Living in the Dust Bowl of "Average" When I Could Truly Be Extraordinary

I feel like if I list all my faults on paper I might overestimate them. Writing has always been an experience in hyperbole for me, never settling for "average", but "great" and "grand". Everything has to be at the opposite ends of the spectrum. It has to be either "the worst" or "the greatest" thing ever.

The above paragraph is an example of me overestimating. Which goes to show just how much I fear being perceived as average. Everything has to be grandiose, and everyone has to pay attention to what I have to say because I do not deal with "average". Whenever something evokes a feeling deep inside me, it has to matter. I am not impressionable enough to think mundane things are great.

But the truth is, I am an average person. Some people who know me through work or my social circles might think I'm a jack of all trades. I can sing. I can dance if I really want to. I can draw. I can write. I can play the guitar. I can play the drums. But I could not do any of those things at an exceptional level. For every talent I have, there's an invisible self-built barrier that forbids me from further improving in those fields. When I set out to learn something, I start with figuring out the basics. Once I do, I create something at least passable to me - and it's over. I am no longer interested in pursuing the next level because I found that at a certain point of learning something, you begin to encounter a steep slope to get to the next level. I never climb that slope. I meander.

I have climbed a few of those steep slopes in the past, but when I get to the next level I feel as if it wasn't worth the effort. When I start to really specialize in something, I have to dedicate all my time on improving those skills, but at the same time I have to abandon the joy of doing all those other things. It's a bargain I'm not excited about. I frown upon the idea of having to give up something just to be a little bit better at doing another thing. It does not sit well with me. So I stop and regress. I crawl back to being the self-satisfied jack of all trades inhabiting the dust bowl of "casual" and "average"- not bothering to muster up enough effort to climb out of it and be extraordinary. I do wish I could be extraordinary someday, but not today I suppose.

How To Excel At Being A Boss Despite Your Incompetence

If you're an incompetent boss and often find yourself sitting on your ass with a to-do list devoid of creativity, the quickest way to add fresh bullet points to your list- as well as eradicate idle time- is to call a meeting. Everyone knows this, but still- the power to call meetings on a whim is the pinnacle of manager ego-trips where you can effortlessly summon the ranks and have them drop everything they're doing for the chance to brown-nose you. Others won't be as eager, so the trick is to coerce them into thinking these meetings are in fact "serious business", and by that I mean you're taking it very seriously.

Being the incompetent, uncreative boss that you are, you might run out of stuff to talk about. To avoid this, set an agenda so broad you could literally talk about all day. The more tedious and boring, the better. (IMPORTANT: Be careful not to fall asleep during the meeting. It can prove disastrous to your image!) Luckily, picking an agenda won't take as much brain cells as you might think. It's a matter of setting the stage for a free-flowing discussion and see where your employees can take it. Keep it simple and observational- for example: you might remember seeing dirt in one of the rest rooms and say "I saw dirt in one of the stalls in the rest room the other day. I think housekeeping needs to be improved." Encourage everyone in attendance to give their 2 cents, have an open forum and let them share similar experiences. By the time the discussion has veered off topic and everyone starts debating who would win in a Pacquiao-Mayweather boxing match, you will have wasted a huge chunk of your morning (and everyone else's). Repeat ad nausea until you've had enough. Ready your memorized pablum to close the meeting with. (Always impart some sort of moral lesson to bookend your meetings- people love it.)

If you still have time to burn after the meeting's over, you might want to obsess about housekeeping a bit more. Take a stroll around the office park. Take into account mess, grime, clutter, etc. Be as meticulous as possible! This isn't only an effective time sink, but also shows you as a strict boss who cares about the little details. Any boss, competent or not, who's meticulous down to the tiniest detail often excels at what he does (in your case- lying). Before long, you'll be heralded as some kind of multi-tasking genius- especially when your on-site inspections are contrasted with your day-to-day "important" office meetings. Plus, you're getting your much-needed exercise during office hours!

Boy, he's been in and out of meetings all day and he still manages to check if there's dirt in the bathroom! He sure is one helluva multi-tasker!

By this time, you should approach an unsuspecting worker near the vicinity, confront him about the mess, and give him a lengthy lecture about how cleanliness is next to godliness until either one of you falls asleep standing up (again, try hard it won't be you). Remind him that your findings will be discussed in tomorrow's meeting.

Rewind: The Sunset Through a Window

Ah, the sunset.  I take great pleasure from staring at that orange gob of light before the earth completely devours it.  It would've been better if it weren't for the neighborhood rooftops that block the display of warm colors at its grandest, when it starts to trace the silhouettes of the mountains. No matter, it works regardless, and my complaints are minimal. I lay motionless. A guitar within arm's reach. Here. This is my room on an afternoon. Welcome.

A few years from now, I will be leaving this place. And even later my family will follow suit. This room, this house will be deserted. It will be dirty with dust and cobwebs in every corner, floors will give in to the slightest weight, and windows will be host to vines that go in every direction in the midst of broken jalousies. The sound of crickets will be louder. The croaks of frogs, much easier to discern. All these new creatures and green foliage will marvel at this ancient man-made fortress while through its windows, the sunset will continue to paint it orange. Always.

This room will be an old storyteller one day. It will share a story of sadness & joy, of music & dissonance, of love, and of a boy, who once stared through its windows at that emanating gob of light to the west.

~ July 2008

Rewind: A Completely Pointless Dream about Ghosts

I had the weirdest dream.  I was 5 or 6 and son to an army chief and lived off in some army encampment in the great forest.  I couldn't really remember if we lived a normal happy life, but then the riders came.  They were clad in medieval suits, the ones you saw on knights in a period movie.  I heard the sound of metal banging against metal.  I could tell they weren't barbarians for I saw that their leader carried a certain valor to him.  But they killed swiftly.  They took the life of everyone I cared for, including mine.  I couldn't really remember that one swing of the sword that ended me, but I knew I was dead because I started to see ghosts.

The ghosts ganged up on me.  They took me to a place where I "waited it out" for the next decade or so.  It was an old mansion.  I could still remember the carpet and the wood sculptures on the stairwells.  I could remember small rooms underneath its labyrinth, ones I had to crouch to see.  But the ghosts were the ones that really fascinated me. A select few never tried to scare me and some looked more like real people than ghosts. But the more grotesque ones scared me - one look, a glance, and you had the cliche idea of a ghost: pale, floating, scary-looking. I remember there was a flying ghost of a child with a body severed from the waist down, and he constantly tried to get near me like a beggar would in a street. So did the other ghosts. I didn't know what the deal was but I could see I was important to them. Like a prophet, or savior perhaps, the key to finally move on to the next netherworld, and I had no idea why.

So what did ghosts do each day in a cold dark haunted mansion? They wrote. All of them had notebooks, scraps of paper, the underside of a magazine cover--- anything really, as long as they could write on it. And they wrote all day. They would always come to me asking for pens, which of course I didn't have, and it's also probably the reason why I was so scared because I got to see every single one of them approaching me. At times I would turn back and run, but they would call me out and say they were not a threat and meant no harm. And I never did have any pens, but they would always find that last lead off a pencil somewhere and they would continue scribbling the day away.

One day I was among them whilst they were writing, they had all their heads down as if in deep concentration.  I peeked.  One wrote phrases I barely understood or remembered.  One wrote his signature over and over again.  Others wrote poetry.  And they all wrote on random areas on the paper.  I asked one of them "what's the deal with all this writing?" He said, "it's the only thing that connects this world to the worlds above".  I did not forget that. It was the only medium that could send out pleas for ghostly freedom to the gods. Most of them remain unheard, and I realized you had to be lucky. They pushed on anyway, like old people buying lottery tickets everyday hoping to finally hit the jackpot.  The "jackpot" in their case was a mystery. The ghost continued that they were writing even more now that I'm here.  They say I was a prophet and that I was the catalyst to all this mumbo-jumbo.

I couldn't really remember anything else except the return of the riders. Strange because they saw the ghosts. I don't know if they were ghosts themselves, but they looked battle-hungry, and they were all looking for me. I had no idea why. Their leader, the one that killed me, stormed through the entrance with a flail and immediately went looking for me and once he found my hiding place, he rammed the wood panels from which I hid underneath until he coaxed me out.  I ran, but I couldn't run as fast as I normally did. I was held by a strange wood-like figure. In no time, he was before me- and I was ready to die a second death. I waited for the death blow but it did not come. What he did though, he drew his sword and started sawing at something I had no idea was on my body before. I had chains just between my thighs and my butt. Thick metal chains. And he sawed and I cried.  It felt like I was the subject of a medieval circumcision. But once the last chain was off, he said to me... "now you're free".

Wild applause ensued. Including the ghosts. Then I woke up.

~ June 2008

Rewind: The Vending Machine

Do you have a coin? I love coins. I love how they're shaped round and how they vary in thickness and diameter. I love how some are mint shiny, some with little dents here and there, even the ones that have accumulated respectable amounts of dirt & rust through the years. I love them. I love them all.

They may seem so common, so usual, almost superficial that you pay them the tiniest respect, but I adore them wholly; for without them, I would lose my purpose. Yes, they are the very reason I function. I'm a creaky, obsolete vending machine. I specialize in candy. Sweet & chewy. Hard & sour. With or without nuts. Caramel & nougat.  I have all sorts and you can have them all! But bills are beyond me- I need coins. Tingly and simple.

Yes, that feels good. Thank you. I see you've chosen a chocolate bar as you carefully push the buttons on my chest. 421. Snickers. Your confident touch is gentle, I like it. Something turns inside me, and the candy falls on the base of my hollowed insides and slides conveniently to my retrieval slot. You absent-mindedly snag and unwrap the goodie and take one delicious bite after the other... But wait, don't you want another one? Dark chocolate or almond perhaps? How about some gum? Hey... where are you going? Wait-

~ February 2008

What I've Learned from Driving in the Philippines

If there's anything I've learned from driving in the Philippines, it's that Filipinos are the most impatient drivers. Anyone who's ever tried driving through the city will immediately notice.

FACT: There's always someone trying to cut you off.

Lanes? Who cares? Forget everything you learned about lanes or how only the width of a single car can fit in one. Out here, 2 or even 3 cars can fit. Chalk it up to Filipino ingenuity. And as long as your car is not physically occupying a space in your lane, no matter how small, it's basically up-for-grabs. Filipino drivers, especially those driving public transportation, literally go nuts when they see an empty space in front of you. They must have it. Even if it only means they'll be closer to their destination by 2-3 feet - doesn't matter to them. Not even if traffic is at a standstill. Screw your space and screw you! If all else fails, they can always drive through the sidewalk. (Yeah, screw you pedestrians too!)

For someone who at least tries to practice courtesy on the road, it can be infuriating to be constantly screwed over by these undesirable folk; so much that you yourself end up adamant about not letting anyone cut you off. You then become accustomed and later immune to this road dynamic and after years of getting cut off and avoiding getting cut off, you eventually end up cutting off everyone else instead. Might as well cut or be cut, right? I'm afraid my highly-regarded road courtesy will deteriorate to that point someday, but I'm optimistic it won't. All you need is a lighter foot, some good music, some horrible singing and you'll be the happiest driver around. Eager and more than glad to yield to the cutters - yep, that name sounds about right -  the darned cutters.

Besides, blocking off a cutter is even worse. Not only do you set yourself up for a no-eye-contact contest - once the lights turn green, I guarantee you'll involuntarily participate in a mini drag-race with the alleged cutter. You then begin to tremble in a fit of rage, start to black out, and become a fuming road monster who refuses to be screwed over by this little bitch cutter. Around this point, a road mishap is likely; or if you're someone who likes carrying a pistol inside your car for some reason, this is about the right time to demonstrate your excellent marksmanship skills after several days of practicing at a gun range in Danao; OR ... both you and the cutter get away unscathed. You then drive home, eat dinner, brush your teeth, watch TV, and wonder if it was all worth it.

It's in your best interest to just be awesome and butcher all of your favorite songs.

Rewind: How His Father Died

I could hear the uncontrolled coughing from somewhere inside the house. I followed the loud cracks and my search abruptly ended in the bathroom. There he was- crouched with his head over the toilet, now coughing and vomiting huge amounts of blood, and he's cleaning it off with the frequent splash of water from his bucket. I stood there aghast, asking if he's okay like any surprised person would do, not knowing how to remedy the situation at that very moment. I am utterly overwhelmed with shock with each painful hack and crackle of blood from his throat, and the splatting sound on the floor. More vomiting. More blood. Only then did it dawn on me: I needed to get this man to a hospital.

He was still trying to clean the mess he's made when I tried to hoist him up. I could see what was running through his mind at that moment:

What would my wife think?
What if she finds there's blood all over the place?
I need to clean this up.
Damn cough.

I pulled his arm around my neck and told him not to bother with the mess-- told him to save what remained of his strength.   As we drudged towards the front door, I immediately felt his strength waning, like a baby finally feeling secured, nestled in the arms of a mother after an arduous task of crying for milk or warmth.  He was done crying. Somehow I provided the milk.

Once we got out of the house, he asked me to stop. He pulled himself down on the front porch and vomited blood some more. This time, he could barely sit up. I held him up when he told me, "I'm going to die from this." These words resonated in my head. Please, anything but those! My sense of urgency peaked, followed by a shot of numbing adrenaline, and I was able to carry him like I was carrying a watermelon. We headed to a neighbor's house and demanded we borrow his car. He offered to drive us seeing we were all bloodied up.

The ride was fast and noisy as we made our way through traffic. We were on the opposite lane mostly. Hazard lights on. Constant honking. The cars, speed, and noise were intoxicating as I occasionally checked on him, to see if he was still okay. He was breathing short breaths now. A few moments later, the car's horns stopped working- strangely. That was when I noticed he had lost consciousness.

It's going to be okay.
He's going to be okay.
I kept telling myself.

I was still carrying him when we arrived at the hospital. The emergency room. Nurses, doctors- who knows. I remember a nurse made the reach for his pulse and then said, "Nothing.  I think he's gone..."  Those words had never sounded so painful. She proceeded to ask me what happened and I explained everything; as if recalling each detail could somehow bring him back. I had absolutely no clue what else I could do. Waiting wasn't even an option. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. But my mind went blank. It shut itself down as it frantically tried to process what had happened.

The next thing I knew, I was in the morgue, sitting beside him. Crying. Talking to him. He looked as if he was just sleeping peacefully, and the illusion calmed me down a bit. I had to close his eyes with my fingers several times though, since his eyelids kept opening up. And as I did this, more tears came rolling down my face. I continued talking. Gibberish. I couldn't remember a word. I just kept on talking.... talking.... talking...... talking........

Death prevailed. It was bloody. It was short. It was impatient. It left me with nothing but a hollowed sense of helplessness before it, as it handed over my biggest loss.

~ October 2008

Rewind: I Find Comfort in an Old Tree

I find comfort in an old tree. It stands in the open, conspicuous and proud among the little plants and shrubs. It stands today at the exact same spot it did yesterday, and quite possibly will continue to do so well beyond my lifetime. I am happy to see it because unless the forces allow it to be stricken with a freak lightning in the next 30 seconds or so, I know that at least my chances are high that I'll see it tomorrow unmoved. It's a small consolation; a shred of comfort at an age where everything seems to dissipate without notice.

~ August 2009

Toilets

Comfort rooms, more commonly referred to as "CRs", are the Filipino version of "toilets" - so I've heard from a foreigner who recently pointed out the gaping irony that there's absolutely nothing comfortable about them. The guy has since abstained from disparaging the many oddities in Filipino rhetoric, thanks to a few angry politicians - who prefer other people believing that when Filipinos use the word "comfort", they mean just that. (And they don't take kindly to any criticisms)

Contrary to popular belief, toilets/CRs did not pop into existence for the sole purpose of purging bodily wastes in the most sanitary way, and most definitely not just for 'comfort'. It serves other purposes as well - a place to sleep during office hours for instance, albeit a musty and sweaty way to doze off with your pants down (depending on the air conditioning). It's a tricky way to sleep, but people pride themselves when they're able to pull off 2-3 second short bursts of dozing off without falling over. Apparently spending a few hours a day mastering this technique is far more fulfilling than actually doing your job.

A new way to listen to music

The other day I was stuck listening to the soundtrack of a movie and thought maybe every song we brush aside can be conveyed in a way we're oblivious about- like these songs fortunate to have appropriate imagery plastered along with them. Not much is left for the imagination as a result, but sometimes lazy minds just need that extra push.

I used to sit and listen to music with eyes closed, trying to construct images in my head - images I deem appropriate for a song. You have no idea how many cerebral music videos have passed through my head and vanished, it's a shame. But I'm pretty sure most of them were cliche. You know... like playing to the most obvious emotional response to a song: Joy. Sadness. Pity. Adventure. Sun.

So when I came upon these soundtracks and re-watched the movies that featured them, not just in a casual way, but really watched them, I intended to find the little nuances that make great visuals for a particular piece of music - or great music for a particular set of visuals - focusing on visuals that I would otherwise never think of. I'm hoping it makes me remember images better, and at the same time rid my head of this bland mesh of cliche. And perhaps by doing it repeatedly, I get better at it.

The meaning of life?

We say we are but a tiny spec in the vastness of the universe. I say, why do we put too much emphasis on size? It's overrated. It's an illusion with no other purpose but to entertain our otherwise unremarkable minds. Unremarkable they may be, but you can argue that your measly self-consciousness is far more valuable than the entire universe, for any kind of 'meaning' or 'purpose' could only be borne out of consciousness.

I suggest that the meaning of life is subjective. It could never be objective. Ever.

Blank-minded euphoria

 “There was a period last fall when every time I began to write, I went into a perfect blank-minded euphoria, where I stared out the window and felt a love for and oneness with everything. I sat in this state, sometimes for the whole time I had planned to write. I thought to myself, “Lo and behold, I am becoming enlightened! This is much more important than writing, and besides this is where all writing leads.” After this had gone on for quite a while, I asked Katagiri Roshi about it. He said, “Oh, it’s just laziness. Get to work.”

Natalie Goldberg

(I found this over at dorkydancer.tumblr.com.)

Drawing Mohammed

A few months ago, an American cartoonist by the name of Molly Norris decided to make a Facebook page dubbed "Everybody Draw Mohammed Day" on the 20th of May 2010.  This was reportedly in response to a certain South Park episode containing comic depictions of the prophet- which was later pulled due to the death threats received by its creators.

The Facebook page ultimately attracted thousands of Facebook users opposed to censorship of any kind (including a few nuts as well), and, at the same time, caught the eyes of Islamic extremists who would later threaten to find and execute the Facebook page's creator.  In the peak of its popularity and to the dismay of staunch supporters of the campaign, Norris disowns the page after seeing that it was widely received as anti-Islamic, when in truth it was originally intended to support free speech.  Not long after, she received a serious death threat from Al-Qaeda linked extremists, claiming she is on a priority list for those to be executed for blasphemy, further sending her into hiding.

To read more about the subject, go to its Wikipedia page.

I initially found the campaign offensive and unnecessary, but as the death threats increased, I really began to feel the prevalence of terrorism in our society as a whole.  That said, I am in full support of free speech.  Anyone can say whatever they want- say, draw a funny picture of a prominent religious figure.  You may very well receive some kind of backlash for it, but death threats?  That's just insane. A person deserves nothing more than criticism for calling Jesus Christ a "dirty son of a bitch", however stupidly far-fetched or untrue that may be, but that same person certainly DOES NOT deserve to be executed.

It seems we are all looking for someone to take a firm stand regardless of all the death-threats. I can't blame Norris for backing out, it seems that's what I would do too. Admittedly, I'm neither a hero nor heroic in any sense. I guess terror is as affective to me as it is to her, and that saddens me. Is it the same for you? Still, I dream of seeing someone stand up to these terrorists.

Either way- if a person decides to take a stand or back out, this new development (as previously mentioned) definitely raises more eyebrows, and hopefully arms, to fight for free speech. And it really helps that this whole thing is widely publicized and that alot of people are really starting to talk about it. I haven't kept tabs on everything these 'loony muslims' have said in retaliation to the drawings, so I honestly don't know if our reactions were too little, too late. I do believe though that all people should be made aware of this.

Before I'll wrap up this post let me show you the once upon a time dilemma between Salman Rushdie, Free Speech, and militant Muslims:

The issue divided "Muslim from Westerners along the fault line of culture,"pitting the core Western value of freedom of expression– that no one "should be killed, or face a serious threat of being killed, for what they say or write" –against the core belief of many Muslims–that no one should be free to "insult and malign Muslims" by disparaging the "honour of the Prophet" Muhammad.

It's not that hard to figure out who's in the wrong.

I'm signing in

More and more people (Filipinos) are signing up on Facebook. Yes. And with each random person trying to add me as a "facebook friend", a voice tells me that I should leave my Friendster blog. It is doomed, like the main site was doomed ages back when Myspace was sizzling to become, though only temporary, the most popular. Likewise, I'm wondering when and how Facebook will crumble and follow in its ancestors' footsteps, and why Filipinos chose not to drop Friendster and move to Myspace. Why now? Why Facebook?

Anyway, blah blah blah. I am finally compelled to use this space, and I am somewhat thankful and relieved, for the most part after finding out Blogger is under the watchful eyes of Google. And there's nothing like finally being able to name the friendster blog "an old friend", a ghost and a skeleton in the closet, a colorful past that I'm glad to hang on my wall- appreciating and examining it in all its ugliness, immaturity, uber-cheesiness, and, of course, beauty.

Welcome me Blogspot.

please give me what i want [part2]

...and then i sink in one of those comfy chairs. Aaah... relaxation. I draw two breathes when the child comes out of nowhere, running toward me. This time he's bringing an orange toy plastic hammer, and while he's running at his own pace, he's raised the hammer as if prepping to hit me with it. I felt playful, and got ready to feign bullshit.

POW.

One hit to the head, and the next thing i know, blood is dripping on the floor. A glance down at my shirt revealed blood gliding along my skin all the way to my toes. BUT NO--- the child was not finished yet. Several more hits came in a blur.

...I am down on the floor now, lying on my own pool of blood. I felt the excruciating pain of the bruises and torn flesh left by the hits.................... and I was enjoying it. I was enjoying myself for some reason..... Confetti started to fall all around me once again, and some strange rays of light touched my skin.

While i was busy delighting myself, i became aware that the child was nowhere to be found--- and i find the toy hammer on my feet. Confused, i just lay there and waited for the confetti to stop falling... and then SILENCE. A voice of a child started to speak---

"You're REALLY a big idiot."

Medium

I have grown a fondness in things like garbage cans, stones, the dirt-strewn floor, and anything often overlooked and taken for granted. I believe everything is just as meaningful as the next thing. It's fascinating how most things remain while the rest have to "die"... and it's just as interesting that given the shortest span in this virtually infinite straw of time that constantly spins in this world, "life" remains just as important now as it was a few billion years back. We understand that... for we are "blessed" to have experienced it first-hand.

But can we relate to things "devoid" of it? I bet if these constantly overlooked things were given mouths to speak the medium of life, they'd have more stories to tell than any one of us......... This consistently remains alien. It would be culture shock at its finest.... or pure insanity.

It is the living that continually sucks the meaning out of these things... Life, itself, devours what LIFE was left in, say, a pebble. We have invented the word "superficial" and labeled pebbles with it.

Please give me what I want

The child is nagging me at the knees... pulling... begging me to give him something I could not give. He's asking for the little toy up on the shelf just across the room, but for some insane reason, I could not move and get it for him. After a few hours of constant annoyance, the child gives up, takes a chair from the dining room and uses it to reach the oh-so precious toy himself.

...seeing this, I notice that a silly smile took over my face. Relief overwhelms my body. Lights shine and friggin confetti falls all around me. I close my eyes and feel heaven.

While I was busy taking in the moment, this little kid returns the toy and the chair from where it was before, came back to me and stared at me blankly--- he then blurted,

"You're a big idiot."