Took Me Sometime to Travel Alone to London

June 2, 2014

Because I am tired of behaving like a small fry and not having had the guts to move past my own inhibitions. Because the symbolism is so strong, I could not make myself overlook my frailties and what stepping outside the train and looking for the next destination meant. It is my own Catcher in the Rye tale, a sense of growing up that meant not only having had to outgrow my tendencies to remain in limbo, but a modification of a series of idealogies that can only be summed up with: that I am too weak to change years and years of what I know and what I have sworn to believe. It takes guts to argue with yourself. And it took me 8 months to retrieve the tube map of London's Undergound that I have stashed in the farthest regions of my cabinet, before circumstances have ingrained a deliberate understanding on my consciousness that if I dare set out and be what I truly want to be, I should place supreme confidence in my ability to act on calculated risks and defy the crippling notion that always being comfortable is uncomfortable. I have no more degrees to finish, but I do not like to think I am done for good. I am on my own to figure the propensity of what my life can become without the dictations of the established paradigms of success. Freedom is a hazy concept, meant to be directed to what we truly, truly yearn for. It is in my fervent expectation that hopefully one day, I can rightfully rock the chair smoking the Cuban cigar of fulfillment and meaningfulness.

First Days

Written on the 29th of September, 2013

I am a big fan of Judie Abbot and there was one thing I was hoping to recreate. After the orphaned protagonist found herself a benefactor who enrolled her in the university, she opened the window of her beloved room and smelled in a single breath the beauty of what she cannot fully express but wish to imbibe. Well, I did that too and I froze to death.

It is my 4th night in England as of this writing, and I am so sorry for the rigid hypothalamic tuning of my 23 years of flag-bearing the warm-blooded. I sleep like a shrimp with 3 pairs of cotton socks, a thick shirt, a thick cotton jacket, a pair of thick cotton gloves, heavy duty jogging pants, with a comforter on top and a blanket. I look like a tomato in a sandwich and every second, is a horrendous battle against what the British called the ending days of their summer. God Bless 10 degress. When in the bath, I thanked God I am only 70% water. Everytime I prepare myself to exit the dormitory, in no less than 5 seconds, my legs would go numb and I would go back inside, reinhale all the warmth my 2 nostrils can suck and set out. And as I walk, my mouth would start to shiver dreadfully,  and when you're with the rest, it doesn't really look feminine.

And when I saw Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay in their flagship cooking series way back in my hometown, I drooled on fish and chips but I never expected that their fish would be larger than my forearm and their chips, way larger than my thumb. I just stared at my plate in all ignorance and economic-disbelief and convinced myself in the end that what is in front of me is not a baby shark.  

The first time I entered my room, I found the heater, and although I am enamored by its practicality, I have no idea how it works. And the same thing goes for the microwave, toaster (yes), laundry dryer. To save a face, I would youtube steps 1 to 10 but I still end up fearing my premature independence could blow up the entire dormitory. So, I would follow the other end of the flowchart that is, to swallow my pride and just ask for help.  

And most of the time, the petty things you never bothered to overthink would slowly start to consume your consciousness and respect its instinct to survive. What will I cook? Am I competent enough to recreate a youtube dish?  Shall I endure the pains of walking aimlessly and be lost in the searing cold eclipsing the awe of finding a light fog parting from my lips as I struggle to make myself heard.  

I am an ignoramus, a shell covered in sand, breathing in my own comforts, trying to exist amidst the chaos and beauty of the sea, and suddenly I got caught and I had to poke my slimy head into the hole to see that perhaps my glasses have only  been filled half of what I know I must fill in full.  But never mind that. One must always endure the beauty of being oblivious. Sometimes, you kick yourself out, only to find yourself lost again in translation, but then you can always defy the temptations of giving up even when newness comes crashing into your life at breakneck speeds.

Film Sort-a Review: Makoto Shinkai's Garden of Words

Makoto Shinkai’s Garden of Words

Evenings when I go to sleep, mornings in the moment I woke up, I realized I was praying for rain

Garden of Words is beautiful. Its just so very beautiful I can just stare at every frame and be mesmerized. Makoto Shinkai and the creative team of Comix Wave doesn’t let you watch, they hypnotize you until their message pierces whatever ice is there left in your heart. And you melt away with the piano, the sadness, the meek replies, the relevant undertones of immortal concepts that strips and tests and reaffirms your worth, of whether your courage is the courage that makes you a man and whether this courage is what makes your life as it is or what it still may become. Nothing pedestrian.

And these are beautiful as well, and if only I could grasp what it meant and how I would want it to change me.

1. When the leaves gracefully sway as the rain dances while the main picture freezes by intention.
2. The glorious greens that blurs the easily distinguishable reality and fantasy.
3. The take of modernity and how its grayness dampens our inner skeletons.
4. The contrast of things you thought contrasted but no.
5. The silent stares that speaks volumes.
6. Just when you would tip your hat off for a commendable detailed rendition of the everyday mundane, you’ll round the corner to tip another off for the thoughtful depth that emanates through the characters’ eyes, the frown, the smiles, and the quick retraction of deep-seated looks.
7.  The piano notes that coincide with their mysteries. So affecting, it literally captivates your heart and lets it feel. 
8. The dew on the knives. The slice of the vegetables. The pasta in simmering broth. And wait, bitter gourd on a ramen?!  The normalcy of middle class living.
9. The room, which you can hypothetically smell even across this virtual medium.
10. And the grandness of nature, which envelopes the central theme powerfully and spontaneously forces our deep seated bitterness into the open.

But deep in my heart, I could have wished Makoto Shinkai made a more courageous introspection of what his genius can still traverse.