Mother Nature Speaks with the Retarded Superhero

Have you ever tried to talk to nature? I don't often do that, but earlier this afternoon I found myself having a rather serious one-on-one with Mother Nature.

I've been wanting to run since last week, and finally this afternoon I was able to get out of the house to jog in UP. Half-past four found me walking towards the oblation, looking up at the heavy clouds rolling by. Without paying any heed to the onlookers, I tried to do a little sun dance, because crap, I really wanted to run.

I wasn't even ten paces away from the starting line when pain blossomed in my stomach like you wouldn't believe. It felt like something sucker-punched me in the gut. I swear I almost doubled over from the pain. The other joggers looked as if they wanted to demand for me to stop, while some just plain looked at me like I was stupid. Lesson learned: do not jog in the afternoon. Jog in the mornings, on an empty stomach.

Anyway, I was walking through my first lap when the sky opened up and washed away today's filth with the rain. I had to walk to the nearest shelter, and so late in the afternoon found me watching the rain while writing in my mini-laptop. I took the time to sit down and watch as Mother Nature did her thing.

It was beautiful. The sights and sounds are worth having my jog screwed over.

There's the thick smell of rain-drenched grass and wet earth,
the pitter-patter of the rain against the steel roof of the shed.
Lightning striking through the gray skies,
Thunder rolling across the heavy clouds.

In the distance I hear laughter coming from a group, as they too waited for the rain to stop.
I saw two men playing tennis in the rain, and wondered, for a short moment, how it would feel to run after a small green ball across the wet, slippery court.
There was an old car parked across the street, its driver talking in the phone with wild, angry gestures.
I hear the faint sound of my music through the dangling earphones of my iPod.

And the words kept flowing. Like the rain. Like the laughter. Like the gestures. Like the music.

And then slept came over me, and I had to lie down and heed its summons. Yes, right there in the shed.

I'd have played and walked in the rain, if it weren't for the iPod strapped to my arm and the phones lodged in the compartment of my supercargo pants. A little rain wouldn't hurt me, but it would damage my babies badly. So I wasn't able to run today, but I was able to at least appreciate things that I normally take for granted.

I was also able to talk with Mother Nature today.

Her message for me today: "Don't try to get out to run when you see dark clouds hovering in the sky. The power of your mind and your sun dance don't hold a candle to the power of my forces. Stop pushing your luck and go home."

And so, properly chastised, my sole reply was, "Ok."

And I went back home. Dripping wet, but a bit happier, nonetheless.

Farewell Old Dreams, Hell Yeah Japan (aka The Star Cinema Stint)

Here's the deal.

We all know how much I wanted to go to Japan. It's the first thought that comes to mind in the mornings, and the final thought that seeps into my dreams at night. We all know how hard I'm working my ass off right now, trying to make it through my MA, just to be able to get into the Japanese Embassy's scholarship.

I have a goal, and I'm dishing out everything I've got, just to be able to reach it.

But one day, God looked at me and said, "Karren you have to know what you /really/ want to do with your life. You have to learn how to choose and decide for yourself. Here."

And He gave me Star Cinema.

It was a dream I used to have. A quiet yet desperate yearning within me. Three years ago, I wanted to work in the film industry, to be a part of the biggest, most popular company in the biz. I wanted so bad to be a screenplay writer, but I thought it was a path that I wouldn't be able to take. Taking up Comparative Literature was pushing it enough; if I took up Film I might not be welcomed in my home anymore.

But God gave me Star Cinema out of the blue. It was an open door, and I had to look at it. I had to peek inside, and see if the dream was still alive. I thought it still was, and for a beautiful moment, I had so much fun weaving one concept for a movie after another. It was so thrilling to sit with three other people in a boardroom, pitching my ideas and helping others consolidate theirs. For a moment, I thought the dream was still alive. I thought the flame was still burning.

And what of Japan? What of my family's business?

I didn't know. I was just going along with the current flow. I didn't know why God disrupted my current well-laid plans, nor did I know why He had to throw this in front of me now, of all possible time. But I knew in my heart that there is a reason for all of this, and that I'll find a message at the very end of this new journey.

What a short journey it has been; yet the impact is most riveting, most overwhelming.

This day was my third, and final shot at finally striking the deal with Star Cinema.

After having my CV chosen among hundreds of others, after showing them what I could contribute during the trial brainstorming session, and after submitting my proposed story-line, I was finally called up to present my storyline to the panel; pitch and sell my movie, and my chance to convince them to hire me.

Instead, I told them that I would not drop my dream to go to Japan, not even for an illustrious dream I used to have before.

I realized that this journey is about choices. About finally realizing what I want to do with my life. About finally deciding where I want to be, what I want to be.

They painted a scenario where in five years, I'll be one of the best writers of Star Cinema, with a big salary and probably fame, BUT, I wasn't allowed to go to Japan. They were, in a way, making me choose between my dream to be a scholar in Japan and Star Cinema. I looked them in the eye and said that I would choose, above all else, my dream to go to Japan. I cannot give that up. I will not give that up. Not for anything.

Maybe this journey was laid out for me so that I would be able to come to terms with what I really want. Turning your back on a dream you desperately have for a dream that you are currently nourishing is nothing short of overwhelming.

Walking away from one big dream in order to embrace another, I think, is a significant, if not brave choice.

I walked away from ABS-CBN's compound without looking back, looking forward to burying my nose in my thesis once again.

I'm sure I had prettier words earlier, when I was still reeling from the shock of it all, but the long and short of it was, I realized this afternoon that I wouldn't give up Japan and scholarship for anything in this world... not even for a childhood dream. Not even for promises of fame or money, or stardom.

I had to confront my past desires in order for me to embrace my present, and future passion.

Alright, so I know I made an ass of myself back in that room. After that particular conversation, I know that there's no way in hell they're going to hire me. There are hundreds of other people who want that job more than I do. Those people are more deserving of the spot.

Yeah, I made a fool of myself. Why the hell did I apply for that position if I wasn't willing to give up my dream to go to Japan and eventually become a scholar and a professor in the future? I smiled, shrugged and told them the truth.

"It was an open door," I said. "I had to peek inside."

I peeked, alright, and I realized that I didn't want to go through that door. I'm sure now, more than ever, that the path I'm currently walking, the path to scholarship (read: geekdom) and Japan (read: nerdhood) is the one I want to pursue.

So I made a fool and an ass of myself, and in retrospect, I hope I didn't waste any of their time. I know that they must have liked me, even a little, because I made it this far. But still, that building wasn't where I should be.

I'd still be happier working for and with my family, while they silently support me as I fight to achieve my dreams.

It was a short journey, but it was mind-numbing, and awe-inspiring at the very least.

And so, when God said, "Here," and gave me Star Cinema, I said in reply,

"Thank you, but I'll take Japan."

"Are you sure now?" He asked with a smile.

I smiled back; that cheeky, stupid, moronic smile I'm quite famous for, nodded firmly, and said, "Yes, I am."

He smiled, and said, "Alright. I'll take you there.

030509 . 1924 H

Confessions of a Jerk Long Gone, An Asshole Long Dead, a Dreamer Newly Bred

I will be telling this with a sigh. And a roll of my eyes.

Really, after all this time, I shouldn't even bother writing about Mary's and the people I met there. What part of 'letting go' did my memory fail to understand? Apparently all parts of it. Damn it.

I should be studying for tomorrow's lecture. I should be doing my homework. I should be perfectly content being the anti-social dork that I am, but my mind kept getting back to the people I've met when I was still the biggest asshole I knew. My mind kept wondering what they would say when they've realized that I've somehow, if only a little, changed, and that I wasn't the asshole I was back then. I kept wondering how I'll act, if, by any chance, I'll join the half-dreaded, half-anticipated reunion that my best friend keeps bullying me into attending.

Honestly, I'm shit scared. Really. I know that I'm risking a lot, writing these things here, but I figured, I should probably bleed out a few of my worries. I've been silent for too long, and I was thinking that perhaps now's the time for me to be honest with things other than my desire to be a writer and my obsession with Japan. I you guys, and myself, that much.

I know who'll be reading this. The people I've met during college knew nothing about the awkward, anti-social jerk who'd rather bitch than make friends way back in high school. They knew of the dauntless president who led them from one battle to another. They knew of the servant who they could bully into doing things for them- from borrowing a TV set and DVD player to facing off demented professors who'd sue an entire class for eating a few packs of mongo bread (which aren't even THAT tasty, I might add). These friends, these beloved friends, saw me not only during my best, but also my worst moments. We've fought together, fought each other, fought for each other. We've loved together, loved for each other, loved each other. They've seen me at my best, and they've seen me at my worst, and they still loved and respected me.

But they knew nothing of that awkward girl who let her high school life pass her by without her even knowing it.

Let me tell you a story about a girl who went through college, and a fraction of her working life, declaring to all that's good and holy how much she hated high school.

How I hated high school back then. I hated it so much, that I even hated the people and majority of the memories I've made back then. I won't elaborate on this hatred anymore, because frankly, this hate for an innocent place, which bled to hate for beautiful, wonderful people, was in fact, hatred for myself.

College saw me change into this less-awkward, more self-sufficient weirdo of a girl who'd love and serve everyone within a ten-mile radius. (Alright, so I'm exaggerating, but you guys know how much I love you, right?) . Sure, I had my down times, and I'm pretty sure that there are moments where my friends wanted nothing more than to oust me as their president and just wish me dead, but I'm pretty sure that I was better than I was when I was in high school.

It was weird, really.

One day, I woke up just as the sun was glaring through the flimsy curtains of my window, and I realized how much of a failure I was back then in high school. I realized that, in more ways than one, 'I could have done better'.

I abhorred the way I treated people who never did anything to me, except maybe to extend a helping and friendly hand. I despised the way I broke the hearts of the few men who dared to like me, in spite of me being 'me'. I particularly detested my grades. Damn it to hell and beyond, my grades would shame the person I am now. It was a rather rude wake up call.

That morning, as the sun rose on my window while the neighbors' blasted rooster kept screaming their narrow throats out, I woke up and told myself that there wouln't be a repeat of that horrid phase. That morning, I swore that I would NOT graduate without any medal of sort. I got up, took a long bath, and washed my act clean. I rinsed off all the remnants of the things I hated about myself when I was in high school, and when I towelled myself off, I promised that I 'would do better this time'.

I managed to pull my act together, and worked harder than I've ever remembered working in my entire life. I've wasted away two years of college lurking within the curriculum, doing just well enough to get by. I got good grades during my first two years, but it was that morning on my third year that battle started. I wanted to do better. I want my mama to walk up the stage during my graduation, and I want something more meaningful than a 'loyalty award'. I worked my ass off during that particular semester, and when the time came for me to reap my rewards, I was practically beaming with pride. The north star had nothing on the way I shone that day when I logged into my account, computed my grades, and shit, found out that for the first time ever, I made it to the Dean's List.

To some, it wasn't that much of a big deal. But for me, it meant /everything/. Damn it. It meant everything to me. I remember fumbling over the keys of the calculator. I had to calculate and re-calculate for over four times, because my hands won't stop shaking. All I could see was the row of 1's shining on the screen of my laptop, and my heart was just praying so damn hard for those grades to fucking make it to the List.

Damn it all. Ode to joy. I made it.

After than, I screamed like a banshee, ran all over the house, went to look for my mother, and showed her the half-fucked computation I made. I squealed like a pig and fidgeted like a demented high-schooler on her first taste of crack, and told my ma, 'I made it to the Dean's List'.

And she just smirked, handed the paper back to me and said, "Of course."

Way to burst my bubble there, momma, but that's ok. I mean, for her it was a given. No daughter of hers /wouldn't/ excel. She mustn't have noticed the way I worked my ass off, because for her, it's only /natural/ for her daughter to achieve something. It was both a compliment and a let-down, but I'd rather focus on the 'compliment'.

And so from there, it has been an uphill climb. But it was so, very worth everything. I loved every moment I shared with my friends in college. How I loved learning and studying everything I could get my hands on. Alright, so it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. I've slacked off way more than I should; I was reading hawt man-to-man, triple X yaoi fanfiction when I should have been reading a theory on Orientalism. I was studying how well Sendoh and Rukawa fit together in bed when I should have been reading on how the political circumstances that surround the conditions of the sub-alterns in India. I was reading manga after manga when I should have been preparing for my thesis.

But those shortcomings do not hold a candle to how I've neglected my studies when I was in high school, and I hated myself for being the person I was all those years ago.

I've managed to maintain my spot in the List, and even managed to come out fourth in the entire college. I remember garnering a grand average of 1.20 one brilliant semester, and I couldn't have been more proud of myself back then. But grades aside, the thing I love most about college was how I've opened my heart to let myself love not one, not two, not five, but twenty beautiful people. I've made very special friends, who helped mold me into the person I am today, and I'm afraid I haven't told them how important they were- still are- to me.

How I loved those four years spent within the walls of UST.

I loved those times so much, that one afternoon, as I was sitting down in front of an age-old statue pointing God-knows-where, I prayed, with every fiber of my being, for time to stop. That was the time when the 'end' started to rear its ugly head in. That was just about the time where all my classmates were scurrying around submitting their resumes and preparing for their interviews. I stood in the middle of the room, listening to the faint buzz of conversations going on in the classroom, and realized that these people are so ready to move on- and I'm not.

I wanted to spend more time with them. I wanted to learn more with them. Learn more about them.

People keep asking me for advice on what they were supposed to do, and I kept smiling and encouraging them to do whatever it is they dream of doing, but inside, I was screaming for them to stop.

'Stop,' I want to say. 'Not yet. I don't want to say good-bye yet.'

I've never felt that much happiness around a bunch of people- save of course, my best friends since twelve- before. Ever. The friends I've made and kept since high school- Miko, Buddy, Totay, Mitch, Mavic- they all knew me inside out, and I could probably kill someone with a penk knife and commit every crime in every book and they'd still love me, and I'm so thankful for that. But the friends I've made during college, as well as the experiences I had back then... they /molded/ me. They /made/ me. I became this new person that I, and other people could be proud of.

I only ever wanted my family, and the Fangirls (high school barkada- that's what we call ourselves) to be proud of me. And these people I've met, and the moments I had during college- they all helped me to become that person everyone could be proud of.

And for that I owe them so much.

I did so bad during high school.

I did better in college.

I'm striving hard to do 'way better' now that I'm serving my MA in UP.

I thought that by becoming this new person everyone could be proud of... I thought I've let go of my past cargos. But I never even realized I've been carrying that burden like a heavy sack of potatoes on my back until recently. I realized that it wasn't my high school life I hated, but myself. And this hatred blinded me to the wonderful things I've experienced and the wonderful people I've met during high school.

Realizing how much of an asshole I was during those years made me recoil in shame; I never wanted to remember those times ever again. This shame, this embarrasment hid itself behind a defensive wall of anger and loathing, but upon retrospection, I realized how unfair I've been.

Unfair to the very place I considered my second home for ten years; unfair to the people I've shared good moments with.

For that, I'm extremely sorry.

I realized that I can't do anything anymore about the kind of person I was back then, and I realized that I can't do anything by obsessing about the past, so now I can only look to the future. I can't undo the things I've done as a jerk, and hell, I can't sit down and re-take every damn exam I had back then just to come up with a more satisfactory set of grades.

What I have is the 'now'. And the 'now' calls for letting go.

Let go of past hatred, let go of past failures, let go of past heartaches.

And I thought I already that 'letting go' thing but sonofabitch, how come I still feel quesy about this 'reunion'?

I've probably written year eight years' worth of angst and melodrama, and I've probably revealed more than I've ever revealed in the years people have known me, but shit man, I'm damn scared about this reunion that should even be that much of a big deal, dammit.

But I'm scared. I truly am. I fear that I'll revert back to the insufferable idiot I was before.

I fear that I'll recoil and degenerate into the recluse I was back then. Let's face it. I'm /still/ a social retard (I couldn't even initiate a decent conversation with people outside my circle), but holy crap, man.

It's been years.

And to top it all off, I'm not even /sure/ if I'll go to that reunion. Which pretty much sums up the fact that I'm probably obsessing over nothing, but hey, writing this feels good.

So you guys are probably surprised that 'Aki' bared more into this short shit than I've bared in the years you've come to know me. And it feels good.

This will be my promise to you.

From now on, I'll try to share more of myself to the people I know (or don't know, depending on who's reading this, which I doubt people are even doing so).

I believe that in order to write, you have to bleed. You have to open ever scar, even the ones which have long ago healed. You slice that scar open, and pry into the very flesh that closed over the wound. You have to relive that moment- feel every pain, ever heartbeat, every emotion- and let the blood flow into the paper. Screen. Whatever. The blood carries the memories. The memories tell the story.

This, my friends, is first blood.

Thanks for listening.

At Home Where the Sun Rises

Have you ever wanted something so bad, you know that you live only to see the day that you'll finally have it? Have you ever wanted anything so bad, that your whole heart and soul permeates with wanting this thing, and only this thing?

Let me tell you a little something about my dreams. Sure, you know that I've always wanted to be a writer. You know that I dream of being published one day, some day. You know that I spend nights reading and writing, and that someday I'd be able to have enough courage to show you what I've written.

But there is this one dream that I've had since I've first dared to dream.

I want to go to Japan.

So bad.

Ask me why right now, I won't be able to answer. I honestly don't know why I've fallen in love with a country whose people once crossed swords (and bullets) with ours. I don't know why I want to risk going to an empire where language would probably be the least of all my worries. I honestly don't know. Maybe in a while, after I've analyzed things to death, I'd be able to dish out the reason why I want to go there. For now, I'm merely preparing myself because I know that it won't be long before I'd finally pack my bags to live there.

Holy crap, am I making any sense in here at all?

Right now, I'm procrastinating, because I should be reading stuff for a huge paper that's due next week. Old habits die hard, I guess. History once again has repeated itself (or at least, I made it repeat, because I'm still a loser when it comes to working on projects ahead without the threat of the deadline breathing down my neck).

I'll be working on the poetics of the yaoi manga and its manifestations in Youka Nitta's selected works. I don't even have a title for my paper, dammit. I wish the Good Professor would extend the deadline.

For those who don't know what yaoi means, google it up, and you'll find out what I've been obsessing over since I was... twelve. Or thirteen. Yeah, what?

I Will Not Begrudge the Years

January 29, 2009.. 0054 H
Finally. REAL literature. It felt like letting the sand squish through your toes after being away from the sea for so long. It's like dipping into a cool lake after a long trek through a dense forest on a hot summer day. It's like drinking Gatorade after walking all over Makati's convoluted streets.

It's like coming home.

What is?

Dang. Interpreting poetry, that's what.

For the past few weeks, I've been salivating over the idea of studying actual Literature instead of the dang theories we've been taking up for /forever/. I never knew how much I missed interpreting poetry until last night, when my professor asked the class what the current poem we were reading meant. It's not that I don't like studying theory; they help a lot, they really do. But too much theory sucks all the creative juice (what little I have) out of me, so nights would constantly see me staring at my computer like a retard, begging for my he-muse to shower me with fantabulous story ideas that would someday soon capture the world. All efforts are futile, though, so I'd end up reading yaoi fanfiction featuring my two favorite male characters from whatever fandom I'm currently obsessing over.

I'm not against studying theories, but sometimes, a writer just had to read something that wouldn't make her second-guess her choice of vocation. I just want to be able to /really/ read Literature again, instead of analyzing and critiquing it to death. So yeah, yesterday, Dr. Neil Garcia made us read poems out loud in class and together we all tried to find out what the poems were trying to say.

I've been slapped upside the head twice over by two poems, and right now I'm thinking that I'm on my way to 'begrudging the years'.

Nights would find me obsessing over my future instead of carousing with friends. Days would find me staring into empty space while my mind travels to places I've only seen in my dreams, instead of communicating with the rest of the world. I'm a self-confessed social retard, and I don't dish out any effort in trying to rectify that situation. I'd rather talk to the books instead of catching up with friends. I'd rather obsess over my apparent lack of inspiration to write than to go out and meet new people.

Yes. I can see my future already. My last years would find me reclined on a rocking chair on late afternoons, writing nostalgic poetry while my dogs doze and drool on my feet. What a dazzling premonition.

Someone once told me that I'm a 'silent, steady campfire on a cold mountain', and that 'I'm on my way to talk to the gods'. The description always stuck with me, even though I never really understood what that says about me. Somehow, I feel as if Ms. Ricci was right in saying that about me. My heart has always been set on starting that 'walk', but everytime I take that first step, demons would suddenly appear out of nowhere and bombard me with stupid ideas that would always leave me uncertain, faithless, and defeated- way before the battle could ever begin.

I want to start walking. I desperately want to reach the Palace of the Gods, and I'm willing to pay any price just to be able get there, no matter how steep it is.

As of the moment, I doubt that I'm a silent, steady campfire? Right now, I'm a crackling, wavering bonfire on a deserted, dried-up beach, and that I'm on my way to drown with the dead fish.

What an uplifting imagery.

Alright. Snap, snap, snap out of it.

That I could finally dish out metaphors about the current situation of my soul tells me that I can finally start to write- again.

Social life might have to be put on hold, but I'm not closing any doors. Eh, what the heck. Even though all my doors are open, I doubt I have the capacity to step out of them. Yep, I'm a social retard like that.

Couldn't even manage to talk to people who sit right next to me.

I hope to the heavens that I wouldn't end up as a miserable spinster. I do want to write and be famous for it, but what the holy hell, I do NOT want to die an old maid.

I really don't.

You'd understand me better if you've read Angela Manalang-Gloria's 'I Have Begrudged the Years'.

Look it up.