Mondays

I have long decided not to get affected by it, but it seems I really can't let it go.  So now, I'll say it outright:  I actually hate Mondays.

It didn't feel this way initially, I seem to vaguely remember a distant time when I looked forward to Mondays, but I can't seem to remember a concrete day of when that was.  Thinking as far back as y school days, I know I disliked Mondays as well.  I mean, who wouldn't when Mondays meant returning to school?  Still I know there was a time when I did like Mondays.

But rather than waste my energies thinking about phantom memories of cherished Mondays, why don't I just waste more energy enumerating why I hate this day?  Because surely, I think I can so many bad things about this day, more than any other.

Monday means work.  Lots of work.  The return to the office not only promises a new deluge of tasks -- it delivers.  No wonder more people suffer heart attacks on a Monday compared to other days of the week, just the thought of all that work waiting there to drown you and suffocate you is enough to stop your heart from beating.

Monday ruins schedules.  No matter how you set your schedule for the week, expect it to all come flying out the window come Monday.  I had a game plan set from last week; a set goal to finish.  I was aiming for the stars (well, not really) then Monday rears its head and greets me with other things to do, more concerns that would need your attention.  More stressors to disrupt your calm and turn it into calamity.

And don't expect for Monday's effects to be localized on Monday.  Its effects will surely cling on to Tuesday, and if you get lucky, can run all the way till Friday.  No matter how hard you prevent it, when Monday decides to screw you over, it will and it can.  Late last week, I was talking with a colleague and she kept on saying that Tuesday is the sibling of Monday.  I couldn't fathom what it was she meant until this afternoon, when during a staff meeting, it was decided that we needed to work on a Tuesday, which has been declared a holiday.  Then it dawned on me.  Tuesday is Monday's sibling because Monday's woes are Tuesday's concerns.

I can go on and on citing example after example of Monday and its abuses.  I can fill page after page of woes and disappointments to allay my case.  I was prepared to do so, but then you called me from out of the blue, and suddenly I don't hate Mondays at all...

About that Nasty, Dangerous Stuff that Starts with L

My reputation precedes me, and apparently, my reputation isn't as sun-shiny as I would like to think.  Shattershards shatter more than just shards, it seems.  I'm unfamiliar with the topic at hand, so I will try to modify this rant through words that are familiar to me.


I have always maintained that I choose not to engage in the business.  It is much too cumbersome and complex, and it isn't a prerequisite to anything after all.  Friends, family and officemates alike have at one time or another asked me about my business, or lack thereof.  They cannot believe that at my age, I have not once tried to engage in business.  I'm a non-entrepreneur since birth.


Going into business isn't an easy task.  You engage in it, not only for yourself, but for the public.  Regulatory boards abound, and they require periodic reporting of the results of operation.  The SEC requires that you report annual figures; quarterly figures, if you're publicly listed.  As such, everybody would know if you're operations are favorable or unfavorable, and everybody would have an opinion as to your business endeavors.


Engaging in business also increases your tax exposure.  While the SEC requires quarterly reporting at most, the BIR demands that you report monthly.  Whether your business is earning or is at a loss, the BIR computes for the taxes you have to pay.  Remit too much and you are bound to encounter cashflow problems, remit too little and you may be accused of under-reporting or even tax evasion.


Every business, at its core, is a selling business; it is a marketing engagement.  The entrepreneurs attempt to market their goods to potential buyers.  You can position yourself at the low end to cater to the mass market, or you can improve on quality and target a selected niche.  Either way, the object is to be able to sell your goods.  But I choose not to sell.  It isn't a question of marketability or low product quality, it's a conscious decision not to play the market.


Unfortunately, there are some with considerable capacity to buy and they insist on purchasing that which isn't for sale.  They ultimately get disappointed because no transactions are intimated.  Why blame the seller when there isn't any seller in the first place; when there aren't any products for sale at the start?  Am I to blame for their broken engagements when there wasn't any contract to begin with?  Just because there was a display doesn't mean there are items for sale.  


I do not wish to hear what the rumors say about me, but my habit of knowing stuff nags at me.  Thus I remind myself of this saying:  Caveat Emptor.

Clarity

It took me the entire day to clean my room, and even then, it wasn't as thorough as I would have wished. I have too much stuff; I have too much trash. Fortunately, there are some treasures mixed in with the trash. I finally found my glasses; they weren't broken, as I originally thought.

I have become myopic during college ever since I acquired the urge to read and collect books. Doing an all-nighter with Stephen King at the helm could certainly wreak havoc on your eyes. But reading was such a pleasure then that I can go to class with less than three hours of sleep, and come nightfall, resume my nightly vigil with the novel of the week. Blurriness was just a minor inconvenience; the writings on the board after all, come to focus when I squint. And it does help that I am given a seat front and center, thanks to the alphabetical seating arrangement.

I only surrendered to the fact that I needed glasses during the review. Seats have been reserved, and I wasn't able to situate myself at the front. I have no plans of squinting for four straight hours every day just to see what the proctors are writing. Finally, I lowered my ego and decided to purchase my first glasses with 50:50 lenses. That one served me a good four years, until my habit of sleeping with glasses on finally broke it. It cost me an arm to purchase those glasses; and I replaced it with a pair one-fourth its value. It really is amazing, the things you can buy as a student, you can barely afford when you become gainfully employed.

I stopped wearing my glasses a couple of years ago, after I suffered from a torrent of daily headaches. My initial suspicion of course, was that the glasses were causing the headaches to erupt. I borrowed glasses with a higher grade, but still the headaches prevailed. In hindsight, I should have suspected work to have been the culprit, and not the glasses. But the damage was done, and my specs were buried with the rest of my trash, to collect dust with all the stuff that I didn't have the heart to throw.

And throw stuff, I did, with impunity. It's amazing how much nonchalance I felt over throwing stuff that just a year ago caused me pain to part with, if even just to hide. I have admitted, time and again, that I collect garbage: movie tickets, restaurant receipts, bus and plane tickets, credit card statements - they all pile up in my room to await verdict as to its seeming importance, or its utter worthlessness. Problem is, sometimes, I can't decide the matter, or would choose not to decide on it, claiming sentimentality over such trivial things, like the date, or the person, or the event, that was evidenced by that receipt, that ticket or that incurred debt.

Out of all that garbage and evidence of mundane existence, I found my glasses. And for the first time in years, I was able to enjoy the new year's fireworks as they should be: with clarity and in detail. It was like a revelation - the things in the past did not happen like a blur, as I felt it did; it was a blur because I chose to see it as such. I was hiding under my own myopic vision, confronting only those that are already in my limited point of view; afraid of those beyond my reach. I knew my road would diverge from the path I was currently traversing, I just didn't want to acknowledge it, afraid of the changes it would entail. It was a foolish, childish thing to do, but I didn't want the risk it involved. I know now that I have to face it, and I was merely delaying my decision.

The new year offers new beginings. This one resonates more truthfully for me now, more than ever. Change is the world's constant, and it will occur whether you want it to or not, all we can to do is prepare for it. My path is still not clear, but I know that I can face it.

On Talking

"We need to talk."

These has got to be one of the worst combination of words the english language has ever spawned. Nothing good comes out after these words have been uttered; nothing is ever resolved; nothing is ever repaired. As a matter of fact, "talking" is nothing but a series of monologues performed by two or more people in tandem. You don't need the other party or parties to hear you, or even understand you; you just need an audience.

Sometimes, the 'audience' is not even necessary; they distract the speaker's train of thought with their uncalled for comments and interjections, the nerve. Talking does not even convey what the speaker truly wants to express. Oddly enough, the words usually get in the way of expressing what is meant. Sadly, not everyone realizes this, so they just keep on talking to try to express what they really need to say, but all is in vain. Whatever truth they originally want to express is muddied up by their own words, and the words uttered by the other party (the victim, i suppose), until everything has woefully and inevitably worsened by this need to talk.

It's this need of people to feel connected that is the problem, I suppose. People feel the need to belong, but hardly anyone possesses the necessary tools to do just that. Sadly, they turn to words, but words are not enough; they never have been.

------
Originally posted on friendsterblogs September 2006.

I'm currently having difficulty gathering my thoughts lately, owing to stresses at work and other incidental events not for public scutiny. Hopefully, I will have full mastery of my vocabulary within a week or so. I'm off to Shang for the Cine Europa. I wish it would free me from this mental constipation I'm currently suffering.

Love Songs

Contrary to popular notion, the best love songs are not made by crooners. They may have the melody, the voice, and the words to make your heart swoon and make you bawl buckets, but somehow, it feels contrived. The words are easily relatable, but still, there's something missing. And if you put in the fact that they make love songs for a living, it somehow diminishes their song's authenticity. Overall, it creates an impact of cheesiness, rather than the intended romantic effect.

"Cause I don't know where you are

and I don't know what to do

are you somewhere feeling lonely

or is there someone loving you..."

It just doesn't bode well on me. Even with the augmented impact of the melody, it still would not convince me of the longing and helplessness the singer wishes to evoke. Though some people would swear unflailing heart-felt audulation over pieces like these, all I can say is "Hello?!"

"Hey girl, I don't want you to cry no more inside

All the money in the world could ever add up to

all the love I have inside

I love you..."

It is a common flaw in love songs to affect the gut area: that, and nothing else. It appeals to emotion, and oftentimes with nary a thought or regard to other vital functions. What puts me off with this is it tends to demote the emotion concerned into nothing but primal instinct: nothing more or less than fear or hunger. If poets and artists regard love as the greatest and most dangerous emotion known to man, how dare the crooners allude to it with dumb disregard?

More than the words themselves, and their pull on the heartstrings, is it asking too much to expect intelligent lyrics on my love songs? Love is known to make fools of men, but it doesn't mean that songs about love should cater to mere troll-like intelligence. Any song that purports to be a love song with indescriminate spatterings of the word "love" is immediately suspect in my books. It suggests a lack of originality and hints at low vacubulary. The English language boasts of a hundred and one ways to describe food, surely, there are as much words that evoke something as wondrous and multi-faceted as one's affection towards another.

"To see you when I wake up

Is a gift I didn't think could be real

To know that you feel the same as I do

Is a three-fold utopian dream..."

The best love songs, for me, are not done by crooners nor boy bands. Surprisingly, the best songs that evoke love come from sources that make you want to headbang while listening. They may not have the vocal range to describe the physical manifestations of love: its high notes of ecstacy; its lingereing low notes of longing; the rolling hums of contentment; and its siren-wails and whistles of despair; but what they lack at vocal acrobatics, they more than make up for with sincerity. Love, as relayed to by these precious few, is unapologetic, complex, and most importantly, intelligent.

"...Who would have thought it would end up like this?

Where everything we talked about is gone

And the only chance we have of moving on

Is try to take it back before it all went wrong"

For Love, and by relation, love songs, to affect the heart is common: it is expected. The majesty of it all is when love affects not only the heart, but also the mind; when one is able to feel love in spite of one's self. Therein lies the magic; it is there where one will experience the true power of love.

I Miss You by Incubus

Before the Worst by The Script

----

For EyviCat and Gentle, who celebrates their fourth anniversary this month, for making me believe that intelligent love songs can exist.

The Doom of Omega

For all my intelligence, I am the dumbest person in the world.

I've tried so hard to forget how I feel, I've even vowed to myself to once and for all bury that emotion, but for all my cranial bindings, this stupid heart just won’t give up. It just refuses to give up on you; on us. But unfortunately, there is no "us". There never have been. Even during the time when there was a semblance of that, it was never true, never realized, never admitted.

I was the third party, and I was content at that. At least then, I felt some affection coming from you. It felt that, though you love V-- more, you also love me; and that was enough. You are my secret; and I was yours. And we were blissfully unmindful of the world around us. Let them float in their speculations, but wade in murky ignorance. They will never have the confirmation that they desire.

That was then.

This year, I've felt you drift away. Gradually at first, but then, over time, the gap seemed insurmountable. I did try to patch it, but to no avail.

I waited for you to return. Still I wait.

Last night, I was given license to visit you. A very rare treat, as you always seem to have reasons to quell my advances. Finally, I get to see you. I was hopeful.

I shouldn't’ve hoped; I realize now. The first few minutes of that meet was enough to tell me how you felt. You've dashed my hopes, and set my place. Without saying anything to me, without even addressing me, you've told me much. We are no longer paramours, and there is little doubt that what happened before will never happen again.

Lightning never strikes the same place twice, I should have known. And we were just like that, lightning -- radiant, random, fiery; but ultimately short-lived and unrepeatable.

I know all these. I’ve been telling it to myself all these past months, berating myself for not resigning to that fact and for keeping that flame alive after you’ve left. But I am stupid and stubborn and sincerely in love with you; of the idea of you; the feel of you; the warmth of you; and I don’t think I can stop that. The tiger will not change its stripes just because it is hindered, and my heart won’t either.

Thus I am doomed.

----

This post is an entry on Monz Avenue's Emo Love T-Shirt Contest.

The mechanics:
• Make a post about love, too much love, unrequited love, unconditional love and any kind of love that you could think of.
• Put this shirt design image (see above picture) anywhere on your post. The shirt image must have a link towards my blog. Note: Failure to do so disqualifies your entry.
* Include the links of the sponsors in your entry/post.

Should you wish to join, first, please go to this link and vote for this T-shirt design. Click here. Actually, this is optional but I'd appreciate it so much if you'll register to that site and vote for this T-shirt design.

Please join me celebrate by joining the contest. I'd appreciate it.

Join now! I can only accommodate 10 participants. So hurry!

Criteria for judging:
* Number of comments on your entry/post. (30%)
* Number of incoming generated links from your blog to my blog through that T-shirt image in your blog post. Let me know if this is not clear. I'm using getclicky.com to get this info. Will give update every 3 days. (40%)
* Number of votes: I will put up a poll in the sidebar with the names of the participants after the 10 is completed. (20%)
* Relevance to the Theme / (T-shirts design) (10%)

This contest would not be possible without the generous support of the following sponsors (updated):

* Chad of Coolbutsmokin.wordpress.com
* Rhona of Kofistains.com
* Reesie of Reesie.net
* Jehzeel of Jehzlau-Concepts.com
* Jerick of Rickspot.com
* Bogcess of TechnoChase.com
* Mars of OrphicPixel.com
* Winkie of WinkiesWorld.wordpress.com
* Cris of www.crisiboy.com
* Ghie of Confessions

Power

Personal effects are things of power. They imbibe in themselves the dreams and desires of the person who owns them. Etched within these vessels, deeper than the names engraved upon them, further into their core, are portions of the owner's soul. The creation and the creator are separate, but the artist and the tool are one. It is through the tool that dreams are made whole; realities are woven; illusions given form.

Three years ago, I lost my totem of power; my pencil. For the past three years, my well of inspiration seemed to dry up and shrivel, mourning the loss of that one peice of my being. For two years, that pencil and I have been inseparable; conducting passions, weaving shadows, and turning it into cohesive thoughts and words. Most of these works are personal and will never see the light of day; some of them lost, burried in the dusts of the forgetful past; but I am proud of them, nonetheless. They have sprung within me and through me, they were given life, if even for a moment. The loss of my pencil; my wand; my staff; signaled the start of my diminishing dreams, my fabled fancies.

I'm still searching for that lost tool of creation; my muse; my song. But this time, I am hopeful. Though the object is lost, I realized that the source of its power has never left my side. It resides within the person and not the tool. So long as the core remains intact, the sense of wonder unspoilt, I will be able to bend reality to my will. We are the masters of our fate, and we will move mountains.

All we have to do is act.

The Tempest

Let the winds howl my sorrow, the lightning flash my rage
May the thunder scream my anger, the rain my despair
This storm of emotions is tearing at my soul
Thus heaven reflect this torment, give voice to anguish
I dare not show.

This illegitimate love is tearing at my core
A mistress of a fool, this secret liaison
Started as dervish, and ended as soon
Has left me at the brink
and thirsting for more.

So I summon the storm to quench my wanting heart
To wash away this unnatural desire
and clean me of this lustrous passion.
I call upon the gale to staunch this secret fire
unbeknownst to many, this unrequited love.

I stay in this storm to drench in the cold
Waiting for a Ray of Light I know will not come
Futile effects of passion unfulfilled
Twisting, Tormenting, Tearing me down
but waiting still, the Lovefool…



The Tempest
written 28May07
posted at friendster blogs the same day

Song

For years now, I've been looking for that song that would make my life complete. That one special song inside me that would define who and what I am; that would tell my story, and would unravel my secrets. I thought I've found it before, but I guess I was mistaken. I have formalized it in my heart and mind, and was finally mustering the courage to write it down for the world to hear; but then it fizzled. I tried all I could to salvage even parts of it, but the more I try to grasp it, the more I lost it.

I've spent the past couple of years trying to recall it, to revive it; but I guess, it's impossible. You can never revive a song when the words have failed you; when the underlying emotions have gone.

I tried finding my song in all the wrong places, thinking that other writers would be able to fill in the words that was lost; but I'm mistaken. No other writers could hope to finish my song. They may be able to contribute a line or two; at times a whole stanza; but it isn't in them to finish, and to make right. Ultimately, their words lack that magic -- that lasting quality -- that I am searching.

Thus I try to come back to my first inspiration. Unfortunately, lightning never strikes the same spot twice; and my muse have gone away, leaving me in this turmoil.

I'm still looking for my song; the one to make me complete. That melody and verve that will illuminate all secrets; that one Ray of Light that will clear away the absurdities in Life.

I need to look deeper inward to find the music and the words. I need to find my inspiration; The Inspiration; and maybe -- hopefully -- I would get the song right. And be able to enjoy it before my curtains fall...