A Call For Drastic Measures



Nothing worse than the feeling of not being able to write despite wanting to say so much. If anything, I need to put some thoughts down once ad for all to clear up some space in my head. Been sustaining a heated interior monologue over the last few days and I am hating myself for it because despite my sophomoric concerns, I am still a staunch advocate that the rent space in my head deserves a more worthy tenant — term papers, perhaps, or that job interview, or Deconstruction. Instead I have stooped down to a superficial level, despite pretending I haven’t and I would never, by considering every angle of something apparently only I was privy to. Hmm.


Either way, said moments come and go. Attacks have been less frequent since the holy moment of epiphany yesterday, (i.e., it is impossible to mope around when you are walking down an empty road and AC/DC suddenly comes on and so your hopes for the future are nonetheless resurrected), since then I’m feeling like equilibrium is being restored in my system once again. The rest of the time, I am just too damn exhausted to even consider anything but finally, finally surrendering to sleep.


Which leads me back to my point, which I just realized I have: I am literally not able to write lately but the desire to put down words on paper (or at least, here) is just so intoxicating. This week has been completely out of the ordinary but then again being Beatrice, days don’t really have a set pattern anymore. I have been reading too much again and avoiding human interaction but I am fairly treated to random conversations with perfect strangers the whole week, which gives me so much to write about, given the wisdom I have been exposing myself into. Physically and else, I am just drained of energy despite the nightly ten hours of sleep and shots of caffeine throughout the day just by walking aimlessly around the hospital where I have been spending a fair amount of my time lately, hanging out with Papa.


Never mind zero productivity. I have had it with things I could not control, much less depend on. Right now, I am just really looking forward to a quiet weekend avoiding human interaction, as per tradition, by locking myself up in my room and working things out, in academics, in my writing, and else.


Cease Fire

2013-01-30 16.15.06

He wasn’t even surprised when I walked into the hospital cafeteria and plunked down beside him, panting. I scoured two wings in search of him after I arrived in his room and found his bed empty. He nodded as if he has been expecting the very minute of my arrival, then continued eating heartily, like nothing happened.

Then again, I told him yesterday that I will be visiting tonight, and his mind has always been keen and sharp, probably always will be. He absorbed information, remembering virtually everything of importance. A few years back I talked back to him and he remembers my protest in verbatim, something about me wanting to go to law school instead of pursuing a career in medicine.

This afternoon, I asked him for the first time to tell me about the Japanese occupation and how he met my grandmother. He seemed startled, probably wondering what has gotten into me. See, his stories were always volunteered, never asked for. With the occasional chuckle here and there, he told me anecdotes on life and love and existence and death, his throaty baritone sending echoes through the otherwise empty halls.

A perpetual state of evening. I found it ironic that a memorial hospital for war veterans, where everybody is now on a fight for a little more time, has no sense of it whatsoever. The hours passed slowly, sneaking away from notice, as if allowing everyone to revel in the greatest badge there is — the years left to them.


Welcoming the familiar pangs of complete and utter confusion back with a smirk, asking what took them so long. For a while there, I had everyone else fooled — apparently, even with layer upon layer of pretense, under pretend-grace and what we pass off as composure, we are always, always works-in-progress. At all times, day in and day out, we are all onto the same DIY project: encompassing a lifetime, much stupidity, more strikethroughs than highlighted passages, occassional epiphanies and delusions of having it all together, and lots and lots of ice-cold beer.

Aha, anxietyuncertaintyathousandquestionstotheNthpowersecondguessingmixedsignalsyetanotherforkintheroad — my old friend, my delight and dismay, you sonuvabitch! Obviously we have some unfinished business. Been a long time.


Makakalimutan mo ang lahat — ang panahon, ang mga lugar, mismong pangalan ng mga tauhan. Pero, hindi mo kailanman malilimutan ang impresyon ng mga kwento. Mananatili ‘yun sa’yo.”

— Prof. Velasquez

Yung pagka-helpless, nagiging self-destructive na.”

— Jenny F.

You can feel everything, but you’re paralyzed.”

— K.



Any Given Thursday

Must say, things are looking up these days.

I am typing this right now with about three hours of sleep and having only a ham and cheese croissant for today. Yes, am emphasizing the return of my maladjusted body clock and my hunger just because mother tipped me off a few days ago that someone genuinely believes I’m depressed — with the oversleeping and the overeating situation of the last few weeks.

Clearly said someone has been schooled in everything but PMS.

Either way, looked for clinical depression symptoms online despite incessant warnings from my endearing professors not to believe anything the internet says. Found out it deals with extremities — either under or overdoing normal things like, say, sleeping.

Science, however, has apparently proven that such symptoms are normal — ain’t life grand — but one should be alarmed when said symptoms take in the character of what experts deem as “prolonged”.

Meh, too unstable to be depressed all the time.

Either way, survived midterms week without the desire to kick myself for wasting so much time (and money) drinking and indulging in fastfood during the post-drunken state instead of actually arriving in class with enough/some dignity.

Haven’t been sleeping because these days, I’m either studying, or planning on studying. I could tell how busy the weekend’s going to be as early as Tuesday. Clairvoyance? Gah.

So far, I spent all weekends of 2013 at home either writing or reading or just avoiding human interaction and all its ambiguities altogether. Literally told someone — another someone — I can’t go out because I was planning on locking myself up in my room. Smooth moves brought to you by me, oozing with sex appeal since ’94. Not.

Anyway same person confronted me about it the other day and I guess being more.. err, what’s the word .. accomodating of gestures would do me some good. Months ago if same person was doing the exact same things I would’ve squealed like a dying dolphin.

Anyway, the ignoring thing worked perfectly well with my newly-acquired study habits, though. Was shocked this morning when I walked into first period and on the board, front and center, was Lim’s legendary Ms. Universe-esque midterm essay question.

Didn’t hurl as I expected to. Cig drags after a gruesome hour could be accurately described as celebratory puffs of relief and newfound self-confidence than staccato-depressed exhales. After that was Picart, the only person who can make four simple questions equate with going on a field trip to the seventh cicle of hell. Somehow, surprised self by surviving that too – thank you, sudden impulse to read supplementary readings just because the first page was quite engrossing – and so came out with battle scars to show for it but last time I checked, am still alive.

And now I’m home finally reading Dostoyevsky for pleasure. Fine, it’s also required but I’m trying to forget about that.


Also. Watching the UP screening of Ang Nawawala tomorrow with one of my best friends from way back. Yay am a hermit no more — am now a hipster hermit.

And, the best part: I have been writing again and loving every dirty bit of it, as you can see from the subsequent blog posting/abuse of school wifi.


What I actually meant was am writing words on paper again, would you look at that. Trees sacrificed themselves for my worthy cause.

I don’t know where this sudden appreciation for maturity came from but I guess I need it now, more than ever. Got to get them good grades so I can qualify for Master’s prog. Which reminds me, I actually have to send in resume and portfolio and do well on the interview first to actually be able to pay for grad school tuition. Note to self: figure out how to open a bank account without asking mommy to do it for me.

This blog is so reeking of teenage angst.

I feel like I’m too old for the youthful cute-but-improbable idealism yet too young to actually feel secure despite everything I have been through. I guess I’m now a “young adult” but said label reminds me so much of Fully Booked’s section on Twilight and The A-List novels.. so, no.

baka naman gutom lang lahat ng ‘to.


Things I realized in the process of restoring order into my room in an effort to make it a hospitable, sanitary place to live in once more:


I have a lot of reading to do, still. I mean, for class. I haven’t been keeping well as much as I should. Something about reading being labelled as “required” makes it seem so daunting — even with the occassional Sartre and Camus thrown in.


Kalay’s Lit program is so damn good if you keep up with the reading lists. The professors are veterans from UP and ADMU, some of them from the war. Half-kidding.


It amazes me how I feel at my best if and only if my room is in order. Maybe I have repressed OCD. Have always made it seem – or maybe I am, really – laidback and irresponsible in that cutesy way but I must say I feel all anxiety slipping away from my bones everytime I organize things.

My closet? Color coordinated. Even managed to train our helper in keeping this up since it irks me whenever she just hangs stuff in there ignorant of my pathological desire to have this little black dress next to my favorite black sweatshirt followed by my (apparently) vast collection of gray tops.

My bedside bookshelf? Arranged according to genre: Phil Lit, the Palanca anthologies serving as the focal point. Then, a pile of classics I have been meaning to peruse. Then, Hawking and Ferris, all Sciencey and stuff. The autographed copy of Abad’s Habit of Shores I loaned from the lib leans on the previous piles, with Neruda and Whitman. After this, grouped together by my tendency to bring together the most random people into a shindig: Nietzsche, Nabokov, Barthes. Last, two separate piles of bond paper – a photocopy of a poetry-writing manual a professor gave me, and then, err, the Koran. Don’t ask why.


It’s now ten minutes to 7 and I am supposedly lacing up for a run. Realized leaving this room in shambles, a state it has been in for days since I got caught up in tests and reports and sheer exhaustion to give a damn, would not be possible tonight. I have to read an entire unit on African literature tonight and focus would not be possible unless I start putting things back to where they belong.

One text message received. Semi heart attack. Shall not elaborate for I have yet to arrive at a decision on how to interpret specific person’s.. err, gestures. Best friend says it’s obvious and I should probably believe him since he’s a guy and he has shown same gestures in the remote past one way or another, but I don’t think I want to make a decision on how to take gestures in question just yet. Hmm.

Besides, I’m leaving.


Should probably get back to fixing room up. Then shoot coffee like it’s vodka, run at least three kilometers to not wear self out completely, shower, light up aromatherapy candles, play some Botti, then study.

Good plan. Let’s get on it.


I haven’t been able to write for days. I feel so powerless. It isn’t the same — tapping commands onto this screen. These aren’t words. Pixels just gather and we mistake them for it. Synaptic impulses have no choice but to deign, make do with what is here, or refuse to be known altogether.

Punyeta wala akong ballpen. GenEd class, nakakahiya manghiram.