Fluff pieces

An old work, circa summer of 2006, I think. Black gel pen on some sketchbook.

When I was younger I’d trace pictures from illustrated books—first Disney characters, then animals, then whatever I can find. Then in the summers of my grade school days, my mom would buy us sketchbooks possibly to keep us from staying in front of the TV all day long. I had sketchbooks of all sizes filled with works (mostly attempts) in craypas and pencil and charcoal and watercolor. I mostly copied stuff from pictures. I’ve probably thrown them all away now.

I loved crafts, origami, and scrapbooking, too. I always had an itch to make something. Projects were my favorite part of school. I miss those days. Now I’m just a sucker for pretty things, living vicariously through tumblr and design websites.

Some days when Finance and Accounting frustrate me too much I just want to throw everything away and go to art school. Except of course, I have no money. Maybe someday. I hope, someday.

October 25, 2010

We didn’t play a lot with neighbors, nor did we go out much except to ride our bikes, my sister and I on our matching pink three-wheel bicycles which I never advanced from. We spent afternoons playing make-believe. We would gather all the pillows and build houses, forts, cars, and all sorts of vehicles. We’ve gone to outer space (funny how I thought you have to pass through every corner of the world to get there), flown hot air balloons (on the blue ratty couch), gone fishing with deflated balloons hanging from their sticks. We’ve been everything from cashiers to doctors. We rode cars, Kuya on the improvised steering wheel, as we smoked powder-filled paper cigarettes and ran over the unfortunate one of us.

We had balikbayan boxes filled with toys kept in the terrace which is now the small room my sister and I share. We would dig through the heaps of hard plastic stuff and use them as props. Everything was something else. They were magical, those boxes. There was always something new (but actually old) we’d find and build a whole new world around it. Barbies and dollhouses were boring.

Our parents’ bed was always a mess of pillows and blankets and toys. In the heyday of that childhood, we set up a Lion King tent on top of it and played camping. I’d pick that as our best production ever. Clean up time was always a bitch. I can swear I have memories of when the thought of cleaning up would stop us from actually playing.

It used to be a mystery to me how all 4 of us grew up with some kind of creative knack. When people would ask why or how we’re all artistic (I was the only one who wasn’t media consultant in high school), I would shrug and wonder myself. Now I think I know.

I never really realized how amazing my childhood was. Not every kid had 3 playmates under the same roof 24/7. I wish there were pictures of us, candid and careless and cute, on those days. I wish there were pictures of us tumbling on the bed, all together holding hands, or in the bath tub swimming around (beats me how all 4 of us managed to fit in there) and flooding the whole bathroom. I’ll remember to do that with my future kids. Life has a way of hiding away these memories behind growing pains and teenage anxiety until they resurface randomly when you’re 20-something, tired and burnt out with life (i.e. college) so you end up browsing through the same old photos for 3 hours, desperately wanting to just be a kid again and play.

We’re not an affectionate bunch. Adding up my brothers on Facebook, texting Kuya that I’m riding the train and that I’ll inform him when I get lost, writing his essays for him are the closest I get to signs of sibling love. But as we get older, I think we’ll come full circle. Right now as we’re all trying to make lives of our own, I know that somehow we will always be there for each other. I am proud of us and of each of them. We’ve built our dreams into pillow and plastic, I know we have what it takes to make them real.

October 24, 2010

June, July, August, September, October, I’m alive

It was raining. Post-cost accounting final, I dropped by the condo to grab my stuff before heading home, got greeted by a gaping space, clean and empty, in the middle of the room. News was one of our roommates is indeed moving out.

It was raining, still, on the car ride home. It always seems to be colder here in the South. I watched FRIENDS and had chocolate cake and coffee on my bed.

Now I’m downloading Grey’s Anatomy and Never Been Kissed. Somehow lately, all I’m ever in the mood to watch are romantic comedies. I like the little bit of drama and the music. And I’m listening to Anna Nalick as I wait for them to finish.

There’s something here in the way, in the way that we’re constantly moving reminds you of home, she says.

I loved this song four years ago and dubbed it as the song I wish I wrote. Or has it been five years? Constant movement appeals to me. I remember writing before how I love change if only for any indication that I’m not going to be stuck in the same place. Well, much has changed, much has happened, much has been learned and been let go of, and much has begun and dreamt of anew. Life is good and difficult and beautiful, and I never know if it’s only the coffee working whenever I feel like this, but the feeling is to live for.

Earlier this evening I read Tony Schwartz’s article, “Six Keys to Being Excellent at Anything,” which I’m pretty sure I’ve already read before. This article can save my life, I thought, and maybe one day I can chalk up my success to this night of caffeinated ambition so I thought I ought to bookmark it for future reference. But my bookmarks are a mess and I never dig through the plethora of links again so I thought I ought to finally do some cleaning.

I ended up on blogs I used to frequent, back when I had the time. They were of writers I admired, and I realized that I still do. They were still writers I wanted to be like. Or more accurately, I still wanted to be like them. They are poetic but effortless and honest, for lack of better words. They would know the better words.

Maybe this is homecoming. Becoming more myself in the dead of night when I’m all alone. It’s always on quiet nights such as this when I get the urge to write again.

I think the first step in getting anything worth your while done is to learn not to care. That way, you get rid of fear. Giving a damn is exhausting. It’s what this tiring and trying semester has taught me best. In the face of failure and burnout you realize that there are things you won’t mind no longer chasing after. And that it won’t kill you to just stop.

Well this is me—neurotic, self-doubting me—trying not to care. I want to write so here I write.

Details, digression, melodrama. I guess I still am alive.

September 8, 2010

Killing time in a cold place

Wasting my time, trying to figure out how to live the life I want. How do others do this so well?

August 22, 2010

Matins

by Louise Glück

You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding. You ought to know
I’m never weeding, on my knees, pulling
clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact
I’m looking for courage, for some evidence
my life will change, though
it takes forever, checking
each clump for the symbolic
leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already
the leaves turning, always the sick trees
going first, the dying turning
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform
their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?
As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always
to continue without a sign?