The Cynical Optimist

I had my memory of Manila’s Quiapo and Carriedo areas refreshed when my sister and I visited them last Friday. Before this day, my last vivid recollection of those places was back when I was in grade school, when my lolo used to take me along on his trips to Dapitan, Plaza Miranda and the general vicinity. Last Friday was a shock! It was absolutely crazy.

I had my complete physical exam in this diagnostic clinic across the Philippine General Hospital. Since it was still early, I decided to try and reach the National Bureau of Investigation (NBI) to obtain my clearance.

The NBI Clearance center is located amidst this huge tiangge, a cross between Greenhills and Divisoria, where throngs of people crowded around stalls that sell mobile phones, pirated DVDs, shoes, clothes and other stuff. The place was packed. You would have to wade through piles and piles of warm bodies to get through. Ironically, the NBI building itself shares the venue with more stalls selling those counterfeit goods. The headquarters is actually on the third floor of the building. The moment I reached the floor, fixers offered me their services (“di ka na pipila, miss”, “mag-aantay ka lang”) in exchange for 300 bucks. Looking at how filthy, crowded and disorganized the place seemed, I had half the mind to actually say “yes” to their offer. The only thing that stopped me was the fear of being swindled out of my money, and the possible humiliation of getting caught (my uncle works for the NBI, and he’s a morally upright person who would frown upon anything dealt under the table; I can’t imagine having to explain such a fiasco to him).

My sister and I climbed up a steep row of stairs in what looked like a gymnasium separated into several floors. Then I had to go through 8 unbelievably complicated steps (in which my sister has proven to be smarter and cooler under pressure than I could ever hope to be, with her keen eye for all the shortest lines and the ability to successfully retrieve all my documents while I was going out of my mind trying to find them) to obtain certification that I, in fact, had no prior criminal record as far as NBI is concerned. On steps 3 and 8, I had to have my finger prints taken, and we were asked to pay 2 pesos, presumably for the wet tissue provided to wipe the ink off our fingers.

The Rank and File staff who manned the lines looked sleepy and were cranky despite the air conditioning. They didn’t smile back when I tried to give a warm greeting. I probably shouldn’t be too hard on them, but what the heck, I came all the way from Taft Avenue after having my lungs freakishly and scarily checked and getting a blood test (I had those needles in me twice, one botched, thanks to an inexperienced intern). It was insanely warm and my clothes were soiled. I’ve had enough of the Manila crowd to last me a lifetime. I mean, life is as hard for the rest of humankind. Duh. Welcome to the real world.

My mug shot, which is now safely stored in the NBI database, was a disaster. Anyone from their office could take a look at my file photo and be convinced that I’m guilty of some heinous crime. Still, I can’t blame them for it being less-than-acceptable. I’m just really not photogenic.

On the other hand, it took only 20 minutes for me to obtain my NBI clearance, which is a relief. I wanted to get out of the place as soon as possible.

My ordeal was not over, though. Once out of the place, we had to once again, fight our way through the crowd of shoppers and vendors. I held on to my bag for dear life, afraid of the fabled (and confirmed) snatchers roving about the area. When we got through the tiangge, we found ourselves in the middle of Quiapo church. I was wondering why my sister was in such a hurry. I didn’t realize until it was too late that she was trying to overtake another surge of crowd as the 5PM mass ended. We squeezed through the maze, past a line of tarot card readers and amulet vendors, until we finally reached an underpass to get us to the road going to Quezon Ave. Right smack in the middle of the busy walkway were four or five men and women, deep in slumber. With pillows. Appalling. The underground was a another melee of stalls selling Purefoods hotdogs on stick, fake Ray Ban shades, etc. I was thinking, this must have been what Harry Potter felt like when he first visited Diagon Alley.

We finally got through the other side, where the crowd was as thick as ever. No cabs available! We had to take the ever-dependable colorum (?) FX. We rode all the way to Ortigas where we thankfully got into a taxi queue.

My sister and I reached Trinoma in time for dinner, though we must have carried an evil nimbus of sweat, dirt and candle scent. It was my sister’s first time to see the mall, but the scenery hardly registered. Our feet were sore and we were too hungry to care. We decided to save malling for another day. We wolfed down our food (sisig and nilagang baka at Gilligan’s), went home, raced to the bathroom to take a bath, and promptly fell into bed.

I’ve been complaining endlessly about how going all the way from Quezon City to Makati sucks, but this trip definitely made me count my blessings. I find myself missing my late lolo when I recall last Friday’s misadventure. I just realized how uncomplicated and uncomplaining I used to be when I was young and in grade school, and didn’t worry much about stolen cellphones, cabs (who would’ve thought I’d be able to afford them someday?!??!??) and NBI clearances. It was a reminder of how I’ve changed (into a ranting brat), and how I can take a lot of comforts for granted.

I fell in love with a white tube top and a mid-length skirt while searching for a reasonably-priced outfit to wear for a wedding this coming Saturday. I’m accentuating it with a shell necklace and gold thong heels, and pairing it with a small white pearl-beaded purse. Looks smashing (so far)!!

I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to buy an appropriate outfit from an Indian-inspired shop (ZIYA, The Block – SM North EDSA), but there you go! And I spent a little less than Php 2,000 for the sandals, top and skirt. Not bad for something this elegant!

The photo above shows how the ensemble will look, more or less.

2006 has been such a changing point in my life, particularly at work. It was a time of decision-making, which consequently, meant ending some friendships and making new ones, giving up some benefits for priorities. It has occurred to me several times how hard it is to actually make people understand the motives for your actions. I learned in the end that it’s all a matter of being firm with it, and sticking to it for better or worse.

In 2006, I learned that love sometimes sneaks up on you, unannounced.

I lost my grandfather in 2006. From the moment he passed away, I have had my share of responsibilities, particularly on making our household as functional as possible (with my wily sister and extremely OC grandma in tow). I learned a bit about being responsible, not just for myself, but for other people who depend a great deal on my “good” sense.

I spent 2006 without my mom, who finally decided to work abroad after almost 30 years of serving the government. This experience gave me new-found respect for my mother (although I’m still mustering enough guts to speak that out loud), who lives for her children. My mom is the strongest person I know, and this year, she has proved to be my hero.

I can’t even begin to summarize how my life has turned out. So many things have happened. I’ve made some mistakes and rectified them. I’ve won the respect of people, and made peace with myself despite my shortcomings. I used to feel as if Life was steering me into its depths without my control, but 2006 changed that. Now I know that at a certain point, I man the helm.

I don’t even know what I’m saying these things now. Call it a long-delayed synthesis of the past year. Better late than never! I just realized I had to when I woke up one morning and began to wonder what sort of trajectory has brought me from one situation to another – exactly where I am now. And when I glanced at it in this perspective, it took on a truer form, one with more finality.

Hehe. Should I be afraid? I am. Should I be proud of myself? I am! I don’t really know what the next few months – or the new year – has in store for me. I doubt that I will ever be ready for any of them. Like all other ‘adults’ out there, I’m just clumsily stumbling along.

We always feel that we deserve more than what we have now. So we work. Real hard. Or at least, some of us do. And those that work hard and dream hard sometimes get there. Whatever; by strokes of good luck or good credit. When we dream about getting there, we dream about the good things that come along with it. But most of the time, when we do get there, what follows is a wake-up call.  Getting there means having more responsibilities. It means more accountability. It means not having anyone to pass the buck to when things go wrong. It means getting full credit for all the good things that happen, and taking blame for all the bad things. It means having to work harder, and having to take care of treasuring all the trust and expectations that have been laid down on you. It means having to be stronger than others; being in charge, when everyone else thinks it’s all hopeless.  

It’s hard, now that I’m in on it – that kind of responsibility. It can be tiring, working at things especially on those you are not completely familiar with. It can sometimes lead you to ask what you really are capable of doing. It leads you to doubt yourself sometimes. Were they right to trust you to accomplish this? Did you really think you could really do the job? The questions get frightening sometimes.  

Being in that place has made me realize that growing up doesn’t end with having a grown-up job. It doesn’t end when you stop belong to a school-type environment at work, when you can make mistakes and be sure to get another chance. It doesn’t stop when you’ve proven yourself once. In fact, growing up stops when you start depending on those things happening forever. And here I am, owning up to my mistakes, and taking credit for the good things that I did. And I know, in my heart, that whatever happens, and whatever happened in the past – or because of it, even, that I can do it. I can make it. And I may feel bad, or scared, of some mistakes that I may do today or sometime in the future, but that will not change who and what I have become. I sure won’t let those things change the best I could make out of myself.  

Addiction is a more ambiguous term than I supposed. Some people are more predisposed to addiction more than others. I don’t know for sure, but I guess it has to do, partly, with our emotional maturity and the environment we grow up in. Part of the reason probably lies in our biological make up. Much like other diseases, various researches would, in all probability link addiction to a melee of psychological, sociological and biological factors.  

Really, I’m concerned with how this disease has been viewed as a window of opportunity for illegal industries. For years, people in destitute situations have sought to salvage their future by satisfying others’ endless need for sexual gratification and entering into prostitution. Businessmen who recognize the big illegal drug market have become drug lords and have engaged in various marketing practices that involve infiltrating into the same schools where our brothers/sisters/children go.

What makes it more difficult to solve this issue is the difficulty to recognize when some practices are considered wrongful. Take drinking. Alcohol is legal in the Philippines, as in most countries. People are even classified as non-, social, moderate or heavy drinkers. We go to establishments that promise a good time by promoting alcohol. It’s appalling to find out from the National Center for Mental Health that withdrawal during detoxification from alcoholism is actually much more difficult - and more potentially lethal - than withdrawal during drug rehabilitation.

Addiction happens when a person’s life begins to revolve around a certain fixation. When you are addicted, all your thoughts and actions are directed towards relieving your craving for your addiction. Family, friends, work and society become the least of your considerations. Sadly, you may not be aware of this. You might even deny the most obvious signs.

Addiction is a debilitating disease, much like diabetes. Once you have it, it takes a lifetime to cure. Every day ever after is a potential moment for you to succumb once more to the temptation of another stick, another bottle, another pill.

I’m concerned about this because I am exposed to these dangers, as are a lot of the people I care about. Today, we are faced with a lot of choices of what to do. Everything is at the reach of our fingertips. People’s minds are much more open that it ever was before. It’s a good thing, of course. But it is because of this that we are now faced with the challenge to decide for ourselves what is right or wrong. More often than not, the line between these two polar opposites is blurred by people we admire, the society, our way of life. But in truth, regardless of the trend, some things are – and forever will remain – wrong. These are the things which ultimately destroy ourselves and our relationship with our families, friends and the community.  

When I was a kid, I found it hard to take advice from my elders. I always thought there was nothing better than learning from experience. But now, I can see that our choices lead us to different roads that go way, way far. And there’s no detour. We can only make the best of where those choices lead us.

Readers whom I know personally would probably laugh at me for writing this entry. We might have smoked and drank together. You might be someone I once shared a joint with, for the thrill of getting high. I can’t say that I’m done with my last stick, or my last bottle of beer. But I do know that people who have made the first step, which is admittance, lie awake at night, fearing the worse that their excessiveness could bring.

For those who know better, let me ask this question: How do we effectively explain this reality, without sounding so sanctimonious?  

Two of my good friends made a renewal of their marriage vows yesterday. I consider it a minor miracle because not too long ago, things were going haywire between them, and their marriage was on the verge of collapse.  

I woke up late after spending the most of the night trying in vain to upload my film project on Youtube and rushed to the couple’s sister-in-law’s condo unit to have my hair done. We then rushed off to the church. 

The marriage rite was held, predictably, in church, which was located somewhere in Tomas Morato. The entourage was hilariously made up mostly of gay men and women, and their honoraries (myself included). I was paired with a hunk of a law student who, I would bet my right arm, would probably screech higher tones than I ever could in bed. Two of my gay college friends graced the line of entourage, and a college girlfriend who, like me was an honorary, joined me. The straight bride’s maid and best man looked hopelessly out of place. 

I stayed inside the church for a full 30 minutes before the first pangs of nicotine cravings kicked in. During that time, I had managed to march through the isle on my four-inch red heels (the wedding’s theme was red), cradle the bride’s youngest nephew during the opening rites, sang most of the songs throughout the mass and do my duty of putting the cord over the couple’s veil.  

The bride’s family is made up of a bunch of semi-dysfunctional event organizers, and had this surprise of a reception up their sleeves. The family refused to tell guests where it would be held. We only found out after the mass ended, when her sister started passing out invitations to McDonald’s! A “The Incredibles” theme party with games and loot bags. The works. The only difference was when the bride, a veteran wedding host, got disgruntled with the party emcee that midway through the event, she started hosting the party herself! (“Ladies and gents, thank you for joining us on this momentous occasion. I’m Missy, and I’m your bride for today!) 

The day might’ve been special for the couple, but what made it significant for me was that it gave me a chance to talk to some people I spent a chunk of my life with, who I haven’t seen for years. Bom, my ridiculously gorgeous gay friend who I shared the best years of my college life with, looked exactly the same as when I last saw him. Karl, another friend from college who, in a weird way, taught me about fighting for what I believe in during those crazy days in student government, showed up early, which was unusual for the resident rogue of AB-Consular Diplomatic Affairs.  

Mae, who I used to spend those endless evenings with talking about the usual college angst, and who I’ve shared one failed relationship after another with, showed up a different, better person. I had a falling out with her when somewhere along the line of our misadventures in college, I decided to stop goofing off and try to make something of myself, while she still seemed stuck in that stage. We were really tight way back. Her then-boyfriend was my band mate. My then-boyfriend used to hang out with us at her place. There were countless nights when we mixed gin with juice and drank like wags, seated outside her door, candles lit to ward off mosquitoes. We used to sleep at 6 in the morning and woke up 4 in the afternoon, and skipped a lot of school. We were everywhere. Spent one New Year in Baguio and some holidays in Clark, Pampanga where she played Baccarat while I fooled around with the slot machines.  

We had smoked one cigarette after another and had coffee after coffee of conversations about how we would conquer the world with my writing and her ability to bullshit her way into most anything. We’ve toured most of the karaoke bars in Makati and I’ve sung in most of them while she drank and watched the audience react. 

Eventually, reality caught up, and I had to add a bit of direction into my life. Then came the editorial stint at the college paper, followed by the post in student government. I spent less and less of my time with her, and one thing led to another, and next thing I knew, we weren’t even talking. I hear about her break-up with her boyfriend of five years. She leaves school. I never see her again! ‘Til yesterday.  

Having looked back at it, I could see that whatever else she was, she was one of those friends who literally took me as her own. This wedding, which happened four years after we stopped speaking with each other, allowed me to understand what she was going through at the time I seemed to have dropped out of her life.  

It felt like an unplanned reunion of those people who I’ve shared a bit of history with.  Thinking about it, I realize how fortunate it is that people like Ed and Missy could create a moment, whether knowingly or unknowingly, that brings old friends together to remind them of the things they shared, and that whatever happened or will happen, there will always be those who will welcome prodigal friends like me.

This is a guinea pig writing tryst that involves trying to develop complete and coherent thoughts while reeling from a recent month long work period (without weekends) and subsequent last-minute Christmas shopping daymares. Among other issues, one thing stands out: why does one kill one’s self working during the Yuletide season, and then struggle through tasks that have been postponed til the eleventh hour? I wish there were 40 hours a day.    

My boss called me late last night with ideas that were totally out of my frame of mind for the next few days (those being the 23-25^th of December, for crying out loud), telling me again how successful the launch of my project was, and his thoughts for follow-through plans, which was just about the last thing on my mind. After the 20^th, all I wanted to do was shut my eyes from the cruel world with its endless responsibilities and deadlines.  

In the midst of it all were invitations and reminders to live out the rest of my life as a friend/daughter/sister/granddaughter/godmother/girlfriend.    

I’m having a hell of a time compartmentalizing myself.   

The really funny thing is this: I have been depressed, restless and lacking of self-worth when I was breathing slow enough, back during those days when I had precious few to do.    

I guess people just have their own masochistic tendencies.  

*** 

I also have neglected my blog.

People who come into our lives rarely ever see how we turn out. We’ve spend many a day, a year, a decade, with those who can only experience us the way we were when we were with them. The same way, the beauty/horror these people think we are, can only be encompassed by those days/years/decades.

Sometimes, we leave good memories behind; sometimes, not. The only thing we can be sure of is that we change others, and are ourselves changed by our experiences, the way you cannot pass the same river twice.

Maybe it is unfair to expect someone with a clean slate, to begin a new relationship with. The older we get, the more signs we show of the wear and tear. The older you get, the more first-hand experiences you have that rainbows don’t end with a pot of gold and love doesn’t last forever.

Remember this friend you used to think the world of, when you were six? Remember meeting her again about 10 years after, and discovering that you have absolutely nothing in common aside from the memories that have long ago faded?

There exists a longing in me sometimes to bridge that gap created by time. How do you do that? How much time can be spent moving backwards into the moment you were important to each other?

We all have those people in our lives. We have those random memories of familiar faces and places that leave a distinct but distant feeling, whose descriptions we’ve long forgotten. And yet they have become pieces of ourselves, without which we are never who we are now.

If I were to write a story of my life in perfect clarity, how much space would be filled by footnotes describing people who’ve become reasons why I did what i did, why I thought of what I thought? Perhaps the footnotes would be sequels and stories by themselves.

I wonder how big a part of me could be credited or faulted to others. I wonder how much of me is really mine.

To trust is to be aware that people can make mistakes that could cause you pain, yet believe that they would do their best not to. It’s knowing that experiencing new things can lead them away from you, yet letting them experience life, because whatever happens, you have the time you’ve spent together to keep. It’s learning to accept that you can never hold on to people because like you, they want to be free.

 When people break that trust, it hurts. It’s such a paradox that the more you let go, the more it hurts when they break apart from you. Yet, in time, you long to be with someone you can trust once more. You feel the yearning to want to let go again. People who can’t do it despite the fact that they want to so badly are in a quandary, because they can never be trully happy. Like it or not, our happiness depends mostly on other people, whether we are aware of it or not. It is a trully selfish act to trust. Because to trust completely is to be at peace. To trust and to know are two different things. Needing to know is total intrusion, while trusting is letting them be themselves completely. 

Trusting someone is like working patiently on an unfinished puzzle. You’re not really sure what the whole picture is, but somehow you know it’ll be breathtaking. You never force two pieces that don’t fit, because you have the bigger, more meaningful picture slowly forming inside your head. It can take years, or a lifetime, to build it. Trust is having the will to take your time because you believe that it’s worth the wait.

Maybe trusting will break you to pieces. Maybe it will prove true a great love. Whatever happens, you would know you did right by letting go of the ball once it’s out of your hands. You’ll know, after the pain, or the initial pangs of joy, that things are exactly as they should be.

I spent the whole morning of last Thursday holed up in my bedroom, woke up in time to receive advice that my office is officially closed due to incessant rain and winds caused by Milenyo, fell back to dreamless sleep, and woke up in the afternoon, when the worst had passed. I asked my sister to accompany me to Shakey’s Pizza to eat a late lunch and hang out, unaware that approximately 61 people have died (from last report I read) and more than 15 thousand houses have been destroyed by the storm, prompting Metro Manila’s condition to be raised to a state of calamity.

The cab drove a shocked me through and around roads with uprooted trees, and felled roofs, street signs and Meralco posts.

I experienced a few minor setbacks when the mobile networks seemed to have gone down and I couldn’t send messages to anyone to see if they were ok. In the evening, I drank beer and watched the news, got depressed, and switched to DVDs (the power went back on in our area sometime late afternoon).

Insane how things could be just a wee bit different a few blocks away, where friends nervously waited for their husbands and moms and sisters to arrive home safely. All I could do was feel guilty and relieved that I seemed to have been spared the tragedies and inconveniences.

I went back to work today, and found out that some of my officemates’ homes still have not regained electricity. The office itself was in shambles, particularly the news monitoring and analysis team, who couldn’t function without the internet, cable TV and some vital equipment like photocopiers from Thursday to Sunday evening, and are now behind in its daily reports.

Things are relatively in better order now, considering that Milenyo has been the worst storm to hit Metro Manila in a decade. At least not as bad as when storms hit remote areas where help can never arrive soon enough, and people generally seem to have less means of protecting themselves. Being in the center of commerce has its advantages, but no single place is spared from wayward natural occurrences.

Another storm, Neneng, has been reported to be on its way, according to forecasts. I hope preparations are being worked on even as I write this. We don’t need another death toll on the papers.