Anyone and Anything

When I was younger, I had such a vivid imagination that I was able to create for myself three alter egos.  These alter egos each have slightly different personalities and slightly different powers.  Yes, these other-selves have powers -- magical, mystical and otherworldly powers.  They can summon dragons and other mythical creatures; they have weapons powered by mystic gems and the like; they can fly, teleport, move things with their mind.


They are eager companions during boring classes and long trips.  They are heroes of long unwritten adventures.  Most importantly, they were tools for retaliation against school bullies.  In my mind's eye, I see my alter egos use their powers to torment and torture my foes almost to the brink of death and nurse them back to health to torture them some more.  Many an afternoon were spent imagining new and elaborate tortures to my very real tormentors.  It may sound weak, but it was loads better than following them home and introducing them to the business end of a hammer.  I didn't want to be expelled.


School ended and imaginary friends faded.  And ShatterShards became the amalgamation of those three alter egos.  He lost the powers but gained a voice.  My voice.  The voice I use to bitch and rant about my problems; the voice I employ to ridicule my mundane experiences; the voice I muster to give form to my thoughts.  But no matter what aspect I use, it's still my voice, and a facet of my personality.  


It is still inherently me.


And not some mere fabrication.  It does not, however, compute that I am my blog nor my twitter account.  Though they may be facets of my personality, it can not and will not paint a complete picture of me.  But it is still me.


But the internet is a funny thing.  You can reinvent yourself and no one will be the wiser.  But like many technologies, it is its own boon and bane.  In your quest for reinvention, you may forget your self, and the webs of lies you weave may be the death of you.

But on the telephone line

I am anyone

I am anything I want to be

I can be a super model or

Norman Mailer

And you wouldn't know the difference

Or would you?

Who's to say now if the friends you've amassed are friends with you or with the persona you built around you?  And will they trust you again once the travesty of lies and half-truths have been unearthed?  I do not have the answer to that for I fear to tread it.


When I was little, I used to have such vivid imagination that I was able to conjure up imaginary personas for myself.  But it stayed where it should, which is inside my mind, because life is already too bizarre and grotesque as it is for my mental conjurings to add to the fray.










  

Chess

Growing up, my father taught me how to play chess. Nothing formal though; I still can't distinguish Kasparov from Tchaikovsky; but the basics were given clear.  Every piece has its unique move, every character, its strengths and limitations.

I may not know the various openings named after the masters but I do know well enough that the game is that of strategy.  To ensure your win, you must always be five steps ahead of your opponent.  You must anticipate every move and be ready for your counter move.  You should be able to weigh the value of every piece and move it about on the board.

And you should be willing to sacrifice a royal if it means getting ahead in the exchange.

It was one of the few activities that my brother, dad and I have bonded with.  One of my many frustrations was I could never beat them in three out of five games.  And I have this suspicion that they sometimes let me win on purpose.

We loved the game so much, we were able to run through a number of chessboards that seem to mysteriously vanish after a while.  Our fondest set was a Simpsons-inspired set, with Bart as pawn; Lisa as bishop; Maggie, the knight (she has a toy horse as steed, the cutie); and Homer, Marge and Grandpa as king, queen and rook respectively.  My brother and I pooled our allowances just to get that set; we took care not to scratch the pieces; we even preserved the box it came with.  But out efforts came to naught when our little sister used the pieces (they were made of rubber) as chew toys, and threw the rest every which way.  I really miss that game board.  


Once, during my free period, when I was a freshman in high school, I came to watch our chess varsity play in one of their practices.  One of them invited me to play and I accepted.  I opted for an aggressive match and soon, I had him on the defensive.  It was only through my carelessness (and a little help from his mates) that I lost the game.  I enjoyed the game, but the invitation for me to join the varsity was at best, only lip service, so I stopped hanging out at their place.  It did teach me the value of a great defensive strategy.

Nowadays, it's very rare that I encounter someone who plays the sport.  It's as if everyone has contracted attention deficit disorder, that the time it takes to play the game is a few minutes too long for them to endure.  Which is a pity, because as board games go, chess is still the most fulfilling of the lot.


I no longer have anyone to play with, but I don't think I stopped playing.  Anticipate the opponent, and always be a few steps ahead of the game, that is what the game has taught me; and while on the offensive, always have a piece or two protecting your attackers.  I have been accused of being distant and calculating, and it's probably correct - I'm playing chess, it seems.  Even now, I'm still playing, and my earlier defeats have made me stand on the defensive, waiting for the other's attack before I make my move.


And faced with an equally defensive opponent, this game is getting longer and longer to resolve.  I have been tracing back the moves made by each side, and I believe I see a pattern.  We are down to our last few moves, I believe, and it promises to boil down to one outcome:  Stalemate.

Reunions

On my way home, I happened to pass by my old high school.

I was surprised by the number of cars parked along the street that made the street narrower. It took some time before it registered to me that it is that time of the year when the school celebrates its foundation day celebrations. Part of the celebration has always been the alumni homecoming. Where other schools celebrate homecoming by batch, it has been a held tradition that all alumni, from 16 to 96, are invited to attend. Tables are reserved for each batch while the host batch have their pride of place front and center, with the biggest number of tables and the biggest number of beer crates at their disposal.

I have not attended the Alumni Homecoming for the past five years.

Coming from an exclusive school, it's inevitable that everyone puts their best foot forward whenever we gather. Such is one of the reasons why the streets outside have become the cesspool of traffic considering it was a Saturday: some people just can't show up without bringing their cars. And like male peacocks at the sight of a peahen in heat, everyone strives to be in their best form and colors: the best cars, the best jobs, the best positions, the best trophy wives, the best signature shirts money can afford. Everyone is out for the kill, striving to become the best version of themselves to show to the others.

But then, again, almost all reunions are like that; even family reunions. No one wants to be labelled as the least improved.

What turned me off from going to the reunions is the caste system still in place. If you think that after 12 long years, the divisions made during highschool have disappeared, then you are tragically mistaken. The popular ones are still the popular ones; the bullies are still bullies; the outcasts, still outcasts. It's as if nothing has changed, and you're back to your gangly 16 year-old self. And the taunts used on you then are still being employed now, regardless of whether they still hold weight or not.

I seem now to be painting my highschool life in a bad light, and that is not my intention. I didn't have it bad in highschool, I actually have fond memories of that time. But then, again, some memories are better left at that - memories. I don't need to be reminded of it every year when I see the same faces attending the reunion who are mostly there for the free beer.

I don't mind reconnecting with old schoolmates. It's just that I'd rather establish new connections with old names.

Here, There be Monsters

My mates at the Great Place have gotten used to calling someone Monster.  I'm not really sure who gave that label, but somehow, it stuck.  Now, the name has become commonplace in cryptic talks.  I'm not one to play blameless with regard this;  I have much too much experience labeling people, but still, I try to refrain from using the label as much as possible.  It is one thing to ride with them when they use the code name, and another thing, if I relent and start using it myself.  It is rather fun, I must admit, but it is unfair, and truthfully, uncalled for.

Thinking further on this, it seems that somehow, at every point in one's life, there is this someone that would inevitably be called Monster.  My earliest recollection of a monster was when I was in Grade Four.  Back then, she wasn't even given the dignity of the english term, she was simply called Halimaw, able to terrorize any and all students with her stare.  I remember one time that I was asked to recite, it was all I could do to keep standing.  I was near the back of the class, but her stare was penetrating and deathly, that I was already reeling, my vision fading, and my world spinning.  Her rising voice just made matters worse; I can no longer think cohesively; only discordant words were reaching my slowly darkenning world.  Colorful words and phrases, most notably bugok na itlog (rotten egg) and gunggong (dummy).  I might have fainted somewhere during her tirade, I'm no longer sure.

My next monster was during Freshman High school.  She wasn't really a monster, but rather, a real character.  We called her Ipish -- cockroach, with the deliberate "h" in the end, to make that "sh" sound.  We are fond of taking advantage of any deficiency, especially in speech.  We revel in it.  She was christened Ipish, by the way, because of her fondness for eating mentos, which we used to call moth balls.

My fondest monster was in Third Year high school.  Our adviser at the time was pregnant, and was prone to lashing out on us when we are getting out of hand.  She once almost updended her desk in rage, the desk tipping upon the table of the student in front of her, while she, unmindful of the student's shock, stood up and gave us a long sermon on how we were such unruly, uncouth and unrefined students, with no regard for women, especially pregnant women.  Which was true.  She taught us English -- English Literature to be exact.  Unfortunately for her, she taught us the epic of Beowulf, so we called her Grendel.

Only after a couple of years after graduation did I appreciate the gravity of the labels we made.  I visited my alma mater one time and got into a conversation with my former adviser.  She was incensed at a student of her's, and it was getting hard for her to hide her irritation.  Unable to contain it, she recounted to me how a student of her's had the temerity to write a report paper submitted to Mrs Grendel I------.  When she confronted said student, it was found out that the student honestly thought that that was her first name.  I did not have the heart to tell my former adviser that it was us who coined the name three years prior to the incident.  No one expected the name to stick that strong and that long.

I honestly thought the labels have died in high school, until the Great Place suddenly errupted into the business of labeling.  The monsters have returned, and somehow, everything feels like high school once more.