Wed, 3:30 PM
I have a late night shift today! Tons of time to do my homework, so as soon as I get back from work I can head straight to bed instead of doing my homework, because afternoon shifts don't let me do that and-
Oh, wait. Oh yeah. I'm really sorry for neglecting you, it's just that I've just been so BUSY and-
Huh? What? You're mad that I've pretty much been writing sentences and calling it a day?
Come on, you know it's not like that, I mean, there's just been no time and-
Okay look, here. The reason that I became so committed to school these days is because the work is nourishing. Does that make sense? It's not like last quarter, where I had to take boring GEs and my teachers were especially lame. I mean, sure, of course the classes are exhausting me. But the subject matter is so interesting, I don't really mind it.
Since I'm finally delving in my humanities curriculum, I get to take classes much more suited to my interests. My classes are: Beginning Japanese, Distinguishing Romance and Realism within the Novel, Poetry analysis, and beginning fiction. Can you believe that line-up? I might come back from class exhausted, my eyelids heavy, but I feel satisfied. The subject matter interests me in a way that I haven't felt since middle school.
Like first off, beginning Japanese. Learning a new language is difficult. You have to adjust your tongue to the language, and so far I can't nail the dialect very well. It feels like I'm marring the language, like a hillbilly attempting to read Shakespeare in a Victorian style. When I write the hiragana of the language, I can hardly imitate the strokes and loops of the characters. They look like the drawings of demented children. I am so out of my element, plucked from my nice, safe world of English, and thrust into the mysterious jungles of new languages. But there's a fervor bubbling in my body, that makes me excited to tread into new territories. I want to really get the basics down so I can start writing elaborately; it's a great feeling. It's kind of like I'm rediscovering why I liked school before: not in the pursuit of some stupid letter, but just to say, hey, I can do something I couldn't before. Nifty.
And even if the subject matter isn't necessarily interesting to me, I can make an interest out of it somehow. Does it look like I want to spend my free time debating realism and romance in fiction narratives? Do I REALLY want to analyze poetry, iambic pentameter, seeing the stress on beats, spondees, trochees, enjambments, and what have you? Hell no! But I'm learning techniques that I can use to make me a better reader. I can explore books in a way I couldn't before, redefine prose and stories in ways that will open up new layers. I can look back at texts I thought I knew so intimately and rediscover something that will make me see them in an entirely new light, and I appreciate that.
I'm going to see if I'm cut out for teaching. I'll take the teaching tests this year, and I'm participating in the humanities out there program this quarter. I go to local high schools in the area, and assist graduate students as they teach these kids about humanities stuff. The only time I could make is 10th grade US literature. It'll be interesting to see what I have to teach, and whether I get to retread novels that I had to read during that time as well. To rediscover The Great Gatsby, or The Catcher in the Rye, and so many others who I haven't seen so long... I feel that books change as its readers change. Before I couldn't handle Charles Dickens, and now I'm trying to read a bunch of his novels; maybe I gained an acquired taste. I want to see how things have changed from the me then to the me now.
Of course I'm no longer taught by professors, so that might make things difficult for grad school but... we're looking way too far ahead! Let's just sit back, let the breeze run through our hair, let the present overtake us. We'll reach the horizon eventually, so we might as well enjoy ourselves for now.
So many things can happen to us that can cause us to shift our perceptions so wholly. The nature of our temperaments is that of fickleness. We find ourselves in the constant pursuit of something intangible, that one unsubstantiated truth that can give our lives meaning and definition, sense to senselessness. We are satisfied by something for so long, and we can lose all interest in them in a single second. Every tomorrow, every possible future, can storm across the plains of our lives and uproot everything, throwing things awry, making what we were so sure of completely unrecognizable. But, I think that's where the fun lies. If we didn't have that much, our lives would stagnate, until there was nothing left. There would be no reason to pursue meaning simply because there IS no meaning! So even if it is an endless rat race, even if we can't escape struggle and despair, the futility of etching value when it can be so easily distorted, at least it gives us something to do.
Wow, that was really anticlimactic wasn't it. But look, look! I mean, I'm so excited, you haven't seen me like this since I met you and-
Hmm? Yeah? Sorry, sorry, I'll be sure to write more. I'm just so busy these days. It's nice though.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
jhdj
11:40 PM, Tues.
The most exciting thing I did today was forming a ground beef patty around a thing of cheese to create this heart-stopping combo of melted cheese hamburger patty.
I need to start doing more exciting things. I studied today when I could have napped. Goooooooooooooooo Rante.
(I am tired of school hafsjhbfasj)
The most exciting thing I did today was forming a ground beef patty around a thing of cheese to create this heart-stopping combo of melted cheese hamburger patty.
I need to start doing more exciting things. I studied today when I could have napped. Goooooooooooooooo Rante.
(I am tired of school hafsjhbfasj)
I suck.
1:13 am, Tuesday, accounting for Monday.
I admit, I just got done with homework, I need to sleep. Class from 8-12, work from 3-7, and precious little time between moments is making me tired. I'll give some kernels of knowledge I learned recently for writers:
Let your stories have lives of their own.
Care for your characters.
Don't use dialogue simply to pad; it can be the meat of your story.
Learning about characters through their actions instead of through adjectives is more interesting.
Write slow.
Good night.
I admit, I just got done with homework, I need to sleep. Class from 8-12, work from 3-7, and precious little time between moments is making me tired. I'll give some kernels of knowledge I learned recently for writers:
Let your stories have lives of their own.
Care for your characters.
Don't use dialogue simply to pad; it can be the meat of your story.
Learning about characters through their actions instead of through adjectives is more interesting.
Write slow.
Good night.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
BAHN
Sunday 11:14 pm
I saw some old friends from my dorm last year. A three-month difference can change the way you interact around people; we ended up reminiscing about this and that, so and such. It reminds me of the way my dad is around old friends from college. They sit around the table, surrounding a plate of food and a beer in hand, laughter emanating to the ceiling. It's a nice feeling, this comfort. It's only been a year since I met these guys, but I guess suddenly not seeing them every single day made it seem a lot longer. It's a great feeling.
I really need to work on my homework. 40 pages of Austen, one 60 verse poem to analyze, Japanese homework. Time is a much more precious commodity. Bye.
I saw some old friends from my dorm last year. A three-month difference can change the way you interact around people; we ended up reminiscing about this and that, so and such. It reminds me of the way my dad is around old friends from college. They sit around the table, surrounding a plate of food and a beer in hand, laughter emanating to the ceiling. It's a nice feeling, this comfort. It's only been a year since I met these guys, but I guess suddenly not seeing them every single day made it seem a lot longer. It's a great feeling.
I really need to work on my homework. 40 pages of Austen, one 60 verse poem to analyze, Japanese homework. Time is a much more precious commodity. Bye.
Sleep.
Sunday, 1:19 AM
I want to count this as Saturday's, because it's getting harder to define my sense of time to societal standards. I mean, if I sleep at 6 am, wake up for work at 1 pm, and spend a night catching up with someone in my hall, it's like I'm going through the motions of a "standard" day: school, work, etc. So in reality, right now it's like I'm kicking back after my 9 to 5, you know?
I screwed up my sleeping habits a long time ago. I want to emphasize that, because it feels like the last time I slept normally was in another life ago. When I was a kid, I'd sleep the normal 8 hours, from 10 pm to 6 am. I'd always be jealous of everyone else, because they'd sleep so much later. I felt like I was missing out on life, since television became much more risque after a certain time. In middle school, I'd spend my weekends sleeping at 1 am until 10 am. It was there that I discovered cheesy sci-fi flicks, comedy that centered around scatology, and censored advertisements for Girls Gone Wild videos. It was during high school, however, when I truly started to value sleep.
It was during high school in which I started to sleep irregularly. My workload had increased exponentially since middle school. School took on such an importance, in that it became much less an activity in which I could enjoy learning, and much more an avenue to a prestigious college and subsequently, the determinant towards my future. I would start my homework late due to a reluctance to confront my academics; it seemed too soon for a career to start creeping up, and I wanted to enjoy my responsibilities for just a little bit longer. I'd finish my homework at 1 am, but when I would lay down in bed I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes vestiges of my potential future would drift across the planes of my mind, keeping me from sleep. I was so anxious about whatever could possibly go wrong the next day, that something that could cause me to miss an opportunity to get into a excellent college, that I'd spend whole nights obsessed with ensuring a comfortable future. I didn't want to be proven a loser.
And so high school came and left, with me living through sleepless nights and mundane dreams in the day. When I went through school, it was like I was outside my own body, watching a little lifeless me bubble in answers, scribble down words, and commit notes into his brain. College came, and for a little bit I slept well. At that point, I had been falling asleep so awfully, that I would sleep through classes to try to make up for my deficit of rest. I felt that I deserved it. My grades, however, went one point down of what it was in high school, and they were met with the frustration and disappointment of my family. Whole nights screaming at me for squandering my potential, for being unable to perform to my fullest, for my inevitable descent into unemployment attributed to a low GPA and worse, a major in the humanities.
There are times in which I question my self-worth, when a filthy specter dwells inches above my face every time I rest my head on my pillow. He breathes heavily, his hot gasps blanketing my face, being inhaled by my nostrils. His whispers keep reminding me of the nature of life, of how it is anything but provisional. Every single second not committed to something is wasted. You can sacrifice your present for a better future. But when you're living every single day with thoughts of destitution nipping at your heels, it makes you very unenthusiastic for tomorrow to come. Sometimes you just want to curl up into a ball and sleep. I know that I shouldn't let these thoughts drag me down. And I'm starting not to. At the very least, that whisper, that horrible voice, can be drowned out in the white noise of our dreams. Those ethereal moments, falling like snow on our perception of reality, until tomorrow is covered in white, becoming a blank canvas to try again on. Tomorrow is a new day, and I need to realize that, so I can fall asleep peacefully, instead of dreading what the next day can bring.
I want to count this as Saturday's, because it's getting harder to define my sense of time to societal standards. I mean, if I sleep at 6 am, wake up for work at 1 pm, and spend a night catching up with someone in my hall, it's like I'm going through the motions of a "standard" day: school, work, etc. So in reality, right now it's like I'm kicking back after my 9 to 5, you know?
I screwed up my sleeping habits a long time ago. I want to emphasize that, because it feels like the last time I slept normally was in another life ago. When I was a kid, I'd sleep the normal 8 hours, from 10 pm to 6 am. I'd always be jealous of everyone else, because they'd sleep so much later. I felt like I was missing out on life, since television became much more risque after a certain time. In middle school, I'd spend my weekends sleeping at 1 am until 10 am. It was there that I discovered cheesy sci-fi flicks, comedy that centered around scatology, and censored advertisements for Girls Gone Wild videos. It was during high school, however, when I truly started to value sleep.
It was during high school in which I started to sleep irregularly. My workload had increased exponentially since middle school. School took on such an importance, in that it became much less an activity in which I could enjoy learning, and much more an avenue to a prestigious college and subsequently, the determinant towards my future. I would start my homework late due to a reluctance to confront my academics; it seemed too soon for a career to start creeping up, and I wanted to enjoy my responsibilities for just a little bit longer. I'd finish my homework at 1 am, but when I would lay down in bed I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes vestiges of my potential future would drift across the planes of my mind, keeping me from sleep. I was so anxious about whatever could possibly go wrong the next day, that something that could cause me to miss an opportunity to get into a excellent college, that I'd spend whole nights obsessed with ensuring a comfortable future. I didn't want to be proven a loser.
And so high school came and left, with me living through sleepless nights and mundane dreams in the day. When I went through school, it was like I was outside my own body, watching a little lifeless me bubble in answers, scribble down words, and commit notes into his brain. College came, and for a little bit I slept well. At that point, I had been falling asleep so awfully, that I would sleep through classes to try to make up for my deficit of rest. I felt that I deserved it. My grades, however, went one point down of what it was in high school, and they were met with the frustration and disappointment of my family. Whole nights screaming at me for squandering my potential, for being unable to perform to my fullest, for my inevitable descent into unemployment attributed to a low GPA and worse, a major in the humanities.
There are times in which I question my self-worth, when a filthy specter dwells inches above my face every time I rest my head on my pillow. He breathes heavily, his hot gasps blanketing my face, being inhaled by my nostrils. His whispers keep reminding me of the nature of life, of how it is anything but provisional. Every single second not committed to something is wasted. You can sacrifice your present for a better future. But when you're living every single day with thoughts of destitution nipping at your heels, it makes you very unenthusiastic for tomorrow to come. Sometimes you just want to curl up into a ball and sleep. I know that I shouldn't let these thoughts drag me down. And I'm starting not to. At the very least, that whisper, that horrible voice, can be drowned out in the white noise of our dreams. Those ethereal moments, falling like snow on our perception of reality, until tomorrow is covered in white, becoming a blank canvas to try again on. Tomorrow is a new day, and I need to realize that, so I can fall asleep peacefully, instead of dreading what the next day can bring.
Friday, September 25, 2009
I'm on?
Fri, 8:41 PM
I'm going to get my butt kicked by work next week. 5 days in a row! Can you believe it? Jeez, man!
A blog a day. It's harder to fit this in than I thought. Today, I went to class from 8 am to 11 am. Then I got some food, watched some 30 Rock, and fell asleep from 1 pm to 6 pm. Then I watched 30 Rock some more. And I think I'm going to a party tonight. Whoo. I think I'm apathetic towards parties. I go because I like to hang out with people from work when we're not at work, but it seems like the only time I see them out of work is during parties. Maybe I should make more of an effort to go to places with them, so that they'll cease to be coworkers in my mind, and I can start calling them friends, like normal people do.
Speaking of parties, I'm finding myself becoming resolutely apathetic about them. I get drunk off cheap beer, talk to some people, and then fall asleep. Awesome. Which is why if I did it every single day I'd probably get straight up sick of it! Small dosages are nice because they allow us to enjoy things much more deeply. With partying I should keep it in super-low doses. It's cathartic to allow myself that release but I still can't shake off that vague, guilty feeling I have the next morning.
I attended both of my English classes today. The first instructor, for the novel-concentrated class, is this pretty cool grad-school student who did his undergrad at some hippie commune college. In his words, he "didn't have a major, but I guess it was literary analysis." The second class, which concentrates on poetry, is taught by a grad-school student who stresses her syllables on every last word of her sentences. She lets those last words roll, as if she's unreeling them to entrance her students. I think she's trying too hard to keep our attention. If you get her into a more conversational mood she's quite perky. She kind of looks/acts like Liz Lemon from... 30 Rock.
I marathoned two seasons of 30 Rock in one week! Sheesh, what's wrong with me. It's a really good show though, and wikipedia and just about every google search could tell you what it's about. What, you want to hear it from me? Fine, jeez. It's about Liz Lemon, this writer for this live-television show and her misadventures with the CEO of NBC, her boss Jack Donaghy. She eats too much, is nerdy, quirky, and absolutely adorable. I've been watching it way too much, and I need to stop watching it soon so I have enough minutes in the day to do homework and stuff. I got a buttload of reading to do! And, my classes are paper-heavy, but no finals mean win.
I keep forgetting about this as a daily obligation. I'll be sitting on my butt in front of this computer staring at the monitor, and suddenly I hear a whisper in my ear: "blog post!" And then I write something frantically just to get it done. When it becomes a job for me to do, I guess I put down any old thing. That's bad, isn't it? It's quite insincere.
That's about it for now. With the upcoming weekend I'll probably roll a good one or two in.
I'm going to get my butt kicked by work next week. 5 days in a row! Can you believe it? Jeez, man!
A blog a day. It's harder to fit this in than I thought. Today, I went to class from 8 am to 11 am. Then I got some food, watched some 30 Rock, and fell asleep from 1 pm to 6 pm. Then I watched 30 Rock some more. And I think I'm going to a party tonight. Whoo. I think I'm apathetic towards parties. I go because I like to hang out with people from work when we're not at work, but it seems like the only time I see them out of work is during parties. Maybe I should make more of an effort to go to places with them, so that they'll cease to be coworkers in my mind, and I can start calling them friends, like normal people do.
Speaking of parties, I'm finding myself becoming resolutely apathetic about them. I get drunk off cheap beer, talk to some people, and then fall asleep. Awesome. Which is why if I did it every single day I'd probably get straight up sick of it! Small dosages are nice because they allow us to enjoy things much more deeply. With partying I should keep it in super-low doses. It's cathartic to allow myself that release but I still can't shake off that vague, guilty feeling I have the next morning.
I attended both of my English classes today. The first instructor, for the novel-concentrated class, is this pretty cool grad-school student who did his undergrad at some hippie commune college. In his words, he "didn't have a major, but I guess it was literary analysis." The second class, which concentrates on poetry, is taught by a grad-school student who stresses her syllables on every last word of her sentences. She lets those last words roll, as if she's unreeling them to entrance her students. I think she's trying too hard to keep our attention. If you get her into a more conversational mood she's quite perky. She kind of looks/acts like Liz Lemon from... 30 Rock.
I marathoned two seasons of 30 Rock in one week! Sheesh, what's wrong with me. It's a really good show though, and wikipedia and just about every google search could tell you what it's about. What, you want to hear it from me? Fine, jeez. It's about Liz Lemon, this writer for this live-television show and her misadventures with the CEO of NBC, her boss Jack Donaghy. She eats too much, is nerdy, quirky, and absolutely adorable. I've been watching it way too much, and I need to stop watching it soon so I have enough minutes in the day to do homework and stuff. I got a buttload of reading to do! And, my classes are paper-heavy, but no finals mean win.
I keep forgetting about this as a daily obligation. I'll be sitting on my butt in front of this computer staring at the monitor, and suddenly I hear a whisper in my ear: "blog post!" And then I write something frantically just to get it done. When it becomes a job for me to do, I guess I put down any old thing. That's bad, isn't it? It's quite insincere.
That's about it for now. With the upcoming weekend I'll probably roll a good one or two in.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
GOMENASAI.
Thurs. 2:27 PM
My first day of class was today. It was Japanese 1A and Beginning Fiction. Beginning fiction was cool, and I like the reading list, despite the fact that I've read a good portion of the short stories for the class already (but hey, at least I have an excuse to read Flannery O'Conner's "A Good Man is Hard to Find" again). I really wish they included the Haruki Murakami story in the giant textbook though. But I really want to talk about the Japanese class foremost.
I'm taking an introduction the Japanese language, and yes, it is filled with wapanese people who digest Japanese culture through anime, manga, and pocky. But they seem nice so far, so I don't really mind. The teacher-excuse me, sensei (I groan on the inside when call her that)- is absolutely adorable. A native-born Japanese, she moved to Australia, and then moved to California to teach at UCI. She stands at 5 ft and is somewhere between her 40s-50s, and talks in a frenzied, cheery tone, filled with staccatos of English and Japanese, hellos and haijimashites. She's cute, in a motherly way. It's really cool to be in her class.
Why Japanese though... hmm. I'm looking into translation work, or teaching English abroad, but really it just seems pretty interesting because if I master it, I can read Haruki Murakami books before they're translated into English, and maybe help bootleg manga and anime. I'm still highly embarrassed when I practice it though. I make it a point to finish one project before I start another; I mean, I haven't even scratched the surface of the English language, and now I'm studying Japanese? Irresponsible. But anyway, so far the year has gotten off to a great start, even if I do have to drag my butt up at 7 AM everyday.
My first day of class was today. It was Japanese 1A and Beginning Fiction. Beginning fiction was cool, and I like the reading list, despite the fact that I've read a good portion of the short stories for the class already (but hey, at least I have an excuse to read Flannery O'Conner's "A Good Man is Hard to Find" again). I really wish they included the Haruki Murakami story in the giant textbook though. But I really want to talk about the Japanese class foremost.
I'm taking an introduction the Japanese language, and yes, it is filled with wapanese people who digest Japanese culture through anime, manga, and pocky. But they seem nice so far, so I don't really mind. The teacher-excuse me, sensei (I groan on the inside when call her that)- is absolutely adorable. A native-born Japanese, she moved to Australia, and then moved to California to teach at UCI. She stands at 5 ft and is somewhere between her 40s-50s, and talks in a frenzied, cheery tone, filled with staccatos of English and Japanese, hellos and haijimashites. She's cute, in a motherly way. It's really cool to be in her class.
Why Japanese though... hmm. I'm looking into translation work, or teaching English abroad, but really it just seems pretty interesting because if I master it, I can read Haruki Murakami books before they're translated into English, and maybe help bootleg manga and anime. I'm still highly embarrassed when I practice it though. I make it a point to finish one project before I start another; I mean, I haven't even scratched the surface of the English language, and now I'm studying Japanese? Irresponsible. But anyway, so far the year has gotten off to a great start, even if I do have to drag my butt up at 7 AM everyday.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Running out of things to say?
Wed, 8:56
The daily minutiae of our daily lives isn't very interesting. I mean, if I write something here every single day, it's not like I'll have some startling revelation or insightful thought at every single instance. The deeper thoughts are merely comprised of our daily activities I guess. Can you imagine, though, if every single post on here was something distressing? If my life was like that daily I'd have a heart attack! I think I'm saying this more to myself than to you though. I mean, seeing this blog everyday has caused me to browse it a little bit more. I'm a pretty boring guy, to say the least. But boring isn't that bad, right?
But, what I think I'm trying to get at is inspiration. It comes and goes, it never sits still. It'll burst and bloom in the middle of the night, but it never comes when I stare a blank page down. I think the great thing about blogging is that I can freewrite. I'll say whatever's in my head until something comes out. Read it back a little, edit a couple things there, but most of the things committed on the screen are going up for the whole internet to see. Well, I mean, not the *whole* internet. Factoring in the number of people who log on simply to watch porn, it's more like... 0.01%, if I'm lucky.
Inspiration's kind of weird though. I never seem to be able to write with a story in mind; usually I have this image followed with a phrase that I build something around. Like, recently there's this story that I want to write. I'm also posting the idea here so I don't forget it but anyway, it goes like this: there's this interracial couple. I guess. One Asian, the other something else. I actually wanted someone Chinese and someone Filipino (oh gee, that's not a self-insert right there). The thing is, they steal a pickup truck and run away from this suburban area. They go up to the mountains, and enter a quiet commune of sorts. It's pretty folky. The guy gets hired by a blacksmith or something. I don't know, the whole premise is built around this one thing I thought of. Two people sleeping in the bed of a pickup truck, "with their bodies curled up against each other like fireflies."
Does that even make sense? I don't know. I know that fireflies are only attracted to the lights of the opposite sex, and that's what appealed to me. I also like the image of fireflies. I will expand it into some kind of grand metaphor in which the lights of the fireflies zoom around in the dark, burning bright in this chaotic night, or something equally pretentious. Yeah, it does kind of sound like I'm up my ass about this. I just want to write a simple love story. After all, there are three things you should keep simple in your life, I feel: family, work, and love. And doing this everyday is work son!
The daily minutiae of our daily lives isn't very interesting. I mean, if I write something here every single day, it's not like I'll have some startling revelation or insightful thought at every single instance. The deeper thoughts are merely comprised of our daily activities I guess. Can you imagine, though, if every single post on here was something distressing? If my life was like that daily I'd have a heart attack! I think I'm saying this more to myself than to you though. I mean, seeing this blog everyday has caused me to browse it a little bit more. I'm a pretty boring guy, to say the least. But boring isn't that bad, right?
But, what I think I'm trying to get at is inspiration. It comes and goes, it never sits still. It'll burst and bloom in the middle of the night, but it never comes when I stare a blank page down. I think the great thing about blogging is that I can freewrite. I'll say whatever's in my head until something comes out. Read it back a little, edit a couple things there, but most of the things committed on the screen are going up for the whole internet to see. Well, I mean, not the *whole* internet. Factoring in the number of people who log on simply to watch porn, it's more like... 0.01%, if I'm lucky.
Inspiration's kind of weird though. I never seem to be able to write with a story in mind; usually I have this image followed with a phrase that I build something around. Like, recently there's this story that I want to write. I'm also posting the idea here so I don't forget it but anyway, it goes like this: there's this interracial couple. I guess. One Asian, the other something else. I actually wanted someone Chinese and someone Filipino (oh gee, that's not a self-insert right there). The thing is, they steal a pickup truck and run away from this suburban area. They go up to the mountains, and enter a quiet commune of sorts. It's pretty folky. The guy gets hired by a blacksmith or something. I don't know, the whole premise is built around this one thing I thought of. Two people sleeping in the bed of a pickup truck, "with their bodies curled up against each other like fireflies."
Does that even make sense? I don't know. I know that fireflies are only attracted to the lights of the opposite sex, and that's what appealed to me. I also like the image of fireflies. I will expand it into some kind of grand metaphor in which the lights of the fireflies zoom around in the dark, burning bright in this chaotic night, or something equally pretentious. Yeah, it does kind of sound like I'm up my ass about this. I just want to write a simple love story. After all, there are three things you should keep simple in your life, I feel: family, work, and love. And doing this everyday is work son!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Cooking.
I should put timestamps on this thing. I have no idea how the whole, blog publishing thing works on blogger but it'll say I wrote something on Saturday even though I hit publish post on 12 AM Sunday. I don't know.
Tuesday 8:02 PM
Today I ate a grilled cheese sandwich with a bowl of microwaved ramen. I cannot enjoy food in my apartment for the following reasons:
A) An inability to cook.
Howdy. I can broil, pan-fry, bake, and roast meat. I make a good steak, a decent chicken, and a pretty alright burger. And in any other instance it'd be okay. But for me it's not. I want to make restaurant food, things rich in flavor. I attempt to make marinades that are passable, but it wouldn't wow the socks off anyone I serve it to. They'll eat my food, politely telling me that "it's good." But I want someone to pause, and exclaim about how "that's good!" Not only that, I don't even have a concentration to cook in! I don't pertain to a specific region, or style. I just grab at any recipe that tickles my fancy, so one day I'll be eating pancit and the next day, a hamburger. I need to get my flavors straight.
B) A lack of money to buy good ingredients.
Spices are expensive. The best cuts of meat are expensive. The best kinds of cheese? Too much for me. I would love to shop at Trader Joe's, go to my local butcher, get the good stuff. But the good stuff puts dents in my wallet, and when you're making $9.00 an hour you really can't afford to be eating freshly imported anything. So here I am, eating store-brought bread, cheese, cereal... when I fry meat there's no flavor, and I'm practically dumping scoops of salt, pepper, and seasoning on it. I am getting sick of this bullshit manufactured ground beef. I'd grind my own beef and have it soak in a nicely prepared marinade if not for...
C) A lack of time.
After work I'm tired. After school I'm tired. I don't want to come home and spend another hour preparing something I'll enjoy for 20 minutes! I want instant gratification! I don't know how anyone pertains to schedules. It's way too hard to say to yourself, "I'm going to do this at the end of the day" and actually do it! But then that comes to my next point.
D) I'm pretty lazy.
Whoops.
I like the idea of the renaissance man. You know, the guy that can do anything. It's a movement forward. I like to envision scenarios with me in a nice collared shirt, sleeves rolled up, serving something great. Instead I'm balancing a grilled cheese sandwich on a spatula and cursing when I drop it on the floor. I want to get better at cooking though, because I keep thinking it'll help me become less dependent on others. I mean, I have no assured food source this year, and I can't keep eating fast food all the time, I'll get chubs. And keeping with the trends of the times, considering that I'm a humanities major, I probably won't be the breadmaker of the house, so I figure... at least I can bake bread, yeah?
(Yeah.)
Tuesday 8:02 PM
Today I ate a grilled cheese sandwich with a bowl of microwaved ramen. I cannot enjoy food in my apartment for the following reasons:
A) An inability to cook.
Howdy. I can broil, pan-fry, bake, and roast meat. I make a good steak, a decent chicken, and a pretty alright burger. And in any other instance it'd be okay. But for me it's not. I want to make restaurant food, things rich in flavor. I attempt to make marinades that are passable, but it wouldn't wow the socks off anyone I serve it to. They'll eat my food, politely telling me that "it's good." But I want someone to pause, and exclaim about how "that's good!" Not only that, I don't even have a concentration to cook in! I don't pertain to a specific region, or style. I just grab at any recipe that tickles my fancy, so one day I'll be eating pancit and the next day, a hamburger. I need to get my flavors straight.
B) A lack of money to buy good ingredients.
Spices are expensive. The best cuts of meat are expensive. The best kinds of cheese? Too much for me. I would love to shop at Trader Joe's, go to my local butcher, get the good stuff. But the good stuff puts dents in my wallet, and when you're making $9.00 an hour you really can't afford to be eating freshly imported anything. So here I am, eating store-brought bread, cheese, cereal... when I fry meat there's no flavor, and I'm practically dumping scoops of salt, pepper, and seasoning on it. I am getting sick of this bullshit manufactured ground beef. I'd grind my own beef and have it soak in a nicely prepared marinade if not for...
C) A lack of time.
After work I'm tired. After school I'm tired. I don't want to come home and spend another hour preparing something I'll enjoy for 20 minutes! I want instant gratification! I don't know how anyone pertains to schedules. It's way too hard to say to yourself, "I'm going to do this at the end of the day" and actually do it! But then that comes to my next point.
D) I'm pretty lazy.
Whoops.
I like the idea of the renaissance man. You know, the guy that can do anything. It's a movement forward. I like to envision scenarios with me in a nice collared shirt, sleeves rolled up, serving something great. Instead I'm balancing a grilled cheese sandwich on a spatula and cursing when I drop it on the floor. I want to get better at cooking though, because I keep thinking it'll help me become less dependent on others. I mean, I have no assured food source this year, and I can't keep eating fast food all the time, I'll get chubs. And keeping with the trends of the times, considering that I'm a humanities major, I probably won't be the breadmaker of the house, so I figure... at least I can bake bread, yeah?
(Yeah.)
Twofer.
This counts as Monday's. Come on, give me a break. I worked my butt off from 2:30 PM to 12 AM today! It's hard shit! I like the feeling of coming home to a hard day of work. Actually scratch that, only when the work is meaningful. I walked around the whole student center sweeping up trash, bussing every table, taking out huge bags of trash, and sanitizing doors. Repeat ad hominem. YES. After that I did all of the basic stuff: lifting tables, cleaning rooms, traveling around campus and polishing the newspaper dispensers. Whatever, it's strenuous work but easy work.
I really need to raise up my GPA so I can tutor. But then, you can only tutor in one subject, and I specialize in English, so... I don't think I'll get very good hours. I mean, it's manual labor but I got 22 hours alone this week! It's really easy to get a pretty good schedule at the Student Center.
I keep thinking I should be doing more. I don't know. I just have this weird feeling rumbling in the pit of my stomach that hey, remember all of that stuff you did in high school? Increase the workload in college. I need to train myself to focus better. The body can lift crazy heavy things, but if you try to get the mind to study a book? Shut down.
The plan for next quarter is to participate in the Humanities Tutoring Program. This quarter first and foremost, it's raising my GPA.
And that's about it. Pretty boring day, eh?
I really need to raise up my GPA so I can tutor. But then, you can only tutor in one subject, and I specialize in English, so... I don't think I'll get very good hours. I mean, it's manual labor but I got 22 hours alone this week! It's really easy to get a pretty good schedule at the Student Center.
I keep thinking I should be doing more. I don't know. I just have this weird feeling rumbling in the pit of my stomach that hey, remember all of that stuff you did in high school? Increase the workload in college. I need to train myself to focus better. The body can lift crazy heavy things, but if you try to get the mind to study a book? Shut down.
The plan for next quarter is to participate in the Humanities Tutoring Program. This quarter first and foremost, it's raising my GPA.
And that's about it. Pretty boring day, eh?
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Day one!
Topic of the day: back posture.
I have really bad posture. I hunch a lot. In middle school I freaked out because of the scoliosis tests. My family taped a ruler to the back of my spine one summer to attempt to fix the problem. And years later here I am, the same old hunchback that I was when I was thirteen. You know how the spine is S-shaped in order to absorb impacts? I have this mental image in my head of me compacting it even more. I've done a lot of manual labor in my life, for my mom, for my church, for my school, and most recently for my job. I'm just used to lifting heavy things, I guess. So every time I lift something over my head, I picture my spine scrunching up, all the way, until one day it just cracks and I turn into a pile of jelly.
Of course, that's not rational. Realistically speaking, heavy lifting will only cause a horrible strain on your joints/muscles which will worsen as you get older. I think I'm going through that process right now. My back hurts. It's nothing debilitating, and it's sort of like an itch that you can't scratch, but it doesn't really bother you. It's just there. I should get that checked out. Right now, I hunch over to lift things off the ground at work, and when I get home I sit crooked in front of my computer screen, browsing the internet. I moved my computer on the floor where my mattress lies, and am now typing this on my stomach. I should fix this before school starts. They have safety training videos that teach you how to sit ergonomically but I think that's such bullshit. But anyway.
With my wide frame and my hunched shoulders, I guess I'd come off as pretty menacing to new people. My coworker was telling me that at first when he saw me, I reminded him of thugs you wouldn't want to mess with in a dark alley. And then I opened my mouth. I guess there's this conflict between the image I project and my personality. I would rather not want to come off as particularly terrifying. I would like to think I'm a pretty approachable guy. I try to be friendly, even though I really don't have that much to talk about at first. But because of the way that I was perceived, I was too used to being alone as well. I didn't mind it. So I'd always be outside, on the border of things, not giving a thought to the world.
But now is not the time for that. First and foremost, sore back. I really should do something about that. I've been doing these exercises in the morning, the ones that old people do. "Reach towards the skies, and now bend down and thank the Earth." It's really good for the back, and I'm glad that my roommate isn't around to see it because it's so embarrassing. But another thing that bothers me in the day is my sore knee, and I can't really find an exercise to fix that. My sore knee is a hereditary thing, stemming from my dad's side of the family. Usually if you don't get it checked out it'll put you out of commission until you get surgery for it, one that my dad, my aunt, and my cousin have gotten in recent years. It's like my body's a ticking time bomb, and when it goes off I'll find myself being held up by a cane for the rest of my life. I find myself more tired these days, and am in no need for unnecessary stress. I get my work done, and I go off to chill in my room and read quietly.
Why the hell are you breaking your back for?
I didn't really feel like I needed my own money until I met you. Sad, isn't it? I learned to live on a budget a long time ago, so it's not like went out to eat often. I bought secondhand books and pirated everything else off the internet for my own entertainment. I got all of my money through tutoring, which I saved for my pocket money in college. I was given an allowance by my parents, $30 for two weeks, and I made that last. As far as I could see I was living the good life.
When you first met me, I was surprised, because you did it with such ease. You were a good conversationalist. You brought me out of my shell. If there was an instance where an awkward silence might come up, you worked your magic and turned it around, or even harder to do, you just made it seem natural until there was something else we could bring up. I found myself taking the initiative to talk to you. We went out a lot, and I began to realize how expensive things were. I began to feel really guilty about the money I was spending that I hadn't even earned myself, and when college rolled around I ended up getting my first real job to feel more financially independent.
I really wanted to use the money to visit you. It's kind of crazy now when I think back on it. But when it came time to choose which college to attend, when you were stuck between staying in-state or going out of state, you asked me what I'd do. And I said that "my choice isn't yours, just go with what you feel like. Think about where you'd want to be." I wanted to convince you so badly to stay in California, but I knew that'd be wrong. It's your choice where you want to go. And so even though I hoped so hard for you to stay here you ended up an the opposite coast. When the thought that that distance could easily be rectified through plane tickets and reserved hotels, I was enlivened to the point where I began applying randomly for jobs on-campus.
It's really bad, isn't it. I accepted the very first job I could get and during that first month I went back to my dorm sore every single night.
I mean, the whole visiting thing didn't work out. When I became financially independent, I really did become independent. Everything I spent money on came from my own pocket. And the same words that you spoke that propelled me into society, into a job, into the world, guided me to friends. I was a much more reserved person before I met you. I'm not so secluded anymore.
So why the heck are you still breaking your back?
I like the me that you brought out. The me that talks to people, the one that doesn't spend all of his time alone. The one that finds meaning in little things, because he could so easily grasp meaning when he was with you. Even though you're not here, I still want that feeling to stay. So I make due with a little ache in my back, because you had held up my whole world and never complained once.
I have really bad posture. I hunch a lot. In middle school I freaked out because of the scoliosis tests. My family taped a ruler to the back of my spine one summer to attempt to fix the problem. And years later here I am, the same old hunchback that I was when I was thirteen. You know how the spine is S-shaped in order to absorb impacts? I have this mental image in my head of me compacting it even more. I've done a lot of manual labor in my life, for my mom, for my church, for my school, and most recently for my job. I'm just used to lifting heavy things, I guess. So every time I lift something over my head, I picture my spine scrunching up, all the way, until one day it just cracks and I turn into a pile of jelly.
Of course, that's not rational. Realistically speaking, heavy lifting will only cause a horrible strain on your joints/muscles which will worsen as you get older. I think I'm going through that process right now. My back hurts. It's nothing debilitating, and it's sort of like an itch that you can't scratch, but it doesn't really bother you. It's just there. I should get that checked out. Right now, I hunch over to lift things off the ground at work, and when I get home I sit crooked in front of my computer screen, browsing the internet. I moved my computer on the floor where my mattress lies, and am now typing this on my stomach. I should fix this before school starts. They have safety training videos that teach you how to sit ergonomically but I think that's such bullshit. But anyway.
With my wide frame and my hunched shoulders, I guess I'd come off as pretty menacing to new people. My coworker was telling me that at first when he saw me, I reminded him of thugs you wouldn't want to mess with in a dark alley. And then I opened my mouth. I guess there's this conflict between the image I project and my personality. I would rather not want to come off as particularly terrifying. I would like to think I'm a pretty approachable guy. I try to be friendly, even though I really don't have that much to talk about at first. But because of the way that I was perceived, I was too used to being alone as well. I didn't mind it. So I'd always be outside, on the border of things, not giving a thought to the world.
But now is not the time for that. First and foremost, sore back. I really should do something about that. I've been doing these exercises in the morning, the ones that old people do. "Reach towards the skies, and now bend down and thank the Earth." It's really good for the back, and I'm glad that my roommate isn't around to see it because it's so embarrassing. But another thing that bothers me in the day is my sore knee, and I can't really find an exercise to fix that. My sore knee is a hereditary thing, stemming from my dad's side of the family. Usually if you don't get it checked out it'll put you out of commission until you get surgery for it, one that my dad, my aunt, and my cousin have gotten in recent years. It's like my body's a ticking time bomb, and when it goes off I'll find myself being held up by a cane for the rest of my life. I find myself more tired these days, and am in no need for unnecessary stress. I get my work done, and I go off to chill in my room and read quietly.
Why the hell are you breaking your back for?
I didn't really feel like I needed my own money until I met you. Sad, isn't it? I learned to live on a budget a long time ago, so it's not like went out to eat often. I bought secondhand books and pirated everything else off the internet for my own entertainment. I got all of my money through tutoring, which I saved for my pocket money in college. I was given an allowance by my parents, $30 for two weeks, and I made that last. As far as I could see I was living the good life.
When you first met me, I was surprised, because you did it with such ease. You were a good conversationalist. You brought me out of my shell. If there was an instance where an awkward silence might come up, you worked your magic and turned it around, or even harder to do, you just made it seem natural until there was something else we could bring up. I found myself taking the initiative to talk to you. We went out a lot, and I began to realize how expensive things were. I began to feel really guilty about the money I was spending that I hadn't even earned myself, and when college rolled around I ended up getting my first real job to feel more financially independent.
I really wanted to use the money to visit you. It's kind of crazy now when I think back on it. But when it came time to choose which college to attend, when you were stuck between staying in-state or going out of state, you asked me what I'd do. And I said that "my choice isn't yours, just go with what you feel like. Think about where you'd want to be." I wanted to convince you so badly to stay in California, but I knew that'd be wrong. It's your choice where you want to go. And so even though I hoped so hard for you to stay here you ended up an the opposite coast. When the thought that that distance could easily be rectified through plane tickets and reserved hotels, I was enlivened to the point where I began applying randomly for jobs on-campus.
It's really bad, isn't it. I accepted the very first job I could get and during that first month I went back to my dorm sore every single night.
I mean, the whole visiting thing didn't work out. When I became financially independent, I really did become independent. Everything I spent money on came from my own pocket. And the same words that you spoke that propelled me into society, into a job, into the world, guided me to friends. I was a much more reserved person before I met you. I'm not so secluded anymore.
So why the heck are you still breaking your back?
I like the me that you brought out. The me that talks to people, the one that doesn't spend all of his time alone. The one that finds meaning in little things, because he could so easily grasp meaning when he was with you. Even though you're not here, I still want that feeling to stay. So I make due with a little ache in my back, because you had held up my whole world and never complained once.
365 days. Let's do it.
I'm pretty lazy on updating this thing. I write when I feel like it, and preoccupy myself with other things when I don't. So see, this blog has some heavy competition concerning my precious time: books, video games, CDs, work, the internet.
There's just never enough time in the day. *sigh*
But really though, school is starting this week and I feel extra-lazy. I picked up Haruki Murakami's "What I Talk about When I Talk about Running" and I feel even lazier, to the point of uselessness. Here's a novelist who's a marathon runner, and he runs everyday! And the only thing I do daily is check my facebook. Oh, Rante. There's this girl from my high school that has this project where she takes a picture every single day! Can you believe it? Something to photograph, before you sleep every night.
I know there are a lot of things I need to work on. I need to run more. I find myself getting tired at times when before I wouldn't; I used to run a pretty decent mile, and now I can hardly jog! I need to work on my social skills. I'm getting better, but I'm hardly debonair. I need to work on my cooking, my study skills, my focus, my writing, my... life. GAH.
I'm going to try to concentrate on one thing at a time, and hope that everything else follows behind it. First I'm going to concentrate on writing better. So that's where this comes in. I'm going to write a post every single day. Some days I might write about what I had for dinner, or something cool I saw that day. Or other days I might just copy-paste stories or something I had to write for a class. Or even finish the posts I had been working on but still can't find the need to finish. I might just post any old blurb without the usually meticulous editing I've been trying to force myself to go through. But I'm going to write, and that's all that matters. It's training. Small, insignificant steps to make that one giant leap.
And like this post, a lot of it will be an attempt to sort through my mental baggage. Whoopee, let's go.
There's just never enough time in the day. *sigh*
But really though, school is starting this week and I feel extra-lazy. I picked up Haruki Murakami's "What I Talk about When I Talk about Running" and I feel even lazier, to the point of uselessness. Here's a novelist who's a marathon runner, and he runs everyday! And the only thing I do daily is check my facebook. Oh, Rante. There's this girl from my high school that has this project where she takes a picture every single day! Can you believe it? Something to photograph, before you sleep every night.
I know there are a lot of things I need to work on. I need to run more. I find myself getting tired at times when before I wouldn't; I used to run a pretty decent mile, and now I can hardly jog! I need to work on my social skills. I'm getting better, but I'm hardly debonair. I need to work on my cooking, my study skills, my focus, my writing, my... life. GAH.
I'm going to try to concentrate on one thing at a time, and hope that everything else follows behind it. First I'm going to concentrate on writing better. So that's where this comes in. I'm going to write a post every single day. Some days I might write about what I had for dinner, or something cool I saw that day. Or other days I might just copy-paste stories or something I had to write for a class. Or even finish the posts I had been working on but still can't find the need to finish. I might just post any old blurb without the usually meticulous editing I've been trying to force myself to go through. But I'm going to write, and that's all that matters. It's training. Small, insignificant steps to make that one giant leap.
And like this post, a lot of it will be an attempt to sort through my mental baggage. Whoopee, let's go.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The darker the berry the sweeter its juice?
You're Voluptuous
Sweet caramel brown honeydew
Satin skin smooth to the touch, what a niggah do
-Nujabes ft Cise Starr, "Lady Brown"
Yo girl, what're you doing trying to bleach your skin? This is an open love letter to all those dark-skinned Pinoy girls, you hear me?
*ahem*
The prevalent notion of beauty amongst women in Asian cultures is that having a white skin complexion ensures health, wealth, and success. White skin is the mark of an aristocrat; tan skin is associated with those that slave in the sun, particularly farmers. Also, a fairer complexion is associated with youth and vitality. When asked which skin tone is more attractive, most of the time a Filipino would prefer a lighter-skinned partner than a darker-skinned one.
This notion of beauty is further reinforced by the media. Let's take a look at Filipino television. When you watch soap operas, all of the pretty girls involved with men are white, and the maids that are aiding them? Tan. Go to commercial, there's an advertisement for skin creams that bleach your skin. Wowowee, one of the most popular game shows nationally, comes on and you're greeted by a dance team of pretty Pinoy girls, all with translucent skin. The hosts are pale, while the participants playing for pesos are usually not. Then comes Adobo nation, and the newscasters are white. Confronted with an incessant stream of beautifully pale people, it's only natural that the viewer's mind would be inundated with the concept that bleach is beautiful.
That's where an emerging skin-whitening industry comes in. Beauty creams are marketed to women, advertising "luscious white skin." Unfortunately, this beauty comes at a heavy cost. There are skin-whitening creams sold that contain steroids, mercury, and hydroquinone, which act as the components for whitening skin. However, these chemicals have a detrimental effect when in contact with skin. Exposure to mercury can lead to the deterioration of the nervous system, along with a faster heartbeat, damaged kidneys, irrationality, and other debilitating effects. Hydroquinone can cause deadly diseases such as thyroid disorder, leukemia and liver damage. Lastly, these creams are known to mar the skin, despite advertising otherwise; effects to the skin include pale blotches intermixed with dark ones, acne, stretch marks, and other irreparable physical deformities.
But yo, I'm not here to expound on the usage of skin creams. The saddest part of this is that the usage of harmful products will still continue on. The main objective of a corporation is to make money, regardless of what happens. An executive for a skin cream company in China has been quoted as saying, "What is wrong with a little mercury in the cream, as long as it can make ladies beautiful." And despite a wide-spread report of its effects, consumers are still going to continue buying them, due to a cultural perception that has been ingrained in their mindsets.
So what do we do? We attempt to change our perception of beauty. Yo, I know it's hard for you. All of these light-skinned girls are constantly vaulted by society while you're getting passed up, and it just seems that the media validates this particular notion. It's hard. But you can't compromise yourself to a societal norm if you want to change it.
Is it really worth it at the end of the day to sequester yourself inside simply because you don't want to get tanner? To make the effort to wear layers of clothing to cover yourself up, carry around an umbrella simply to block out the sun? Especially in Southeast Asia, on an island country, the sun is constantly shining; our natural skin tone isn't white, it's brown.
Physical beauty is nice because it allows us to surmise a person's personality before we encounter them. Someone dresses well, and you think that guy is concerned with taking care of himself, and he could take care of you. You see someone with a pretty smile and you think that she'll be really nice, and be mindful to your problems. And most of the time you'd be right. But there are instances in which you can be wrong. The problem with physical beauty is that it's a double-edged sword: what can be used to accentuate one's positive features can also be used to mask one's demonic qualities. A pretty face can mask a horrible demeanor; a sharp dresser can whisper tinges of vanity.
Another problem with physical beauty is its fragility. I don't know, it seems to me that we appreciate physical beauty so much because it is held by the grasp of time. One day that fist will clench, age will catch up with you, and suddenly your features are marred by stretch marks, sags, and wrinkles. Beauty is fleeting, sure. So it makes since that people would attempt to try to extend that beauty for all it's worth.
But rather than combat the nature of our physical self, we must accept it. Our bodies change with time. We lose the luster of youth. However, the beauty of our personalities, of our souls, is something that doesn't falter with age. Brown-skinned lady, please stop concerning yourself with what you perceive as idealized forms of beauty. The nature of our faces is constantly shifting. We cannot smile or frown forever; likewise, we cannot retain a certain look forever.
So what I'm trying to get at is that you're beautiful already, tan or not. Come on, learn to accept yourself. At the end of the day, wouldn't you rather be outside and soak in the sun of this world, instead of sitting in a bathtub of bleach staring at the ceiling? Your personality is so bright, others would naturally bask in it, dark-skinned or not.
Sweet caramel brown honeydew
Satin skin smooth to the touch, what a niggah do
-Nujabes ft Cise Starr, "Lady Brown"
Yo girl, what're you doing trying to bleach your skin? This is an open love letter to all those dark-skinned Pinoy girls, you hear me?
*ahem*
The prevalent notion of beauty amongst women in Asian cultures is that having a white skin complexion ensures health, wealth, and success. White skin is the mark of an aristocrat; tan skin is associated with those that slave in the sun, particularly farmers. Also, a fairer complexion is associated with youth and vitality. When asked which skin tone is more attractive, most of the time a Filipino would prefer a lighter-skinned partner than a darker-skinned one.
This notion of beauty is further reinforced by the media. Let's take a look at Filipino television. When you watch soap operas, all of the pretty girls involved with men are white, and the maids that are aiding them? Tan. Go to commercial, there's an advertisement for skin creams that bleach your skin. Wowowee, one of the most popular game shows nationally, comes on and you're greeted by a dance team of pretty Pinoy girls, all with translucent skin. The hosts are pale, while the participants playing for pesos are usually not. Then comes Adobo nation, and the newscasters are white. Confronted with an incessant stream of beautifully pale people, it's only natural that the viewer's mind would be inundated with the concept that bleach is beautiful.
That's where an emerging skin-whitening industry comes in. Beauty creams are marketed to women, advertising "luscious white skin." Unfortunately, this beauty comes at a heavy cost. There are skin-whitening creams sold that contain steroids, mercury, and hydroquinone, which act as the components for whitening skin. However, these chemicals have a detrimental effect when in contact with skin. Exposure to mercury can lead to the deterioration of the nervous system, along with a faster heartbeat, damaged kidneys, irrationality, and other debilitating effects. Hydroquinone can cause deadly diseases such as thyroid disorder, leukemia and liver damage. Lastly, these creams are known to mar the skin, despite advertising otherwise; effects to the skin include pale blotches intermixed with dark ones, acne, stretch marks, and other irreparable physical deformities.
But yo, I'm not here to expound on the usage of skin creams. The saddest part of this is that the usage of harmful products will still continue on. The main objective of a corporation is to make money, regardless of what happens. An executive for a skin cream company in China has been quoted as saying, "What is wrong with a little mercury in the cream, as long as it can make ladies beautiful." And despite a wide-spread report of its effects, consumers are still going to continue buying them, due to a cultural perception that has been ingrained in their mindsets.
So what do we do? We attempt to change our perception of beauty. Yo, I know it's hard for you. All of these light-skinned girls are constantly vaulted by society while you're getting passed up, and it just seems that the media validates this particular notion. It's hard. But you can't compromise yourself to a societal norm if you want to change it.
Is it really worth it at the end of the day to sequester yourself inside simply because you don't want to get tanner? To make the effort to wear layers of clothing to cover yourself up, carry around an umbrella simply to block out the sun? Especially in Southeast Asia, on an island country, the sun is constantly shining; our natural skin tone isn't white, it's brown.
Physical beauty is nice because it allows us to surmise a person's personality before we encounter them. Someone dresses well, and you think that guy is concerned with taking care of himself, and he could take care of you. You see someone with a pretty smile and you think that she'll be really nice, and be mindful to your problems. And most of the time you'd be right. But there are instances in which you can be wrong. The problem with physical beauty is that it's a double-edged sword: what can be used to accentuate one's positive features can also be used to mask one's demonic qualities. A pretty face can mask a horrible demeanor; a sharp dresser can whisper tinges of vanity.
Another problem with physical beauty is its fragility. I don't know, it seems to me that we appreciate physical beauty so much because it is held by the grasp of time. One day that fist will clench, age will catch up with you, and suddenly your features are marred by stretch marks, sags, and wrinkles. Beauty is fleeting, sure. So it makes since that people would attempt to try to extend that beauty for all it's worth.
But rather than combat the nature of our physical self, we must accept it. Our bodies change with time. We lose the luster of youth. However, the beauty of our personalities, of our souls, is something that doesn't falter with age. Brown-skinned lady, please stop concerning yourself with what you perceive as idealized forms of beauty. The nature of our faces is constantly shifting. We cannot smile or frown forever; likewise, we cannot retain a certain look forever.
So what I'm trying to get at is that you're beautiful already, tan or not. Come on, learn to accept yourself. At the end of the day, wouldn't you rather be outside and soak in the sun of this world, instead of sitting in a bathtub of bleach staring at the ceiling? Your personality is so bright, others would naturally bask in it, dark-skinned or not.
Monday, September 7, 2009
When I can I dream dreams away
Last night I had a dream. We were walking around this mall, side by side. I looked over and you smiled, and I stuck out my arm and you wrapped yourself around it. There we were, walking around, your head rested on me so romantically. It felt so heavy that I felt that my heart could give in at any moment. We walked along an endless corridor, amongst indistinguishable storefronts. I can recall feeling so proud, so happy, and then I woke up. And I felt horribly guilty.
We went through something tumultuous, and I ruined a long friendship by letting out my infatuation for you. It was unrequited. And so it goes, after an awkward silence we went about our daily lives. I tried to go through the motions of friendship all over again, but it felt so weird that we just... stopped. Stopped interacting, stopped talking, and finally stopped seeing each other. Except in this one dream.
These are what my dreams amount to whenever I dream about girls I knew. We hold hands, we peck each others lips, we hug each other tightly, we sleep on each others' shoulders. They're innocent to the point of being wholesome. In them, the days are always nice, the sun is always shining. They grin at me and I feel that my soul is going to implode because of all that... beauty. When the dream ends and I wake up, I stare at the ceiling, and smack myself upside the head for having another dumb dream.
It's not like they're not wet dreams. I definitely don't dream about us making sweaty love like rabbits. You're usually about as far away from a sex object as can be. But after them I always wake up feeling like I made a huge mistake, because I definitely can't look at you the same way during the rest of the day. We brush shoulders and that near-inaudible crack you heard was my voice attempting to convey a hello. When we make eye-contact I can feel my heart contract, and I can't think of a single thing to say, just because I feel awful that I dreamed about you. Where's the guilt from if it was just slight hugs, held hands, or innocuous kisses?
If there's one thing I know about me, it's this: I never dream about girls I think I have a chance with. At least my subconscious isn't messed up to do that, right? So the opposite must hold true, in that I dream about girls I know I've lost. They're the stars in my fantasy's landscape because they can never exist in reality. I'll find myself talking to girls I could never find the right words around. Or, I'll be hugging girls whom I couldn't do anything about simply because there are so many miles between us. Distance, incompatibility, reproachfulness... all of these things are conquered through dreams.
And it's because of this infallibility, this dauntlessness, that my stomach churns at the sight of you. Because I am imagining something that simply cannot be. I am defying the laws of nature, I am spitting in the face of God, by even conceiving this. Her decision was made because of so many factors rendering relationships impossible. And if you can't change the way she feels, then you can't keep continuing to feel that way about her.
Despite my acceptance of the reality of this world, it seems my subconscious refuses to believe in it. I acknowledge it, but no matter how many times I say outwardly "it's okay, it's okay," no matter how many times I can say that I'm happy just to be friends, there's a tinge of doubt resting on the penumbra of my waking mind. I can be walking right beside you and be as happy as a clam, but all of that can be shattered by one fantastic reverie. Every time I think I've worked it out, affirmed this rationalization in my waking mind, feelings of affection will sprout in my subconscious and destroy this notion of acquiescence to the way you feel. I find myself doubting myself. What was truth yesterday is conjecture today when you're betrayed by your own thoughts.
Looking through things that I've tried to write, I find the exact same sentiments expressed in my dreams have seeped into my pieces. My protagonists are saying the things I couldn't, doing the things I refused to, and expressing themselves to their loves in the ways I wished I could. They are melancholic things composed by loneliness, evoking feelings that shouldn't be, creating apparitions that will never be substantiated.
Seeing all of this the only conclusion that can be made is that I'm living in a dream world. Reality is blurred by the machinations of my sleeping thoughts. It's further distorted with every word I write. It's come to a point where I'm questioning every day as I know it. It's detrimental to my day to day, to my temporal life. I dwell on subjects I shouldn't, I keep feeling emotions that I need to discard somehow. If I keep it in my mind it's only going to make me worse off, but when I try to cast it away and forget about it completely, my mind won't let me.
But maybe it's better that way. We need to take heed to the voice of our hearts, we need to listen to our souls. The reason that my mind keeps bringing up memories of her like so much dirty laundry is because I never confronted those feelings, but only complied by them. I submitted myself to feeling a certain way simply because I wanted things to be normal, before I professed whatever affections I had and failed to have reciprocated. I need to work out my feelings instead of stuffing them down into an abyss only my sleeping hands can reach.
Looking at this I can say that when I write it's not to act out some masturbatory, self-satisfying fantasy but as a means to sort out my mental baggage. Because when I look back at things I had written before I cringe. I'm embarrassed to see myself acting a certain way for someone that I know now I had no reason to be that way around. I would read about a me ingratiating himself to anyone nice to him, or see him infatuated with someone who he barely talks to anymore. He's living in the supernatural, a world that cannot exist, saying hello to ghosts on a daily basis. I'm confronting myself, and trying to write away my dreams so I can live unhindered in reality. So that instead of saying "hello ghosts," I can say "hello friends" instead, and things can go back to being the way they were before.
We went through something tumultuous, and I ruined a long friendship by letting out my infatuation for you. It was unrequited. And so it goes, after an awkward silence we went about our daily lives. I tried to go through the motions of friendship all over again, but it felt so weird that we just... stopped. Stopped interacting, stopped talking, and finally stopped seeing each other. Except in this one dream.
These are what my dreams amount to whenever I dream about girls I knew. We hold hands, we peck each others lips, we hug each other tightly, we sleep on each others' shoulders. They're innocent to the point of being wholesome. In them, the days are always nice, the sun is always shining. They grin at me and I feel that my soul is going to implode because of all that... beauty. When the dream ends and I wake up, I stare at the ceiling, and smack myself upside the head for having another dumb dream.
It's not like they're not wet dreams. I definitely don't dream about us making sweaty love like rabbits. You're usually about as far away from a sex object as can be. But after them I always wake up feeling like I made a huge mistake, because I definitely can't look at you the same way during the rest of the day. We brush shoulders and that near-inaudible crack you heard was my voice attempting to convey a hello. When we make eye-contact I can feel my heart contract, and I can't think of a single thing to say, just because I feel awful that I dreamed about you. Where's the guilt from if it was just slight hugs, held hands, or innocuous kisses?
If there's one thing I know about me, it's this: I never dream about girls I think I have a chance with. At least my subconscious isn't messed up to do that, right? So the opposite must hold true, in that I dream about girls I know I've lost. They're the stars in my fantasy's landscape because they can never exist in reality. I'll find myself talking to girls I could never find the right words around. Or, I'll be hugging girls whom I couldn't do anything about simply because there are so many miles between us. Distance, incompatibility, reproachfulness... all of these things are conquered through dreams.
And it's because of this infallibility, this dauntlessness, that my stomach churns at the sight of you. Because I am imagining something that simply cannot be. I am defying the laws of nature, I am spitting in the face of God, by even conceiving this. Her decision was made because of so many factors rendering relationships impossible. And if you can't change the way she feels, then you can't keep continuing to feel that way about her.
Despite my acceptance of the reality of this world, it seems my subconscious refuses to believe in it. I acknowledge it, but no matter how many times I say outwardly "it's okay, it's okay," no matter how many times I can say that I'm happy just to be friends, there's a tinge of doubt resting on the penumbra of my waking mind. I can be walking right beside you and be as happy as a clam, but all of that can be shattered by one fantastic reverie. Every time I think I've worked it out, affirmed this rationalization in my waking mind, feelings of affection will sprout in my subconscious and destroy this notion of acquiescence to the way you feel. I find myself doubting myself. What was truth yesterday is conjecture today when you're betrayed by your own thoughts.
Looking through things that I've tried to write, I find the exact same sentiments expressed in my dreams have seeped into my pieces. My protagonists are saying the things I couldn't, doing the things I refused to, and expressing themselves to their loves in the ways I wished I could. They are melancholic things composed by loneliness, evoking feelings that shouldn't be, creating apparitions that will never be substantiated.
Seeing all of this the only conclusion that can be made is that I'm living in a dream world. Reality is blurred by the machinations of my sleeping thoughts. It's further distorted with every word I write. It's come to a point where I'm questioning every day as I know it. It's detrimental to my day to day, to my temporal life. I dwell on subjects I shouldn't, I keep feeling emotions that I need to discard somehow. If I keep it in my mind it's only going to make me worse off, but when I try to cast it away and forget about it completely, my mind won't let me.
But maybe it's better that way. We need to take heed to the voice of our hearts, we need to listen to our souls. The reason that my mind keeps bringing up memories of her like so much dirty laundry is because I never confronted those feelings, but only complied by them. I submitted myself to feeling a certain way simply because I wanted things to be normal, before I professed whatever affections I had and failed to have reciprocated. I need to work out my feelings instead of stuffing them down into an abyss only my sleeping hands can reach.
Looking at this I can say that when I write it's not to act out some masturbatory, self-satisfying fantasy but as a means to sort out my mental baggage. Because when I look back at things I had written before I cringe. I'm embarrassed to see myself acting a certain way for someone that I know now I had no reason to be that way around. I would read about a me ingratiating himself to anyone nice to him, or see him infatuated with someone who he barely talks to anymore. He's living in the supernatural, a world that cannot exist, saying hello to ghosts on a daily basis. I'm confronting myself, and trying to write away my dreams so I can live unhindered in reality. So that instead of saying "hello ghosts," I can say "hello friends" instead, and things can go back to being the way they were before.
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