Forget yesterday, we'll make the great escape

Nothing annoys me more than people who question my decision to stay in the Philippines. True, the way my life is going now absolutely begs the question, but what's the deal with haranguing those who prefer to stay back with relentless appeals to jump ship abroad? I respect my friends' decision to pursue gainful employment outside our country. In turn, I expect the same kind of courtesy for those who want to stay behind.

It's only fair, don't you think? You do what you want, I do what I want.

I've never really stated outright that I don't want to go abroad. I've always maintained that I'd consider the option if the opportunity presents itself. There have been hits and misses here and there, and I have my dreams of touring Asia and the UK, but on the whole, I'm fine with staying put with where I am now.

A friend of mine, who by the way, is one of the smartest people I've met, told me that she had no plans to leave the country because she is needed here. I share her sentiment, although I've never had her courage to own up to it in front of people. A deep seated fear of regretting my words prevent me from doing so.

My stint as a volunteer nurse a year ago, however, cleared up my muddled perspective. I was of most use when I volunteered at the pediatrics ward of the Zamboanga City Medical Center. Despite the exhausting schedule, I realized that I am needed here. Nursing, wherever it is practiced, is service. I'd just prefer to give it to my kababayan first, before others.

To be fair, my staying behind is not all noble. Working abroad would need a lot of paperwork and money. Paperwork is the one thing I hate doing the most, given the bureaucratic red-tape shit we have, and money is the one thing that I do not have in mass quantity. It's been 3 years since I graduated and got my license. The nursing rat race will be the death of me and my fragile ego. Really, try beating a million other nursing graduates who are more gung-ho than you and just itching to leave the country.

My nursing background is nothing stellar. I know that I'm a damn good nurse, yes, but my so-called brilliance is a hands-on kind of thing. It's something that I can't adequately translate to in my resume.

And besides, I have plans of my own, plans to pursue my dreams of getting an MD hitched to my name. I've already done what my family wanted and it's not enough. There's just no substituting what you want with what you need.

Medical school is still hazy at this time. Preparations need to be made, plans to do, things to finish.

Here's to hoping. And dreaming.

Cry wine and sell vinegar

I had hoped that my 3-day vacation in Dumaguete City would clear my head and rejuvenate my weary 23-year-old self. I had visions of going back to work, so full of fresh air and healthy sunshine rays, that I'd dazzle everyone with my writing and my tan. As it is, I can barely write anything decent this week. One article underwent such a gruesome edit, I wept. Take away from me my writing, I lose whatever ounce of confidence I have and I turn into a cabbage. So, please, I really, really need to get it back.

I've had blocks before, sure, but nothing as serious as this. I'm stumped in nearly everything I do. My letters suck, my articles might as well be bonfire fodder and this blog post is killing me! I've got three more pending posts and I haven't the heart to finish it. Inspiration is a prima donna bitch, I tell you.

Normally, when I encounter blocks, I doodle. I've been a doodler since as far as I can remember, and doodling has always helped me squeeze out my creative juices when I need it most. It doesn't matter that I'm no Da Vinci. Doodling gets the gray mater running. It also used to annoy the heck out of my classmates. I'd doodle on their reference materials and they freak out. Strange people, eh?

And if doodling doesn't do the trick, I scribble. I'd write my name over and over again. And because my name is 26 letters long, my right hand gets quite the workout. That was before I got good with the keyboard, though, thanks to Typer Shark Deluxe.

Now, instead of scribbling, I type. Letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, only to delete them and start again. I even retype my stuff if I have to. I try to tackle simpler assignments first, like letters, memos and whatnots before sinking my fingers on to the heavy hitters. I blast my eardrums out with music. I eat. I walk. I do anything but stare at my blank word document. I go at it for as long as I can, and eventually, an article would type itself out.

This is what I'm doing now. Writing, re-writing, deleting and struggling to make this one post count. I feel that if I don't get through this, my head will explode and I'd be stuck answering and transferring phone calls for the rest of my life.

I feel a whole lot better now and I just hope the feeling will tide over to my other pending articles.

If it doesn't, then this:


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Facials

I’m deathly afraid of pimples. Ever since the outbreak of 2009, I have treated every spot and blemish on my face the way a homing missile would treat its target. I have obsessed over every irritation, dousing it with soap and astringent before it could develop into a full-grown facial irk. So it’s really quite annoying that the one time I decide to take better care of my face – cleansing, moisturizing and all that shit – pimples pop out. I doled out cash to have my skin break out. Huzzah.

I was better off with my old facial regime, the one where I did nothing. No creams, no soap, no cleansers. In high school, I never got the pimples. Everybody else around me was indulging in papaya soaps and facials. The worse I got from the adolescent hormonal onslaught were a bad set of growth hormones that only got me as high as 5 feet.

On hindsight, I should have stuck with what I was born with. Never fix something that isn’t broken, they say. I’m bashing myself with a mental hammer for messing around with skin care catalogues and listening to kikay ladies talk about investing in your face for the future.

But the body has its own way of taking care of itself. I don’t think we should mess around with something that has a way of getting things done. Faces are meant to sag and become crinkly. We are meant to be old, yes?

For now, I’m done with facial care. I’m going to stick with what my mama gave me. Once my pimples clear up, I’m letting my face (and body) be. I don’t have one kikay bone in my body, so really, why force it?

Dear face, forgive me. I just wanted to be pretty, too.

And I'll tell myself I'm special till the end

I only have one ninang, and when I was younger, it pissed me off to no end. In a culture where godparents are Santa Clauses all year round, not having at least a pair is a serious handicap come gift-haul seasons. Now, you'd think that with only one godparent, I'd be particularly close and clingy to my ninang. But as it turns out, I am unable to find a common ground with my godmother.

Which is really kind of disappointing. Ever since I watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix, I sort of fell in love with the idea of having a godparent, granted that they were as cool as Sirius Black. Who wouldn't want to have Gary Oldman as your alternative old man?

Aside from the occasional hi and hello on FB, I basically don't have a relationship with my ninang. The last time she came to visit, I was struck with the realization that we're just like oil and water. We can't/won't/shouldn't/don't mix. Our personalities our polar opposites - I'm droll and melancholic, she's a wee bit bossy and extroverted. She drinks beer, I don't. She gives me blouses, towels and bible verses when I'm a blatant bookworm to the core.

She doesn't know these things because we barely talk anyways. We run out of conversation fodder to sustain our talks. This is how our latest conversation went, the last time she was here:

Her: How are you?

Me: I'm fine.

Her: Are you working?

Me: Yes. I work at so-and-so as a so-and-so.

Her: Mmmm.

Me: Mmmm.

...

And that's basically it.

To be honest? Since she's supposed to be my second mother, I wish my ninang would take the time to know me. Understand my passion for books, writing and anime. To not see everything I do as a mistake, to not see my career choice as something that can always be improved on with suggestions to work at a call center.

Realizing this, I now understand that just because my family knows someone or someone knows my family, it does not mean that I'm obligated to believe everything they say or do. I can disagree with their thoughts and ideas. I can measure them against my own standard, quirky as they may seem, and that it's alright to do so. That I am entitled to have an opinion of them. Most important of all, (and I cannot stress how important this is), I don't have to like them. I am not required to like them. Respect is, after all, still earned and not given.

That it is OK to find one's family less than perfect - aunts can be snobbish and self-righteous, cousins can be pests, mothers can be stifling. That you won't get struck by lighting for thinking about these things.

It's quite liberating, really.

The other side of the moon

There's no official proclamation yet, but they might as well paint the city red. It seems that Zamboanga chose comfort over change, the old over the new. I don't like it one bit. But one can you do? This is what it is to live in a democracy.

Like a badge of honor

I can't say that I'm pleased with how Zamboanga's local election turned out. I am not pleased. Words cannot describe the feelings of disappointment and incredulity that have mingled to form a bitter taste behind my throat. How could people, for one minute, think of electing local officials who have done nothing for the years that they have been in public service except for wave at the crowd during city events? As if appearing in public functions is equal to public service.

What we will have, once proclamation is done and over with, are the same lethargic councilors who have done nothing to invigorate this city from its slump. Given their track records - or lack of it - they will continue to do nothing. Zamboanga may well sleep forever and be forgotten in the wastelands.

It also sucks that my mayoralty bet didn't win. Still, I could live with having 3 more years of Lobregat rule. The mayor has done his fair share for Zamboanga, and he's got something to show for it. Losing, in any form, sucks balls, so this is nothing personal.

What I find harder to swallow, though, is having a vice mayor who has nothing. I have no idea what he's done, what he intends to do and how he intends to do it. Soon to be declared Vice Mayor Ituralde may have some unknown aces up his sleeve, but that's just the point. Who knows about it? His smile is not reassuring, his constantly closed office (yes, constantly closed. I visited the Sangguniang Panglungsod quite a number of times and his office was always closed) does not speak of a person who is an achiever. The vice mayor roster was not particularly attractive, yes, but sir, I'm sorry, but you are not the best man for this job.

I guess what I'm most disappointed about is that Zamboanga did not make the most out of this opportunity. It did not dare to do something different. Which is why it is no different to what it was before.

So now what? What else is left except for the hope that somehow, no matter how strongly I disagree, this city made the right choice in choosing their leaders.

But this time, I'd like to be more vigilant. I'd like to see what our elected officials will do in the coming years, now so more than ever, with every city in Mindanao catching up and leaving Zamboanga behind in the progress race.

The joke is on this city. We vote, not on merit, but on popularity. And money. We want to see progress. And when we don't get it from our officials, we turn to each other and say "I told you so." Then, come next election, we vote for you again. To our officials, please make me sing a different tune next time. Please give me reason to believe. Bring it.

This year's election meant more than just a change of leadership. For me, it was an opportunity, the opportunity. I had high hopes for this election, and I was more than excited to be part of the country's historic first. Instead, all my expectations have fallen flat.

Tough luck.

Would that eternity become everyday?

Not that I'm prolific with blogging and stuff, but recently I've faced an insurmountable writing slump.

Shortage of ideas? Check. General walang-gana feeling? Check. Regular power interruptions that suck like hell? Check.

Yes, pin the blame on power interruptions, you lazy bum. But this time, I must admit, I am seriously not passing the buck to some innocent bystander. No emotional displacement here. It really is the truth. This power crisis is going to be the death of me - or at least the death of this blog, with all my dreams of being a superscribe dying with it.

Imagine having only 4 hours of work per day. Sounds good, if you've got electricity to power hard drives and the intarnetz, hell if you have stifling heat and boredom to deal with. Then you get these phone calls from bank agents from Manila who scoff at the idea of power interruptions. Talaga? Wala kayong ilaw? Yes, wala kameng ilaw. Power crisis po kame. Don't you read the news? Generators? No, we have wiring problems. We can't have a generator without frying everything in the office.

With nearly all my work tied to the computer and the intarnetz, it's impossible not to feel bored. Or tired. Or dejected. Or just so freakin' pissed at the world for taking global warming lightly. When the lights do come back on, I feel as if I've done a week's worth of work, like someone who has just experienced a dozen of health insurance leads gone wrong. By then, I'm too beat to do anything but abuse the intarnetz for the deprivation.

As a countermeasure, I've tried catching up with world events by reading the paper - present and past issues included - only to end up folding them into a paper fan. I've brought some books over, but the heat and humidity is not exactly a pleasurable ambiance to soak up literature. Anyway, power interruptions are supposedly going to end on June. Bully for that day.

This piece is 1/4 angst and 3/4 pure therapy for repressed emotions.

We were the kings and queens of promise

Yesterday, I received a piece of glass with my name on it. It has rendered me quite speechless.

Most promising employee. Thank you Lord.

Congratulations, Jas. For someone whose only ambition in life was to finish college, you're doing pretty good. Let's continue to kick ass, shall we?