old, but not this time.
The next stop was suppose to be Bag Of Beans, a quaint little coffee shop with a view of the lake. Instead, we ended in the cliff house, a little spot with a garden, posh restos and kids. Lot's of kids. We spotted a nice young lady and started debating whether said lady was one of the mother of those diminutive weapons of mass destruction. While the view was breathtaking - lush green valleys smothered in the cloud's shadows and all that - we couldn't help but feel that we were both too young and too old for the place. Families gathered lugging their little tykes of terror all over the place, elderly people sat in their tables, sipping coffee with wistful eyes looking at the horizon, perhaps reminiscing of the days, weeks, months and years that have gone. Our little quintet was content eating ice cream sitting on the bench while their world, these... vacationist, go on about their little businesses, whatever they may be.
It may sound strange, but sitting here with this group provided insight beyond your usual Sunday Mass sermon. Trusted friends have a way of providing the answers to questions that plague the mind, formulation of grand schemes comes easily and before you know it, the blue horizon turns gray, then black, while the bitter chill of the night finally strikes us motionless, forced yet again to marvel at the lake. Meh, poetry was never my strong suit and my prose is getting quite dull.
The trip home was far from melancholy. As the day ended, our club, this collective of young, spirited and relationship challenged group (save for my brother and his SO) would be the beginning of something good. Despite the day's premature end, this was but a mere taste of what was to come.
Shaking off the hangover, the voice behind the call was somewhat familiar, it was only seconds after that I realized that it was my dear brother, asking if he and his significant other could join the previously but hastily planned trip down south in the valleys of Tagaytay.
After asking my companions for permission, one that they immediately considered unnecessary, I got up and prepared for this long-awaited sojourn. Granted that having a drinking session last night was a probably a bad idea, but I was hell bent on going on this trip, by hook or by crook.
It was in my residence that we first gathered, my brother and his SO, and my long time douche bag that I otherwise call as a friend. Calling a cab to our house (surprising they're still active at this point in time), we headed to the next rendezvous point. An old friend of the days of our youth came in her brand new black Honda City. Suffice to say this trip was indeed down memory lane, literally. Considering that history between all five of us would span nearly a decade. God, I felt old.
Traffic was expected. Being stuck with four other people in a sedan may not be appealing on a comfort level, but the exchange of tales made the long crawl of the Godsforsaken South Luzon Expressway bearable. Shock and genuine interest hung in the air, finding out people you knew back in the formative years proved to be quite disconcerting. A sign that perhaps age has finally caught up with us and the calls of maturity would soon engulf our seemingly carefree lives. This and that were either married, getting married, had a kid out of wedlock, already up to their nth child or just left the country never to go back. Bah, it was silently agreed that our little collective would delay such things as long as we could.
The first stop was uneventful, a short break to partake of sweet, sweet nicotine and menthol, all the while discussing plans for the midday meal. While the agreement was that we were to dine in a restaurant not found in the Metro, we ended up in a pseudo-Italian restaurant.
In consolation perhaps, the view of Lake Taal made this lunch experience different from the usual. Brother dearest pointed out the crater of the small and dormant volcano submerged some hundred feet below the lake. Lake Taal seemed, at that time, a picture perfect example that even some of Mother Nature's most destructive tools can be beautiful, given the right form, in this case, dormant volcano that isn't spewing molten magma and covering the clear skies with its foreboding ash. A wee bit poetic perhaps and unfortunately, there might be more of that later on.
The meal was enticing, pizza ala Fruti de Mare, buffalo wings reminiscent of those found in Don Henrico's, Beef and Mushroom Calzone, and Putanesca that was a bit bland, save for the flavor given of by the capers and olives. I asked for a watermelon shake, only to complain that our friend got hers in a waaaay better glass. (I swear, the waiter either has the hots for her or that guy has something against mestizos, racist bastard). The topic was our juvenile exploits of yore. Granted, we've done this storytelling so much that the "Oh my god!" shouts gets old, but not this time.
The next stop was suppose to be Bag Of Beans, a quaint little coffee shop with a view of the lake. Instead, we ended in the cliff house, a little spot with a garden, posh restos and kids. Lot's of kids. We spotted a nice young lady and started debating whether said lady was one of the mother of those diminutive weapons of mass destruction. While the view was breathtaking - lush green valleys smothered in the cloud's shadows and all that - we couldn't help but feel that we were both too young and too old for the place. Families gathered lugging their little tykes of terror all over the place, elderly people sat in their tables, sipping coffee with wistful eyes looking at the horizon, perhaps reminiscing of the days, weeks, months and years that have gone. Our little quintet was content eating ice cream sitting on the bench while their world, these... vacationist, go on about their little businesses, whatever they may be.
It may sound strange, but sitting here with this group provided insight beyond your usual Sunday Mass sermon. Trusted friends have a way of providing the answers to questions that plague the mind, formulation of grand schemes comes easily and before you know it, the blue horizon turns gray, then black, while the bitter chill of the night finally strikes us motionless, forced yet again to marvel at the lake. Meh, poetry was never my strong suit and my prose is getting quite dull.
The trip home was far from melancholy. As the day ended, our club, this collective of young, spirited and relationship challenged group (save for my brother and his SO) would be the beginning of something good. Despite the day's premature end, this was but a mere taste of what was to come.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Labels
After finally conquering the mind blank that has plaguing me for weeks, I've finally slew the dragon that is my inability to find a topic and raise the flag of my so-called creativity to write this post. So the sane people of good taste may start quivering their in boots and pray that they do not fall into the 0.00001% of the population that reads this infernal and sorry excuse for a blog.
Now that we've gotten through the unnecessary and long-winded self-depreciation we can go on and place something after this sentence that relates to the title.
I'm a gamer and a geek. There is no denying that and I am rather proud of it. I like the idea that I am actually of above average intelligence (how humble) and be a complete dumbass at the same time. For the following months, I almost forgot this vital detail of my persona. Well, after the purchase of a portable gaming system (and the eventual repair of my gaming PC), I have once again acknowledged this detail as a core value of my existence.
But gamer and geek are just two of the labels that make up the entirety of this sad, deluded and charming entity (that would be me, but seriously, if you couldn't figure that out then I suggest you take a comprehension class). I'd like to think that I'm a fudie at heart and one of the few living conversationalists left on this Godforsaken earth. If you're familiar with Planescape, one could say I'm a bit of a namer to the Sensates (in other words, I value the experience or seek a variety of experience and appreciate them, negative or positive)
But to say that we, as sentient and feeling organisms, are made up of combinations of hundreds of labels would be stupid. We're not programs, this is why Artificial Intelligence, for all its' calculating consistency cannot contend with humanity's ability to be unpredictable.
If you've come this far, you're probably asking what's the point? I would then suggest that you drop your email address so I can send you a picture of that Nelson kid in the Simpsons pointing and laughing at you with his trademark "Ha! Ha!" But no. The point is, we can label ourselves all
we want, or other if we feel like it ('tis fun, mean, but fun, ask a certain emo person I know how much I derive pleasure from such a mundane activity) but we can never truly predict what we do or what we are capable of. Labels can give people an idea of who or what we are but they also give us room for surprises which I think what makes mankind the dominant species in God's green earth. So I say unto you, dear reader, cherish your entropy, it's what gives us the ability to nuke the whales.... and the sense not to.
Now that we've gotten through the unnecessary and long-winded self-depreciation we can go on and place something after this sentence that relates to the title.
I'm a gamer and a geek. There is no denying that and I am rather proud of it. I like the idea that I am actually of above average intelligence (how humble) and be a complete dumbass at the same time. For the following months, I almost forgot this vital detail of my persona. Well, after the purchase of a portable gaming system (and the eventual repair of my gaming PC), I have once again acknowledged this detail as a core value of my existence.
But gamer and geek are just two of the labels that make up the entirety of this sad, deluded and charming entity (that would be me, but seriously, if you couldn't figure that out then I suggest you take a comprehension class). I'd like to think that I'm a fudie at heart and one of the few living conversationalists left on this Godforsaken earth. If you're familiar with Planescape, one could say I'm a bit of a namer to the Sensates (in other words, I value the experience or seek a variety of experience and appreciate them, negative or positive)
But to say that we, as sentient and feeling organisms, are made up of combinations of hundreds of labels would be stupid. We're not programs, this is why Artificial Intelligence, for all its' calculating consistency cannot contend with humanity's ability to be unpredictable.
If you've come this far, you're probably asking what's the point? I would then suggest that you drop your email address so I can send you a picture of that Nelson kid in the Simpsons pointing and laughing at you with his trademark "Ha! Ha!" But no. The point is, we can label ourselves all
we want, or other if we feel like it ('tis fun, mean, but fun, ask a certain emo person I know how much I derive pleasure from such a mundane activity) but we can never truly predict what we do or what we are capable of. Labels can give people an idea of who or what we are but they also give us room for surprises which I think what makes mankind the dominant species in God's green earth. So I say unto you, dear reader, cherish your entropy, it's what gives us the ability to nuke the whales.... and the sense not to.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I Got Nothing
The thing about writing is, we always go through a phase wherein one cannot conjure the words or the idea needed to piece together a string of sentences that constitutes a written product. Many writers try different techniques to get "in the zone" or break through the much fabled "writers block". Yours truly could go on and give a few examples, but really, anything under the sun can be considered conducive in getting through "the funk" so to speak.
Whether the imagination has been depleted or the coffee was severely bad, or the usual object of scorn/admiration we find in the media was the same old drivel/gold mine we've seen or derived from, this "block" happens.
Fortunately (or unfortunately), this blog is about absolutely nothing. So I can pound away on my derelict keyboard like a monkey on some lethal combo of sugar-coated bananas and grade A speed and post random words and sentences as a poor filler for my shortcomings in imagination.
But truth be told, there is something fulfilling about getting away with absolute bullshit. It's certainly not the thrill of fooling innocent web surfers into wasting their precious 5 minutes (of course if you're still reading this, you're probably as bored as I am). It is perhaps, that through the composition of this post, I was actually able to beat the "block" no matter how ultimately deficient of value this post is. Well, maybe not deficient, but completely devoid would be more appropriate. Empty this victory over self-limitations may be, at the very least, I have an update.
So basically, I just admitted that I have absolutely nothing to write about, and wrote about it....
....
I don't know whether to be happy or depressed at how inexcusably bizarre that is.
Whether the imagination has been depleted or the coffee was severely bad, or the usual object of scorn/admiration we find in the media was the same old drivel/gold mine we've seen or derived from, this "block" happens.
Fortunately (or unfortunately), this blog is about absolutely nothing. So I can pound away on my derelict keyboard like a monkey on some lethal combo of sugar-coated bananas and grade A speed and post random words and sentences as a poor filler for my shortcomings in imagination.
But truth be told, there is something fulfilling about getting away with absolute bullshit. It's certainly not the thrill of fooling innocent web surfers into wasting their precious 5 minutes (of course if you're still reading this, you're probably as bored as I am). It is perhaps, that through the composition of this post, I was actually able to beat the "block" no matter how ultimately deficient of value this post is. Well, maybe not deficient, but completely devoid would be more appropriate. Empty this victory over self-limitations may be, at the very least, I have an update.
So basically, I just admitted that I have absolutely nothing to write about, and wrote about it....
....
I don't know whether to be happy or depressed at how inexcusably bizarre that is.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Dying with eyes closed and an open heart
If you haven't watched the Bucket List, the movie gods demand that you do so immediately.
Like the many pieces of modern art that has been discussed in this contemptuous journal, this author would be damned if the philosophy encased within the thick lines of cinematography and dialog were not explored.
The premise seemed simple enough, two men about to die making a list of things (mostly reckless activities) before they "Kicked the Bucket". As one can easily surmise, this movie was just ripe with realizations and epiphanies packaged in either tear jerking moments or witty exchanges.
One could go on and just post a review but that's not the point now isn't it? Two quotes from other masterpieces of contemporary art kept popping up into my mind while watching this movie. "A Man's mortality is a compass that points his way in life." The quote, which is taken from Trias the Betrayer from the game Planescape: Torment, further illustrates that when we are faced with the inescapable truth of our own demise, we get direction. Why else are people rushing to gain riches or garner treasures whether they are physical or otherwise? While one can argue that this is not the consistent case with regards to the two main characters of the Bucket List, a closer look would tell you that they do indeed ascribe to this, the only difference being that after being faced with a clear time limit to their mortality, Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson's characters let go of the fear of losing their way, and in the case of Freeman, there is a scene that illustrates this clearer.
The second quote was actually an answer when a friend once asked what makes me happy: "Life... is strength. That is not to be contested; it seems logical enough. You live; you affect your world." The main antagonist for the second installation of the Baldur's Gate series is perhaps, contradictory to the nature of the plot. Then again, supporting characters and the main protagonists themselves illustrate just how living and the influence that comes with it is such a powerful force.
It was probably intentional that certain life inquiries like those of love, faith, logic and perception were thinly veiled in character dialog. Were we really watching a simple story, or a reflection of our thoughts with regards to living and dying? Such queries may not hit home immediately to some people, but for someone who has lost a loved one, these reflections become quite evident.
Like the many pieces of modern art that has been discussed in this contemptuous journal, this author would be damned if the philosophy encased within the thick lines of cinematography and dialog were not explored.
The premise seemed simple enough, two men about to die making a list of things (mostly reckless activities) before they "Kicked the Bucket". As one can easily surmise, this movie was just ripe with realizations and epiphanies packaged in either tear jerking moments or witty exchanges.
One could go on and just post a review but that's not the point now isn't it? Two quotes from other masterpieces of contemporary art kept popping up into my mind while watching this movie. "A Man's mortality is a compass that points his way in life." The quote, which is taken from Trias the Betrayer from the game Planescape: Torment, further illustrates that when we are faced with the inescapable truth of our own demise, we get direction. Why else are people rushing to gain riches or garner treasures whether they are physical or otherwise? While one can argue that this is not the consistent case with regards to the two main characters of the Bucket List, a closer look would tell you that they do indeed ascribe to this, the only difference being that after being faced with a clear time limit to their mortality, Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson's characters let go of the fear of losing their way, and in the case of Freeman, there is a scene that illustrates this clearer.
The second quote was actually an answer when a friend once asked what makes me happy: "Life... is strength. That is not to be contested; it seems logical enough. You live; you affect your world." The main antagonist for the second installation of the Baldur's Gate series is perhaps, contradictory to the nature of the plot. Then again, supporting characters and the main protagonists themselves illustrate just how living and the influence that comes with it is such a powerful force.
It was probably intentional that certain life inquiries like those of love, faith, logic and perception were thinly veiled in character dialog. Were we really watching a simple story, or a reflection of our thoughts with regards to living and dying? Such queries may not hit home immediately to some people, but for someone who has lost a loved one, these reflections become quite evident.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Seeking Perfection
Perfection is not the heaven we seek but the Purgatory that we secretly dread, knowing full well that once everything is truly perfect, there is nothing else to strive for.
Life is imperfect, and it is the imperfections that make it worth going through. While there is never anything wrong to aim for perfection in one's craft, what do we do after achieving ne plus ultra? Profit perhaps? Or maybe a sense of accomplishment? In the end, however, we all get a backlash of longing or the need to improve upon things further, be it the same piece or in other avenues.
Perfection is also relative, if not a myth, applicable only depending on who you ask. I daresay that the most perfect of lives are those that are imperfect. As any story goes, it would be pointless to have a protagonist go through chapters without struggle or not have at least one flaw. We've heard all the cliches from various chick flicks, "she had the perfect live etc.," but the common denominator always seems to be the longing for something more, beyond the this fabricated notion of a "perfect life".
Practice makes perfect, but the true worth and value of anything and everything isn't its perfection, but the practice that leads us to the point closest to perfection.
"To stand still on the summit of perfection is difficult, and in the natural course of things, what cannot go forward - slips back."
Life is imperfect, and it is the imperfections that make it worth going through. While there is never anything wrong to aim for perfection in one's craft, what do we do after achieving ne plus ultra? Profit perhaps? Or maybe a sense of accomplishment? In the end, however, we all get a backlash of longing or the need to improve upon things further, be it the same piece or in other avenues.
Perfection is also relative, if not a myth, applicable only depending on who you ask. I daresay that the most perfect of lives are those that are imperfect. As any story goes, it would be pointless to have a protagonist go through chapters without struggle or not have at least one flaw. We've heard all the cliches from various chick flicks, "she had the perfect live etc.," but the common denominator always seems to be the longing for something more, beyond the this fabricated notion of a "perfect life".
Practice makes perfect, but the true worth and value of anything and everything isn't its perfection, but the practice that leads us to the point closest to perfection.
"To stand still on the summit of perfection is difficult, and in the natural course of things, what cannot go forward - slips back."
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