Lost In Thought
Pokemon GO-tta Have Heart: Here’s Y
“Because the friendship that you gave has taught me to brave, no matter where I go I’ll never find a better prize”
-Human League, Electric Dreams
Pokémon GO, the worldwide phenomenon that restored the former hype of the still-popular franchise it’s based on, is built on an amazing and interesting concept – augmented reality; bringing Pokémon in the real life, a bit of an oxymoron that works. Still, despite the innovation Pokémon GO has brought to the franchise and in gaming as an industry, hardcore fans of the Pokemon main games shit on the game, especially those who’ve tried it. Some because they blindly don’t like the game itself, some because of anti-mainstream (yet ironically) elitism-driven hatred, and some because the people who are now joining the bandwagon were mocking them a few months before the app’s release. But aside from those three, there is another reason why this unique Pokémon game got its fair share of detractors, and a lot of them are probably even among the 15 million former users of the app. And what would that be? The seeming soullessness of the game.
Gimmick-wise, Pokémon GO lets you do what no other Pokémon game has ever done before: “see” and catch Pokémon in the real world; encourage you to do a bit (or a lot) of going outside your house to catch more and rarer Pokémon; join a team, capture gyms for your team’s glory, and give people from other teams who dare take your gym from you a righteous beatdown – until you lose and get your gym taken over by another trainer. The problem, however, is that these features that make Pokémon GO unique have rendered the eponymous creatures that serve as the franchise’s core as mere inanimate tools that players just collect and pit against each other.
Well, technically, Pokémon were never alive in the first place. But in Pokémon lovers’ hearts and minds, they live. And like all living things, they grow – they level up and evolve. This is still just as true in Pokémon GO, as players can make their Pokémon stronger by feeding them candies. But just because they can doesn’t mean they will, as they hardly have any incentive to make their Pokémon more powerful, thanks to the system being designed, on purpose or otherwise, to make trainers opt to catch stronger Pokémon rather than raise the combat points of the Pokémon they have already caught – especially the starters, as trainers in the core games rely on them the most.
Because of this, the game fails to bring into the game one of the most important themes in the franchise: unlocking the full potential of Pokémon through hard work and training. In addition, it makes it seem as if Pokémon are replaceable things, and that the deciding factor to leave – or at least ignore – some Pokémon over others is because of power. Then again, the same thing can happen in the core games, but at least they don’t lock you with switching with a more powerful Pokémon as the only option, unlike in GO. A Pokémon game that doesn’t encourage sticking with them and helping them grow isn’t much of a Pokémon game, or at least one that is devoid of love. I mean, think about it; Pokémon are supposed to be hyper-powered pets, and to ditch one over another all because of greater power is cold, to say the least.
I’ve been a fan of the Pokémon anime since I was ten, and have been playing the core games – all gens according to franchise history, gens 3 to 6 according to game release – since I was seventeen. The seven-year gap was due to us being broke as a kid, as I only had access to a PC and therefore an emulator later on, and only had a secondhand 3DS as an adult. And each and every one of those games have been a journey and experience. Both me and my Pokémon struggled, trained, fought, evolved, explored the world and its mysteries, and had our strengths and friendships grow. The games have NPCs that tell you how your Pokémon feel about you, so I know this much is true, and moreso in Pokémon X/Y. And mine, specifically, is Pokemon Y.
If Pokémon GO is the ticket of the dead versions of the namesake creatures into the real world, Pokémon X/Y, on the other hand, is a ticket to the Pokémon world, which, for the first time, is finally in vibrant 3D, has vibrant 3D Pokémon and Pokémon battles, and much-improved Pokémon movement and attack animations and effects. And most importantly, in relation to this current discussion about Pokémon-trainer bonding in the games, X/Y is a massive improvement over the previous gens, as the game has a Poke-Amie feature where you can play and feed your Pokémon like they’re Tamagotchi, and Pokémon are no longer too shy to make their affections towards their trainers felt. You can see them react joyfully after they play a game or get fed with a Poke-puff, and you can see how much they like you through the five-tier heart gauge in Poke-Amie.
And the best part? It manifests in battle. If your Pokémon’s heart gauge is a full five hearts, it can dodge attacks, land critical hits (or at least wish that it did), and even sometimes survive supposedly fatal blows, all because it loves you. Never has the power of love and friendship been translated into any core Pokémon game before, and it has been done so near-perfectly and awesomely to the point that it’s game-changing. Rightfully so; this is, after all, love, an extraordinary phenomenon that unlocks impossibilities. Simply put, it lets people and Pokémon pull of amazing feats, even miracles – that is the highest expression of the bond between Pokémon and trainer. DatBoiKage (Greninja), Sylveon, and Charot (Charizard), as well as the many other Pokemon I’ve trained over the course of 85 hours can do all those things because they love me, and they do so because I loved them first, love them now, and will love them forever, even if I lose my 3DS and game cartridge. I have to admit though, these three are my favorites; yes that’s favoritism, but hey, it’s still worse than GO players’ way of treating Pokemon. Anyway, the point is that anyone can throw a Pokeball and make the captured Pokémon fight for them, but not everyone –and not every game, even if it’s Pokémon – has the heart to help a Pokémon come into his or her fullness, both in its capabilities to fight and to love. Yes, I’m looking at you, Pokémon GO.
Nevertheless, I have to give credit to where it’s due: Pokémon GO is an amazing and important advancement of augmented reality, smartphone gaming or even gaming in general, and the Pokemon franchise. But without the heart that has been pumping in the core games, or with how the game is set up, then it’s never going to be Pokemon enough. So even though I don’t play the game, and despite my straight-up comparing of X/Y with it and portraying the former as superior, I don’t hate it or its players want it to be that; I want it to be able to truly carry the name. After all, it’s the most played Pokemon game…ever. And because of its achievement and reach, I want it to succeed and have a heart, so that everyone can not only find Pokemon in the real world, but also and more importantly, learn love from them.
For it is love, not candies, that is the true source of strength of both people and Pokemon.
Writers: The Lover And The Beloved
“You’ve always written because you wanted to. If you don’t want to any more, why should you? Do you think your not writing is going to cause a village to burn to the ground? A ship to sink? The tides to get messed up? Or set the revolution back five years? Hardly. I don’t think anybody’s going to label that defection.”
-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
One who does not read cannot be a writer, or at least be a good one. So of course, I read, a lot. But when it comes to writing about Bernadette, reading can only teach me techniques; only my heart can tell me what things about her should be put into writing. Last week, however, I received a source material from my muse, one that she herself wrote. It’s a rather welcome change, a temporary reversal of role – I, the writer, had become a reader, and she, the reader, had become a writer. It also made me realize that my writing has become just as much for her as it is for me.
Writing, the kind that stems from the heart, is mostly a solitary, self-indulgent, and self-serving passion. No matter how good wordsmiths spin their motive for doing what they eponymously engage in all they want, that truth is inescapable. But despite the fact that the main reason behind the inception of most of these soul-driven pieces of work is self-satisfaction, there are some among them that are meant to be read as much as they are meant to be written, and they are more than meant to be about and for someone else than they are about and for the self. Such is the case with pieces centered on love.
A love letter – I just received one from my beloved. Rather, it’s more of an open letter, a blog post, if you must. It’s not the first writing I got from her, as she had given me two cards before, but I never received something as long and as telling of her soul as this one. And up to now, even though it has been a week old, I am still moved by its content, the crafting of it as an art, and the very gesture of putting words together not only to convey a message to me, but also and more importantly, to make me feel her love for me in a manner that she hasn’t done so before. I have already responded to what the letter is saying, but have yet to the act of her writing itself. And that is what I must do so.
Reading is the first and most important approach to a literary work; the next would be to understand the context: the setting the author was in when they wrote it, the life experiences they are going through, and the reason why they wrote it in the first place. I know all of them all too well. She wrote it at work, sneaking a few hours to make something personal – something I’d do; she’s in a rather interesting time in her life, as we’ve found love in each other, and at the same time wondering what she could do within herself to play her role in this theater of romance (the answer is nothing; I love her because and in spite of who she is); and she wrote it for me, for her love. Oh a girl, the one that I love, writing for, about, and to me – how dreamlike, manga-like.
Aya Toujo-like in many aspects – beautiful; kind; intelligent; esteemed in the arts, especially literature and film; and always so loving, understanding, and supportive of me. I, however, never thought that she’d share this one facet as that of the paragon of all romance-harem heroines: being a writer. Once again, that is. I remember her telling me that she had given up on the craft, saying that it’s not for her, even though she is just as capable a wordsmith as I am in my eyes – not as her lover, but as a writer, a critic. She has eloquent word choice and accurate usage; she’s able to get her thoughts and emotions across in the most beautiful way possible. And if she can craft such a wonderful and genuine piece that would move not only me but also others that would read it, then I say that she’s prematurely hanging up her dream.
That, however, is but a suggestion. It’s not my dream, but hers. She is the one carrying this brainchild of an ambition in the womb that is her heart, so hers is the ultimate prerogative to abort or give birth it. And whatever her choice may be, I will fully be behind her. But I, her partner and one of her potential inspirations, should she choose to dream again, would like to immerse myself into whatever life her words would bring. I can picture it – me, frolicking in beaches, jungles, deserts, cities, temples, planets, cosmic places; rubbing elbows with creatures of whatever kind in her creations; or me, being one of the many stars in in the universe of her thoughts and feelings – how enamoring, how…self-centered of me.
Berna once told me that it doesn’t matter to a piece from me is about, for, and to her or not; what does is that it’s from me. And that’s what I feel towards her writing too. No matter how impersonal and even though I’m no part of it, any work of hers is a gem, and any piece from her has a piece of her soul infused to it, so each and every one of them is worth the read.
So honey, like I previously said, whatever you choose to do with the dream is up to you, but I’d be happy if you pick it back up. And if you choose to write – to dream – once again but don’t know how or where, don’t know how or where, then think of your passion as a book that you haven’t read for quite some time now and have forgotten where you stopped. Well, just start anew again, so the parts you’ve already covered will have a brand new meaning, and eventually you’ll be on your way again. And when it comes to writing, it doesn’t have to be a short story or a poem; a letter or an essay about anything you want more than enough. In addition, don’t think about what others would say. Yes, getting read by others is important, but more important is that you quench your need to express what’s within you through words. Besides, you already have an audience, me, and I say to you, not as a lover but as a critic and fellow writer, that your writing is superb, and I wish I have more of it in my life.
I’ve always imagined what it would be like to have a writer girlfriend like Aya Toujo. We’d exchange writing, read them together, understand each other better, and engage in activities that would further enrich our love for one another and make great sources of inspiration. Well, now I have seen a glimpse of what a life like that would be. I’d say it’s amazing, because my two loves – my woman and my mistress, writing, both hers and mine – share almost the same space in my life.
But even if my mistress fades, I’ll still love my woman. I love her not because she writes, but because of love itself, and I write because it is a part of me, because of the things that are worth writing, and because of the things I love – and one of them is my woman.
I love you, Berna.
My Eternal Summer: Forget For A Moment And Remember Forever
In the scientifically correct sense of things, it is the meteorologists who determine when summer begins. And according to our state meteorologists, it has been summer for almost a month now, maybe a few weeks more. But in my self-centered universe, summer has just begun. Its arrival is rather late as compared to the past years, but it’s never tardy, for it is my heart, not the climate, no matter how hot it gets, determines its advent. And yes, summer – no, Summer – is indeed here. She has finally come. I thought she won’t, and I don’t mind if she didn’t, but I’m glad she did.
For the past few weeks after summer’s official start, it didn’t feel like it despite the killer heat that has reached 42 degrees centigrade. I didn’t feel like going to what is summer’s greatest symbol and official mecca: the beach. There was no desire for pristine, soft, and fine white sands; for azure and crystal seas; for towering palms whose leaves sway with the cool summer breeze; and lastly and definitely, for beautiful and sexy summer girls, especially chinitas in two-piece swimwear. Maybe it’s because I have Berna now, the best girl I could ever be with and the best girlfriend I could have, so the sea of feminine eye candy, while still sweet on the sights, is no longer as succulent as before. And maybe it’s because I’ve been employed for only a month, so I’m not jaded enough yet to want coconut trees and coastlines in lieu of the palm streets and skyscrapers that line Ortigas.
Case and point: for the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking for Summer, and it mystified me. I wanted to want Summer, but the same bliss and longing she once evoked wasn’t kicking, and I feared that it’s because I’m growing old. Those hot feelings I used to hold for the season has been extinguished by age and worldlier, more “mature”, “serious” concerns – normie bull. That was until Summer came running to me, looking for me, like a woman wondering where her ever-devoted lover spirited off to, and why. Now she has found me, locked away in a world of work, words, smartphone and office glass, and games, so she, through the help of my friends and my girlfriend, has finally dragged me by the hand and started running, so I ran along with her, and what I thought were bygone emotions from a bygone era came rushing back like a wave.
Yesterday I was in Bakasyunan Resort in Tanay, Rizal. It’s a mountainside resort with a mediocre pool facing a mountain with windmills at the top. It was okay, good at best. And thankfully, something better will be coming along: Laiya, Batangas in May 7. Yes, the quintessential beach trip for some much-needed Vitamin Sea. And while the beach will forever remain as a slice of sandy, salty, and sunny paradise, it has been, thankfully, stripped of what I realized is a fun but nonessential element.
Girls. To me, summer is flirtation, the search for love, or at least the beholding and experiencing of womanly beauty, especially by the sea. And this year, things have changed, as I have already found a love. While there is still the novelty of the idea of checking out and getting to know girls on the beach, it has become rather insipid and infantile compared to what I have now. I’m not renouncing the fantasy that I thought was the greatest part of summer just to tell my beloved what I think she wants to read; she’s not the jealous type anyway. Rather, I’m saying this because it’s true: summer playing is nothing compared to summer loving. Oh my dream come true, to sit by the beach with the girl you love the most, with an Aya Toujo, full of loveliness, goodness, beauty, and emotional and intellectual understanding, looking at the world’s oldest waters, the most accurate physical embodiment of depth, mystery, and eternity, talking not only about love and our past, present, and future time together on Earth, but also of the higher things in life, that of and beyond the sociopolitical sphere, the human condition, philosophy, the heart and soul, nature – I don’t know; the ocean of our conversation is just too vast, and there is no other place that is more appropriate to be the birth of those discussions than the very amniotic fluid of all existence.
But love and summer is not just purely discourse, but a series of seemingly unrelated acts that are actually anachronistic steps of a sun-blessed process. And by that I mean the things we’d do other things than talk: swim, frolic by the sand, sleep, and other obvious things couples do when they’re in the waters from where all life sprang forth. That life evolved and gave rise to the only spiritually beings able to love – us, and it is in that love that affirms the Creator, the author of life, whose reason for the birthing of flora, fauna, and us are a much higher form of the same sentiment Berna and I have for each other.
Or maybe that was a bit too transcendental or existential. For is not love for both woman and nature reason enough? To spend time with her beautiful outer shell and innermost soul at the beauty of God and Mother Nature’s architecture and feel the love and happiness of it all, that is all that matters; anything else is an excess. Like I said, I already have what I’ve always wanted; and to spend time with her at the beach would be to parallel the same manga scenes I’ve always envied.
There is, however, more to the beach than all of those metaphysical objects and female soul(s). To find this essential element, the hallowed place where earth, sea, and sky meet must stripped down of those excesses: the long, fun, and cathartic road trips to it, its correlation to God and the entirety of existence, the girls, or even the girl, and then you will find it: the beach itself and everything it stands for. The usual calmness, beauty, and depth of the ocean is always a relaxant and an inspiration; and its rare instances of violence are testaments of its power. Underneath its sea-green glass mass is a submerged forest whose water skies are filled with colorful scaly birds, or a desert with grotesque living spiked orbs and wayward soft-bodied beings. The way its waves never tires in crashing onto the powdery sand are reflections of the recurring plain but enthralling things in our day-to-day lives. We try to see if the answers to our questions, problems, and wonderings about the future are beyond its horizon. And a day – or hopefully, everyday – at the beach is to taste a simple slice of paradise.
Then again, the beach is a related but a sometimes standalone entity. And summer, while epitomized by sandy seashores, isn’t limited by it. Summer is also about road trips, cool drinks on a hot day and beer by the night-time, road trips, climbing mountains, dates with my girl, blockbusters, and many other things that make life good. That is why summer is eternal, for all these things are with us throughout our lives. And maybe that’s why I forgot about Summer: all her offerings, I get to enjoy the whole year round, unlike back then when I was still in school, jobless, and too stoked for the season. But of course, there is still nothing like enjoying the season during its peak instead of diffusing its essence throughout the course of our lives. After all, a summer in one’s heart means moot if it’s stormy outside. That’s why I’m glad Summer reminded me of her at the right time: her time.
When life rearranges itself, seasons and months can slip out of our immediate recollections. But these things, like people, refuse to be forgotten; they have their ways of returning to us – or maybe it is they who make us go back to them. Well, who found and took back who and how, it doesn’t matter; what does is that even though so many new elements have come – a new job, a girlfriend –into my current sphere, Summer, my seasonal mistress, and I are still together. We’ll always be, as long as there is the sun and a beach. And even if I get married, have children, reach new career heights, and become consumed with work, Summer and I will forever be locked in each other’s arms. And should I lose my grip, like this year, I know she’ll pull me back to her warm embrace. Even though there may be moments when I forget, she’ll always remember.
Ah! My Human Girlfriend
Last Sunday, for some strange reason, and fittingly, of all days, the theme of my girl and I when we were texting is that of Greek mythology. And now I realized that this blog post is long overdue, two months ago to be exact, as it was back in the 18th of December that I found my goddess, Bernadette. So here I am, in my atelier once again, writing about the most recent chapter of my personal saga and mythos, of the fairly new and hopefully endless age of a monotheistic pantheon and the religion of its sole faithful. Welcome to the third realm,
There are women, and then there are souls who share the same physiology and behaviors as them but are echelons above them. At first I thought they were angels, and I have been chasing after these beautiful beings ever since my first sighting of them. This world, which revolved around romanticized unrequited love and was set in a four century-old academe, slowly unfolded until it lost flight, hit the ground, and became broken, as one messenger was plucked after another. Then came the second – a colorful and expansive realm that spanned workplaces, cityscapes, beaches, and the plane of cyberspace. It is teeming with mermaids, faeries, and nymphs, and hiding among them is the goddess. I chased after them, these candidates for the divine, and when I was starting to feel tired of all the running around, ghosting, and friendzoning – both in my end and that of the false deities – the true one has finally descended. Bernadette.
Bernadette, the chief and only goddess of the Jamesbayotian Romantic Mythology. Some facets of her are opposite of what I have envisioned the goddess to be, as instead of being a fair-skinned chinita, she is a pure Filipina type with big and deep black eyes and smooth olive skin. Standing at around 5’2” or 5’3”, she’s definitely not petite, and instead voluptuous. And rather of being the sweet moe type, she is a sadistic tsundere, a blood goddess, Aztec-like in nature. However, some aspects of her have a commonality with how I imagined the goddess. Because as much as she hates to admit, her tsundere-ness is only the surface of her psyche; deep down she is a benevolent and warmhearted goddess who loves and is concerned with her one and only devotee, an Aphrodite whose love goes beyond that of Eros. She is also a deity of wisdom, as our deep, seamless, and seemingly unending conversations – proof of our beyond-physical connection – are filled with dialogue about cultures, ideas, dreams, passions, the arts, knowledge, and so much more. That is why she is now the goddess; she is now the world; this world, which is hopefully the last and everlasting.
She is the earth beneath my feet, warm and solid but not too hard. In her richness, inspirations take root and blossoms for all the world to see. She is the sea beside it, known yet still holds mysteries, a timeless old soul who is full of colorful life underneath a beautiful blue exterior. She is at times calm, at times unsettlingly silent, at times mercurial, and all the time a sight to behold. She is the open, endless sky above us all, and beyond that peaceful azure is a universe of possibilities rife with celestial bodies, forming figures and foretelling our futures. And this new cosmos, which is her, is shared by the two of us and the people and things integral to our mythos.
The first world was patterned on Evangelion and Judeo-Christian symbolism, the second one was an all-myths-are-true New Age Spirituality hoopla, and this current one is its continuation. This is the Age of Transcendence, of New Enlightenment, and Love. She sits on her throne, above and beyond the time-space, looking down on a nearly-infinite number of multiverses, watching her beloved warrior-poet hero – I – attempt to achieve greatness by following his passions and profess his love for her by offering her words, deeds, artifacts, and sustenance. And in my adventures with and for The Goddess, I am aided by equally important men and women: the wise prophet Fernan and our other brothers-in-arms Paolo, Nico, Nhel, and Ivan; the wordsmiths of La Salle – Kei, John, and Joyce; crafty rogues of SEO Hacker; my family, which adores the Goddess; the now-diaspora that is BMJ; and my loyal canine retainers Tala and Chase. As our journey continues, we discover bizarre beings: five-legged cows that live in Sky Ranch (we haven’t been to Sky Ranch), coffee-drinking giant humanoid rats and lizards, magma drakes, and unnamed dragons, just to name a few. And in our path that leads to the altar and the fulfillment of “The Prophecy”, there are those who will stop us: the Green Sea Monster, the Woman Who Changes Her Face, and Archangel Lucifer AKA “God Himself”. But through our love, understanding of each other, maturity, and giving each other freedom to grow, we will prevail, this glorious age will last forever, and we’ll continue having adventures until we ascend to the next plane, where we’ll still walk hand-in-hand side by side and continue conquering brave new frontiers.
Putting a girl on a pedestal is wrong. While treating a woman as a goddess make her pure, powerful, and smooth, it would strip her of her important right and ability to have weaknesses, break down, and ask for help, find rest from expectations, and become who she truly is and wants to become. So of course, Berna is never truly a goddess; she has flaws – some of which I already know, and some I am still discovering – and I would never take away her God-given right to have them. But the thing about love is that, according to my professor, it is imagined. I don’t fully agree, but I don’t fully disagree either; it just means that we love the one we love because the real fits the mold of the ideal. And Berna, while not exactly the latter, possesses many traits of the latter. And in this written realm, one of the imagined and ideal, Berna is glorified and ascribed divine properties to, turning her to the goddess Bernadette. However, she is far inferior to the mortal she is derived from.
As long as I love Berna, Bernadette will exist, but only in my head, and I will love her, but only as a symbol of the perfect love for a perfect existence. And I love Berna, a beautiful yet flawed flesh-and-spirit fusion of a female who exists in the plane of reality, for I can love her, and she can make me feel the same love. And although this life of love with her will have times of sadness, pain, worry, and fear, it still bests a self-serving fabricated romance between me and Bernadette, for it is felt by the body, the mind, the heart and the soul.
I love you, Berna. You are the myth and the living legend. 🙂
Our Red String of Fate, Spun With Time’s Fabric
Note: even though this post is inspired by The Time Traveler’s Wife, I didn’t post any image of the movie because I have neither watched it nor plan to do so, and any image from the movie would affect the way I imagine the book. And I imagine Henry as Clive Owen, not Eric Bana.
I have a love-hate relationship with stories that involve time travel. Love because the concept of visiting the future or going back to the past in order to change the course of history never seems to lose its novelty, and hate because it can always sometimes get confusing. Nevertheless, the love always prevails over the hate, especially if the time travel tale is entwined with themes of romance. That’s why I’ve taken a liking to Time Traveler’s Wife. In fact, I’ve never been this invested in a book after quite some time. I’m not just saying this because Berna lent it to me; it really has an interesting remise: Clare’s husband, Henry, travels to different random time periods, and thankfully including Clare’s past. And to me, the idea of traveling back in time and seeing how a person is like, especially the one you love, would be heaps awesome.
I have this firm belief that people who we fall for and fall for us come into our lives at the perfect time, and meeting the person at any other time in our lives, be it earlier or later, would’ve caused the romance to not begin or not work. Nevertheless, I believe that a lot of people, including me, are curious with what the life of the one they love before they met him or her was like. Because even though they tell us about their past, it’s a completely different thing to be told of who they were before and to see, hear, and feel the person they once had been for yourself.
I remember when Berna got drunk with soju during my former company’s Christmas party. I told her that she’s like a six-year old during that time. And when I said that, I wondered what single-digit aged Berna was like. Was she playful? Did the cat that is her figuratively got killed by curiosity? Did she engage in roughhousing? A yes, as she told me that she even got sent to the guidance office. What if I was there? What if I was her playmate/classmate? Who’d be the faster runner? Would she let me hitch a bike ride with her? Would she tease me until the point of annoyance, of tears? Well, whatever the answers may be, I wish I could go back in time to her childhood as a grown-up, so I can bully her until she cries home to her mother, and then I’ll tell the most important woman in Berna’s life that I want her daughter to hopefully be my wife someday.
High school was a dark time for me, as I had no deep friendships, bullies, and repeated failures with subjects that involve algebra – a far cry from that of Berna’s, as she was able to keep high school friends, and there were (and probably are) boys who had (and probably still have) a crush on her. I wonder what would be like as her classmate. Would she stop the bullying I am receiving because of my last name, social ineptness, and uncool, childish tastes? And if so, why? Out of pity, or something more? Or maybe she’d join them, although I doubt that she would. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t hold it against her if she did. I’d be sad though if that were the case, because my crush joined the bad guys –an unusual high school manga plot. Or maybe I wouldn’t even notice her, as I’d be too preoccupied with my weaboo dream and chase chinitas, like I did in this timeline, in this reality, until I met the Berna I met and have come to know. But nah, because I’d notice and fall for a soul as unique as hers regardless of the circumstances of our first meeting. So if we were high school classmates, she’d be nice. She’d help me in the subjects I’m struggling with. She’d stand up for me – something I would later on realize as my job. And because she’d do those things, it’d be impossible for me to not have a crush on her.
But just like the past of this timeline, I won’t be the only one who will fall for her in that alternate one. Just like in this reality, she’d have a boyfriend, and I’d be second, third, or even fourth fiddle. The high school me doesn’t know how to properly interact with others and say stupid crap, so even though we’d be friends, she’d never see me as a thief whom she’d let her heart be stolen by. Nevertheless, boyfriend or not, and whether he’s a jerkass, goody two-shoes, or anything in between. I’d wait in the wings for an amazing, one-of-a-kind girl like her – the same thing I did back in college.
And speaking of that rather bittersweet four years of my life, of that first sip of reality, I wonder how much it would’ve changed if I met her. What if we were traveling in the same commute route and I realized how much of a looker she is? What if there was or I was able to make an opportunity for us to talk? Would she give this awkward stranger her number? Would there be enough magic to rival that of my major college crush/seatmate/the girl whom I owe my college diploma to? Or maybe I’d still be too damn smitten by someone else’s angel and fail to realize that I’m in the presence of my then-future goddess. Maybe that had already happened. Maybe our paths have already coincided, it’s just that my senior Thomasian self was either too into foolish and hopeless chinita-chasing or too drowned by the sadness of his not-so-tragic friendzone story to notice a CEU freshman girl’s deep-set brown eyes, soft and silky brown hair, beautiful and even morena skin, and what could’ve been a budding connection between us. Well, what if I did? What if there’s no way for me to not notice her? Us exchanging digits and Facebook accounts and constantly chatting each other after – or even during – classes, hanging out in the different spots in U-Belt, staying at a cheap-ass eatery for hours because we’re already content with each other’s company – same thing we’re already doing now, cutting classes and me traveling to her campus so I can give her gifts and spend time with her, ditching our friends so we can watch fireworks at Paskuhan.
Our love now is quite immature in the best way possible that she calls it “young love”, but the thought of that even younger love is so enchanting. But would such a flame come to fruition, considering I knew nothing about women at that time and had zero self-esteem, self-confidence, and fashion knowledge? I doubt. We’d have been friends and not lovers. And maybe that would’ve also been the case in the more recent pasts, so thank God we never met each other in the past five years, ore else we would’ve probably not have fallen for one another. I needed to work on myself first and learn how to be strong, confident, and happy so that I can make my then-future beloved happy and carry each other through tough times with hope. I had to learn how to begin to love myself, an art that Berna is helping me with now, so that I too could give her love instead of me asking it from her all the damn time. I had to learn how to act around women. I didn’t get to smooth operator level, but at least I figured out what and what not to do and say during a date. Besides, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t learn too much, because I could’ve been tempted to play around and miss out on what I have now because I’m preoccupied meaningless things like the chase and one-night stands/FuBus/friends with benefits. And lastly, I had to learn a lot about love. I had to be repeatedly rejected and occasionally reject until I realize I have to fuck the “the game”, which is about either getting laid or getting a girlfriend, and just keep on loving until I find the girl who loves me back, accepts me, and understands me – Berna. If she came at any time before I learned what I now know – even just for a few months – my love for her would either be insipid, incomplete, or shallow.
There’s no time like the present; the past is history, the future is a mystery, and today is a gift; and last but definitely not least no matter how lame it may be: sa tamang panahon – cliché yet powerful truths about love and time. Maybe that’s the reason why time travel is impossible: because couples who’d attempt it would unravel the very fabric of their love, which has been ripened by time. So Berna, I’m thankful that I met you in the best possible time: now, and neither of us have access to time travel because we might mess up the very tapestry of our love, which was woven by God with His perfect fabric of time and our red string of fate. So from here on out, because we cannot go backward, forward, or stay in the now because time is always in constant motion, let’s make every year, week, day, hour, minute, and second count; let’s fill them with love. Let’s not stop until this universe, which is limited by space-time, finally ends, maybe we can sit in some weird Interstellar Tesseract-like place in space, hovering above space-time, looking down on the split timelines of this universe while we slow-dance to Earth Angel by Marvin Berry & The Starlighters.
Then again, there’s such a thing as time travel. Because when I look into your eyes, I see the future…
P.S.: Maybe we can go to different historical events, as long as not the ones that might cause our relationship to spin into chaos. 😀
A Hacker’s Outgrowing
I’m finally free; thank God it’s over – not the words you’d expect from a person who always wanted to be a writer for a profession. But if you were in the shoes of the one saying that, you’d say that no truer words have been spoken. Because ever since things changed for the corporate good, which meant worse for creative people like me, for us “millennials”, I knew I had to leave. Except I didn’t, as I was cash-strapped, so I stayed for three more months. At first I thought I was overstaying my welcome, only to slowly realize that I exited at the perfect time as my last day got nearer. And now that I am officially an ex-employee of my previous company, after going through many unforgettable highs and lows, I can now confidently say that it was one of my best runs so far.
The end began in the middle, around late August. It was a time of great upheaval, of talks about the turning of the company into a corporate one, of barely legal and grossly anti-employee contracts, and the enforcement of pointless laws. All of these changes were detrimental to our productivity and pride as young professionals, so a sudden mass exodus began. Many of the co-workers who I have become friends with over the span of a year were leaving one by one at a rate that made the management bothered and us happy for each other’s hastened arrival to greener pastures. It was officially the end of the company’s “golden age”, as freedom and happiness with work was replaced with shackles and grumbling.
Back in the old days, we used to believe in freedom – granted that we are held accountable for how it’s used – and the lack of need for supervision. Apparently, when I left, we still do, as it’s still part of the company vision/mission, whatever the hell that is, but that’s just what’s written on the walls and not what was still happening. Flexible schedule became a thing of the past. Work from home required top-level permission before it can be granted. Our output, instead of speaking for themselves, were regularly checked. We have begun using Slack, a chat site/program that allows the team lead to read every conversion, including those between the employees. And last but not least, on a more personal level, I cannot sit beside the girl I like, as it is detrimental to work even though it isn’t, and posting on Facebook anything that can be interpreted as against the company or any of its higher-ups, regardless of whether it’s actually them or otherwise, is a big deal and therefore punishable by public shaming in the guise of transparency and the upholding of respect, honor, and the company name.
Basically, everything that made the company feel so welcoming to millennials like us, made me want to work there, and made it unique was gone. And because even mere traces of such things can no longer be found in it, I had to leave, even if my-now girlfriend (more on that later on) is still there. It saddens me that what was once special has become part of the statistics, one of the thousands of startups that promised to bring something new to the table, only to end up as one of the businesses they promised they are not and will never become.
In the pursuit of my passion, writing, I joined that company, which looked and felt different, and promised me a way of doing work that is more laissez-faire and provides room to be myself and grow. That seemed true during the first half of my stay, then it no longer was by the second one. I still had hope that it would be true once again, but the bullet to the head of that wishful thinking is what our boss said, which is something along the lines of “passion will lead you nowhere. And you’re not special; you’re just a statistic”. ASSHOLE! IT LED ME TO HIS COMPANY, WHICH LED ME TO A JOB THAT GETS ME PAID FOR BEING A WORDSMITH, TO FRIENDS I WILL NEVER FORGET, AND THAT ONE GIRL I LOVE! AND TELL ME THAT EVERYONE I MET ALONG THE WAY IS JUST ANOTHER STATISTIC!
He traded something he once believed in and made us believe in for something as cheap as the socially accepted definition of success. Nevertheless, he was right – was, not is, because he is now wrong; following our hearts and our passions will lead to our own respective definitions of success, and mine happens to be fulfilling my dream as a writer, having true friends, and finding love. ALL OF THOSE THINGS DID HAPPEN, AND IRONICALLY BECAUSE OF HIM! So Sir, thank you from the bottom of my heart, for everything. I guess I shouldn’t be mad at you despite all that crap I had to go through because of your ridiculous mindset, because in the grander scheme of things, I owe you so much.
Looking back, I realized that I have become successful in the most serendipitous way possible. That success, however, is far from complete. I still have to find a better job as a writer, I still have to spend more time with the friends I’ve made to know them better, and I still have to keep loving her. And in order for me to do those things better, I have to grow into the person I am meant to be, and that means leaving the company. So to all my friends in both the golden age and the new age, this is not a goodbye, as I am always online, and I am always with you in spirit that small office home. This is merely a physical separation, a growing out of the pot we once shared. Don’t worry, we’re still in the same garden, so we’ll still see each other.
So, save for Berna, see you when I see you. I want you all to know that even in my new workplace, which I don’t know yet, and even in your new jobs, which is already true for the old ones and will be true in the near future for the new ones, we’ll always be…
Hackers. 🙂
Our/My Feet And Your Shoes
I love eccentric people. I, myself, am one. However, the problem with some of us, including me, is that sometimes we forcibly and carelessly put our feet in other people’s shoes and claim that we’re wearing them right. I mean that figuratively, of course.
For example, someone told my friend that he’s dumb and he feels awful about it. Now if I were in the same situation, I wouldn’t be affected since I think it’s that person’s right to tell me that, so I’d advise to my friend that he should feel the same way I do. But that would be wrong because I’m not him and he’s not me. Instead, I’m supposed to just say how I would react as mere opinion and not a guideline, and then tell him that he has every right to feel whatever it is that he’s feeling and that I’ll be there for him.
Back then, however, I didn’t think that way. I thought that if something is okay with me, then it follows suit that others are cool with it too. That is until I realized that I shouldn’t be running around trying to shoehorn my strangely sized and shaped feet into other people’s footwear. After all, to say that I wouldn’t like it if somebody did the same thing to me would be an understatement. I am, after all, eccentric.
I have realized that the world isn’t a communal shoe rack, but a long and winding walkway. And when someone who crosses our paths has a wobbly gait, telling him or her to walk like we do may prove to be wrong; asking them to take off their shoes and have us wear them would be worse. Rather, we should help him or her find the two most important centers in life: his or her own, and the ultimate center: universal moral values.
If everyone – all the people in the world, not just the eccentric ones – did the same, then nobody would trip and fall.
Back For Good
Like grease on rusty hinges, people need a little warm-up whenever they want to get back on the groove of something they haven’t been doing for quite a long time. In my case, it’s blogging, which is basically just my online nonfiction writings. But despite my hiatus, I don’t need a refresher course on the skill, as I use it on a daily basis to write whatever bullcrap clients like so that they will pay our company’s CEO, who in turn pays us in amounts he thinks we’re due even though we deserve more – but let’s leave that for another time. Blogging, on the other hand, is an entirely different ball game, as it’s a lot more personal. Rather, it’s nothing but personal – no need for resources unless I post facts or others’ works, no editing according to the tastes of the readers or clients, and no selling of either skill or principles for money; only my ideas and emotions and the happenings in my life – and that’s why I love it. After all, if love isn’t personal, then it’s not love at all. And because I love blogging, let this post serve as my returning gift to her, my wife and mistress.
So, why the long departure from my beloved? Mental exhaustion. The kind of writing I do for my full-time job and my woman may be realms apart, but the energy needed to do either one of them is drawn from the same pool. And as much as I want to empty that reservoir for my beloved alone, I could not, for I have to work; I have to get paid so that I could have money to spend on things I don’t need and experiences that I will cherish as long as I can remember them. Having no money means less life experiences, which in turn means lesser things to write about. Unfortunately, because I use up my mental energies in order to rake up dough, which enables me to create memories and inspirations, I no longer have any for my own. At the end of the day, week, or month, I just couldn’t bear the pain of a tapped-out head and bring myself to write anymore, even if it’s for my own art. Or maybe this entire paragraph is just an excuse.
Maybe my brain juices aren’t exactly as finite as I think they are. Maybe I just want to do things other than writing, things require less mental faculties. Maybe I’m just lazy – probably the definite bottom line. It may seem like a shallow and laughable reason, but it’s actually cripplingly powerful and stealthily invasive. Its slow and unnoticeable creep can alter the flow of energy, causing me to wander away from a piece of cyberspace where I can pour out my soul into and instead towards mindless, pointless wastelands like too much Facebook or DoTA 2 (keyword is too much). It’s getting me and my beloved nowhere, so I have to fight it no matter how hard. Just like how I did when I wrote this.
It’s easier to just play another round of DoTA 2 or My Princess is the Cutest, which I’ll write about later on, but I’d rather not. Maybe it’s just that I’m no longer that used to writing on my blog anymore since I’m out of practice, and if that’s the case then I have to bring back the habit, the love, the passion, and I definitely can; all I need is more time, more words, more perseverance and dedication, and a lot less action – video game-wise, that is.
Yes I’m back, and I have so many things to write about, and I hope I really that this return isn’t just a one-time post that will be followed by another return after a few months thanks to indolence masking as mental exhaustion. But hoping isn’t enough; I should write on this blog and keep doing so in order to back what I’m saying. After all, that’s what I love to do, and I honestly believe, know, and am certain of that despite the neglect I let my mistress and wife fall into after almost two months. And while I know that I’ll probably disappear for a short while again after a string of posts, I also know that I will always come back. Like I said, love, right? And this love, though it falters at times, can conquer even the greatest form of sloth there is time and time again.
A Moving Post
Finally, the day Mother has been waiting for many months now has finally arrived: moving day. I was kind of waiting for it too, until I found out that we won’t have cable TV and internet on our new house, which is just a short walk away, for three weeks. That means I’ll still be staying in our old house at night. Nevertheless, I’m happy that we have a new house and that we have moved, mostly. But I’m a little bit sad and nostalgic as well.
We moved into our now former house on February 10, 2007. It is where I came home to after long days in college and work. It is where I first brought friends over during my birthday. It is where I first brought a girl – my first girlfriend – home. It is where I came home late at night – or early morning – from happenings I shouldn’t be telling my parents about. And lastly and most importantly, it’s where I began to have a grasp of who I am and who I want to be. Now you can’t blame me for being a bit sappy over our leaving of our once-official not-so-humble abode.
It’s not bragging if it’s true; this house would be a head-turner if it were a woman. European bungalow style, beige stone brick exterior, red roofing, bay windows, double doors on the front, a wide red brick front , seven rooms, and ample garden, floor, and yard space – it’s more than enough to make me feel upper-upper class even though we’re just lower-upper; it’s more than enough to make me not feel the need to move to a better house. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with the new house, it’s just that I’m already content with this old one, and the new one seems like an excess.
As we moved our possessions from this old one to the new one, I rediscovered some of them, which have either become long-forgotten or ignored. Upon laying eyes on them and dusting some of them, the memories linked with them were unearthed. Old toys, Ragnarok Online prepaid cards, father’s typewriter, obsolete devices like components, cassette tapes, and typewriters – save the first, their purpose has been effectively reduced to elicit nostalgia. Mother, the most practical among us, suggests that we get rid of them, but we simply could not. Even us children, who do not and cannot use these outdated tech, went against Mother’s wishes; it’s as if we were protecting our folks’ fond recollections on their behalf from one of them. We clung and continued to cling onto those things as if they were the very memories they represent, as if throwing them would cause us to forget. Thankfully for us and unfortunately for Mother, our thingamabobs were spared, disregarding practicality for sentimentality, which is so us – so me.
I will not retract my previous statement; the new house is an excess. However, I will not deny that it’s also more practical than our old one. It has two stories, more space if you do the math, and it doesn’t have a school that plays pop music on disruptively loud levels for PE class for a neighbor – a total violation of building code. Now we have real neighbors – the ones we used to have in our chilodhood, as our new house is in the same street where our first house is, and completely new ones who replaced our old ones. And the disturbance they make, which is their bickering over parking space, is a lot more appropriate and more entertaining to listen to as compared to Anaconda being played during the PE time of kindergarteners.
The move is almost complete – almost. Aside from the internet and TV cable, my PC, a few guitars of Father’s guitars and his drumset, and a few utilities – electric fans, my PC, a mattress, an AC unit, some food, utensils, our old fridge – remained in the old house. Because these things got left behind, Father stayed to make sure they don’t get stolen, while I to be able to browse the internet or play video games after work. Brother and Sister, on the other hand, go back to our old home to connect and then return to our new home to eat, sleep, and bathe. Father and I, being more attached to the things we have left behind, only move to the new house whenever we need to get something or eat, leaving the old house for an hour at most.
He – and in extension, us – has always been like that, even before we officially moved, as Father had developed a fear of robbers thanks to multiple past experiences with them. It’s the same fear that made him install multiple lock mechanisms, steel gates, and ugly brown spiked fences to protect from robbers the very objects Father is watching over. Soon everything will be moved to the new house, leaving the excessive defenses in our old house purposeless and the same excessive defenses that are also installed in our new house to work – if Father gives them a chance. However, even if we have completely vacated our old home and have had it rented, we won’t be able to leave behind the inconvenience of these hassling security measures, the root behind them – Father’s fears – and our (over)reliance on the internet. I don’t think we want to; these things make home what it is.
We didn’t have to move, but in the end we decided to. Why? Maybe we just don’t know it yet, but the reason is not ours; but Fate’s. This move, which probably is our last, is the last few years of living under one roof, as it’s probably going to be the last house we’re going to live in together, considering that in seven years – the same number of years we spent in our old house – we’d probably have our own lives, our own houses. This old house, on the other hand, is a recently ended chapter. It is where I and my siblings, with nineteen being the youngest became adults. It is where the three of us were shaped into who we are most likely to become in the near-future. It is where all of us grew older, grew apart at times, and grew closer for good. And most importantly, it is where I had many meaningful memories that I will cherish, many painful experiences I have learned from, and unremarkable everydays that I owe my current breathing to with the most important people in my life – my family and our non-blood related visitors. After all, only the most important people in my life can set foot in my home.
Thank you Old House. May your next family give you the same importance, respect, and love as we did. And may they give the same importance, respect, and love to each other as well.
Blog Mischief Managed: My Boss(es) Pay(s) A Visit
Dear Miss P3 (and other coworkers/bosses if you brought any, most likely Janica),
Welcome to my mental crib, my fortress of solitude, my atelier, my – okay enough. It’s just my personal blog, which doesn’t have much aside from overly gratuitous and self-indulgent crap, so much so that any employee who’s in a corporate setup who opens this during office hours will definitely not get off the hook no matter how much he or she says it’s work-related.
First off, I would like to apologize first about the lack of any serious content. In all honesty, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my personal blog will be viewed for work-related purposes, so I guess you’re going to have to make do with whatever crap is here. But then again, it’s not crap. My thoughts and my feelings are here, and they’re definitely not crap. I value them, and that’s why I try to update this as often as possible, which hasn’t been as often recently because work in the office, my part-time, and grad school drains my mental stamina, leaving my brain with just enough juice to read manga, watch anime, and play video games. Anyway, I’m just ranting on, so don’t mind me.
Second, I do hope you’d like what’s written here. It’s probably not much as compared to the many other blogs you’ve read before, but this one is special because of sentimental reasons. However, if you have any feedback about the content or the use of the English language, do tell me so I can improve.
Sorry, should’ve used a more appropriately-sized photo. It’s just that I liked it.
Third, I would like you to know that my page sometimes doubles as a shrine, which means there are posts that mention or are dedicated to a particular shrine maiden. You know this shrine maiden quite well. Please don’t tell her, or anyone in the company who doesn’t have to read this blog, that I’ve written about her. While I could’ve chosen not to write about her instead because I knew you’ll be visiting, I just couldn’t help myself because I don’t feel like cheating myself, for I like writing about who I like. While I probably should’ve made a new blog or changed the URL so that people in the company wouldn’t find it from this point on, it would seem like a hassle to start from scratch, not to mention the fact that I don’t know how to change my URL on such a short notice. Also, the next posts are already “premade”, so I thought I’d publish them to hit two birds in one stone – assignment purposes and my personal satisfaction.
Either way, thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoy your stay. Don’t forget to leave a comment.
P.S.: This is still not a love blog. I swear I’ll work on a geek post sometime in the near future.
P.P.S.: If you do tell someone, I hope they don’t blabber.
P.P.P.S.: Thanks Miss P3. 🙂
I put the I in the UNIVERSE. I hope I can put U too. 