This guy asks about me and what these pages are supposedly about. I say nothing. He asks again. I spew bullshit about literature and inductive reasoning. He smiles and says I should think about a title first. I give him the evil eye. He walks away. Must think I’m retarded. Who cares.
Lamb of God shirt. Tattoo artist. Paints. Lives in Cubao. Just another member of the male species.
— From an old sketchpad, 7th April 2012. Laughed at my own cynicism.
Now, absence can exist only as a consequence of the other: it is the other who leaves, it is I who remain. The other is in a condition of perpetual departure, of journeying; the other is, by vocation, migrant, fugitive; I–I who love, by converse vocation, am sedentary, motionless, at hand, in expectation, nailed to the spot, in suspense–like a package in some forgotten corner of a railway station.
Amorous absence functions in a single direction, expressed by the one who stays, never by the one who leaves: an always present I is constituted only by confronting with an always absent you.
In the middle of March this year, I became single again, after more than three years of interacting with the male species on a daily basis. Not that I have much dating experience to speak of, even if it sounds like that. Two weeks before I hit the big legal age, my history isn’t really all that impressive. I’ve had two serious relationships – the first was a HS romance that had more sinister twists than the latest season of Gossip Girl, the second one lasted for almost six months until we decided we weren’t really heading anywhere — and a couple of run-ins with people along the way, nothing worth psychoanalyzing, at least not so much anymore.
The fact is, for the first time since high school, I had all the time in the world to spend on and for myself.
The concept was so foreign to me that the first few weeks felt incredibly uneasy. You don’t just break-up with someone one night and feel like you’ve always flown solo the morning after.
Just like everything else, it takes time. Before you know it, a romantic future with another carbon-based life form will now become the exception to the rule, a possibility that now seems more improbable than converting back to Catholicism, at least for the time being. You’ll almost swear you have always operated out of whim, without factoring in another’s feelings or class/work sched, if only you aren’t teased by friends when a name comes up or if old Facebook albums did not retain out of town photos.
This summer was my not-so-rude awakening to that. While I would always have a flair for the dramatics, not even my exaggeration tendencies could make up for the fact that both of my break-ups left me in good terms with the assholes the two men I will always love.I have moved on faster than anyone could say Derek Ramsey – thus having no need for making it seem like the past two months served as my time to heal from the horrors of my past. If anything, I’m actually grateful that at a young age, two idiots people have allowed me to share my days with them and loved me so much, even if it took every ounce of resistance not to swat my head and tell me to stop talking about metaphysics at 2 in the morning when they needed to sleep.
So where did that leave me? Well, probably the best summer ever.
Getting ‘back to the ground’, as to that song by Jamie Cullum, apparently is one of those things a person has to go through to be able to appreciate and see things clearly than they’ve ever before. For starters, it leaves you with no choice but to literally date the hottest bod out there – yourself.
I’ve always been told that after breakups, you are bound to rediscover yourself and reclaim parts you may have let go of when you allowed someone to become your better half. For me, that meant one thing that led to a thousand others upon realized. When you’re alone, you have no escape from your thoughts. You begin to think about what you want, who you want to be, the things that matter most to you.
I’ve always been independent and I will be forever proud of that. Even when I was attached, I did not really want to see them everyday – which I am sure they appreciated. I needed time alone, time with friends, with my family, independent of anyone barraging me over text message over where the hell I was and if I was still alive. The difference, then, as I have found it to be, lies in action. When you’re with someone, you have these thoughts swirling around your head yes, but more often than not they stay thoughts.
PRAXIS. A good friend of mine, two years ago, told me this is the most important word in Philosophy. A few weeks ago the same person told me that this is also what’s important in writing Poetry, Both counts, he was right.
As someone who now prides herself in operating out of whim, being able to turn visions into actions is actually fulfilling on its own. For years, I have wanted to be exposed to astrophysics, photography and even more Philosophy, to support the LGBT movement, to try out running as a sport, join a dance class for fun, travel just because the moment calls for it, meet a handful of new folks, write on impulse on any surface, try out exotic dining, and a hella lot more.
(more pictures/stories-of-what-I-am-up-to in pictures found in my FB account)
..which reminds me, I have to get the rest I need now. I promised myself I’ll finish until revisions of half of my Secularism term paper and run 5k tomorrow.
I’ll end this with a cool Lennon quote —
Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.
.. and if this is how the next few months – heck, even years! – will look like, so shall it be. I couldn’t ask for anything else, really, but these. Days well spent, each one as remarkable, if not more, than the last. ;)
...because we all have to start somewhere, sometime.
It has been three days, but I haven’t completely figured out the WordPress interface just yet. That is just both baffling and funny at the same time. I could reformat my Linux laptop back to the factory settings and build everything up again through coding but I could not, for the life of me, adapt to this new home as easily as I should. The other day I spent about fifteen minutes just trying to figure out how to put up a profile picture here, and had to resort to a Google search when all hope was lost. Not kidding.
I guess migrating here is still perfect for that whole reinventing myself/defying limits challenge I decided to undertake a few days ago, both out of boredom and necessity, although very minimal. After all, braving the unfamiliar waters – whether it’s through getting used to a new site, school, country – is an imperative for growth. We all talk endlessly of progress and speak highly of our aspirations but are all cowards when it comes to taking the first step. To rephrase a quote I’ve read somewhere earlier, we all complain of darkness but refrain from lighting a candle.
I haven’t written properly in a long time, and although it’s kind of irritating, I’m getting around to it. It’s not that my days are bland, truth be told the past few weeks have been the best. It has been such a long time since I did what I wanted, whenever I wanted, without considering anyone else. See, I started dating back in high school, when I was 15. I’ll be eighteen this month, and I’ve been recently unattached – as in completely unattached, not even seeing or interacting with anyone kind of unattached – for almost two months now.
The idea of being single is a completely new concept to me, there used to be always someone on speed dial, no matter what time of the day it is. Frankly, I’ve been wondering what took me so long. (Smug smile, but no offense to those who should be offended. Haha)
Just read the last paragraph and realized I’m in a place right now where I don’t really give two cents about anyone from the opposite sex anymore. That perhaps explains the recent lack of interest in my usually steady production of (pseudo-)love poems. I’m still one of those people who ‘like longing more than they do love’, though, thus my tendency to dramatize everything when the occasion calls for it.
Perhaps I should get around to reading HB 1483 right now. I promise I’ll write rant more tonight.
I’ve always been impulsive. I was never really the type who stood on one side, weighing things out. Never did I draw up a list of Pro’s and Con’s and lugged the list wherever I went until I reached a sound, rational decision. More often than not, I’m late.. or ‘lost’ – as I prefer to call not showing where I’m supposed to be – just because something, somewhere, has caught my attention and held it long enough for me to risk everything else.
Nothing is more important to me than the adrenaline rush I get when I do something just because a moment calls for it, never mind the consequences, much more the ever-present threat of messing up things, big time. Be it a heated debate with a professor or a good friend, just because speaking out is something I wouldn’t even think twice about, or a trip out of town, or going out with a complete stranger who, as chance could put it, might as well be a serial killer on the prowl.
But that does not stop at that. Unfortunately, or perhaps, very fortunately, not being able to hold myself down means I am never confined to one thing for so long. A label or a definition expires even before people grow accustomed to it. Figuring out exactly how my mind works is a feat that’s never been accomplished, not even by myself, I must have just gotten used to it. I’ve long given up on attempting to describe myself. What I am certain about, though, is that although I will always leave myself (and people) wondering on what will I get into next, writing is the thread that holds all these adventures together.
While I would love to give this new home a beautiful story on why I migrated here from Blogspot (beatricetulagan.blogspot.com), I could not. I did so because I just felt like it. Boredom, mostly. The rest is this gut feeling that I somehow made it an imperative to reinvent myself every chance I get, especially now that I need it more than ever. Then, again, everyone does.
A few weeks ago, after not beating the deadline for the Palanca Awards, I remember making a promise to myself that May will become my reunion with writing, the only thing constant in my life. However I’ve only done so much as doodle unfinished poems and drunken thoughts on my sketch pad, and though I may look the part, I carry high standards for myself. Thus, this new blog. Aha, existence preceding essence.
Maturity and attempts at it aside, I also thought it would be best if I shower this page not only with those angsty rants and dare-I-call-them poems, but also use it as a running journal. I recently got into the roadrunning rage in Manila and somehow, after a few weeks, am not panting like a fat pig wondering why would anyone ever want to hurt themselves so much by running laps like a trained hamster.
Despite my five-year-old attention span, occasional lack of coordination skills and one too many experiments with gravity and mass (a.k.a, tripping, even while wearing slippers), I’ve gotten to a place where my body decided it needs the thirty-minute sessions every other day. Something is euphoric in running, it makes you both lose touch with reality and at the same time, revel in it. As of now, I’ve only been on the track for a month but am assured this one’s not just a hobby I take up and lose interest in eventually. The natural high after is just a bonus.
I’m aiming to finish my first 5k (and run a couple, after) by July, and my first 10k by September. After that, I’ll probably take up Kickboxing, or start hiking. Someone told me running tells so much about me, how I can’t stay idle too long.
So there. I hope this time, I’ll get to put in more writing hours in between bouts of training and school. I have two years left in college and I might as well make the most out of them. ;)