Me and my beatnik tendencies.

There's no fun in periods and exclamation points.
Sometimes, we should take the time and admit to ourselves that:
WE DON'T KNOW.

So straighten the creases on your forehead with that imaginary iron.
Shrug.
I DON'T KNOW.
YOU DON'T KNOW EITHER.

And now let's do the military "about face" and walk away.
I'm walking.
You should too.

we all probably have multiple personality disorder

Wouldn't it be sad to be aware that you have excessively banal alter-egos that constantly threaten the solidity of your family? And that these alter-egos only come out of your subconscious when you suddenly experience stress or anxiety? United States of Tara is a brilliant, vulgar, raw new drama with the incredibly talented Toni Colette playing the mentally exhausted Tara. I leave the whole online research thing to you to find out more about this show. Hey, I'm like everyone else. Like what I said in my previous post, there is some magnetic force with sad, angst-filled TV programs.

---

In other news, I've recently decided (about 5 minutes ago) that I would like to become either the future UNFCCC Secretary OR (to be over-the-top in the dream department) become the United Nations Secretary-General. I still have yet to learn the expanse of their job descriptions, but I just like to be in the loop when it comes to major global issues. I need to clear my head, redirect my focus and start reading some more local and international news.

My second top choice of a future career would either be a real-life Martha Stewart (sans fame and a TV show), Nigella Lawson, Ina Garten or Laura Calder. I just love the whole supermom, super cook, super family woman, sassiness. Plus, I really want to have my own eco-friendly house with a large garden of actual living plants, a huge kitchen with a center island and fantastic fridge, and become the best chef/baker in the eyes of all my future children and husband. Kids: "Mom, can you make us Apple Tarte Tatin?...From scratch?" Me: "Of course!" Kids: "Mom, we need to bring fresh flowers for our show and tell!" Me: "I'll pick a few freesias, sweet peas & peonies from the garden and whip up a simple bouquet for your sweet teacher." Kids: "Mom, you're the best!"

[This is my own mental skit, so back off. :)]
If you were nice to me and continue to be nice to me, hey, you never know, I might send you a delectable Christmas log and invite you to my potential future Northern Hemisphere home for some eggnog during Winter. *wink wink*

excitement is an escape

What attracts me to the classic authors is not the whole I'm a literati effect, but the topics they chose to highlight in their material. I've observed that classic writers like Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, even James Joyce, have the keen gift of romanticizing the mundane. Their protagonists are often ordinary people with ordinary traits. No superhero, genius, incredibly good-looking, super wealthy people, but mostly townsfolk living in ordinary conditions.

Little did these classic authors know that their artistic urges have become some sort of time machine. A depiction of how men lived during their time. Of course, we have H.G. Wells, Kafka, Dante, Poe and all those other writers of out-of-this world classic stories...who clearly prefer to delve into the imaginary, perhaps as a form of escapism. Maybe even an escape from some dullness or real-life tragedy.

Going back to the beauty of the ordinary, I realized that people these days clamor for excitement. The adrenaline rush of juicy gossip or must-see movies with cool trailers or some controversial novel. I also observed the attractiveness of the impossibly tragic, angst-filled soap operas with the protagonists always experiencing heart-wrenching injustices.

There's a scarcity of the ordinary person. What goes on inside one's head in between conversations or while one is doing non-verbal activities. Most of the time, we are all thinking. Thinking of our to-do list, what to eat for our next meal, degrading our enemies in our heads, lusting about something or someone, daydreaming...
WE ARE THINKING ANIMALS.

And the thinking process, whether involving rocket science or emotion-filled musings, requires a lot of energy. It's tiring. Like reading. Breathing is irregular, blood sugar becomes low and the next thing we know, we have an inexplicable headache that can only be solved by a coffee break. My brother's girlfriend recommended caffeine to dilate capillaries in the head. It does seem to work...whether due to actual capillary dilation (increased blood supply in the head) or the break in coffee break.

As an ending to this post, I'd like to quote a portion of John Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday:

Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there's time, the bastard Time. The end of life is now not so terribly far away---you can see it the way you see the finish line when you come into the stretch---and your mind says, "Have I worked enough? Have I eaten enough? Have I loved enough?" All of these, of course, are the foundation of man's greatest curse, and perhaps his greatest glory. "What has my life meant so far, and what can it mean in the time left to me?" And now we're coming to the wicked, poisoned dart: "What have I contributed in the Great Ledger? What am I worth?" And this isn't vanity or ambition. Men seem to born with a debt they can never pay no matter how hard they try. It piles up ahead of them. Man owes something to man. If he ignores the debt it poisons him, and if he tries to make payments the debt only increases, and the quality of his gift is the measure of the man.

odd now, top model tomorrow

...and tomorrow soon becomes now. Ann Ward, who won the 15th cycle of America's Next Model, was once upon a time an awkward bully magnet. I like her story and I feel some sort of empathic vindication. A lot of people are mean. And I realized that these self-proclaimed popular people are mean because they're actually insecure and that putting other people down based on physicality or some odd trait makes them feel better. Oh, so many people have put me down or explicitly and implicitly have made fun of me for my weird fixations but hey, I've been consistent. Consistently odd is better than wishy-washy, go-with- the-fad, noisy, forced bubbliness purposelessness. Like those cliques on teen chick flicks, if they are based on real life. Does this outlook make me prejudiced in my own way? I guess. But this form of prejudice develops as a protective defense mechanism. In short, "You should've been nice to me before, because you can't expect me to believe you're sincere now. It's just too plasticine." You get what you give. And vice versa. Quid pro quo.

You know what? {to my son, future children & other descendants}

I hate it when I finally publish a post and I then read preposterous grammar or nonsensical clauses. Then I'd force myself to edit the post and re-publish. Unless I'm posting from my mobile phone or if I just don't give a rat's ass at the moment.

It's not as if I have 10 avid blog readers. Okay, that was probably an overestimation...let me rephrase that....It's not as if I have 5 avid blog readers. I blog for myself and probably my children. Like some kind of heirloom that I wish to pass on to future generations...until Google will allow it. And then when my descendants reach their late 20s-early 30s, they'll realize, oh they went through the same phase.

So, my dear descendants, I will take this opportune time to tell you that it's a good idea to listen to your mom/aunt/grandmother/grand-relative (whichever may apply) Anna, who went through the same ups & downs of the wheel of life. Cut her some slack. She may be a little out of it right now...or on the path to senescence (which is a nicer, fancy way of saying "or senile"), but hey, she had her sharp thinking moments and her just plain daft moments.

I hope to God that my descendants will describe me as a fantastic cook whose specialty is fusion cuisine and chocolate cake, because right now, I don't even own an oven. But we have an incredible cook named Day (pronounced as "die") who makes the most spectacular mussel burgers, pork sisig & sinigang na baboy/isda/anydamnthing.

Live long and prosper, kids.

of mice and wrathful grapes

I'm reading John Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, which I bought from this street vendor of pre-owned books on my way to lunch over 3 days ago. And while at the hospital waiting for my husband who was having surgery, I read "Thought is the evasion of feeling." And I went "Boom! You got my vote right there, Mr. Steinbeck." He was describing the character of Doc who collected and preserved biological specimens which he sold to the local schools in his town of Cannery Row during, what I assumed, was WWII. I did a lot of assumptions while reading the book. I'm not from California so there were a lot of old time American jargon that I had to figure out.

Anyway, I'm enjoying the book. Except that it smells really old (originally owned by an Allison from Connecticut) so that I kept on having allergic coughs & sneezes in between pages. No worries.

Mr. Steinbeck

so that's where my body went

I've been scouring my head where to find my long lost body...here it is...in New York City no less with caffeine on hand and glaring into the distance (or across the street).
Of Course Not.
I'm not even remotely close to the vicinity of this woman's bone structure. DUH.
Well, kudos to the wonderful "Sartorialist" whom you can visit at http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com

karma, karmaiguana, i mean chameleon

Brace yourself. There are two things that make me angry as a barbaric visigoth: liars and users. I particularly have an aversion towards people who put words on other people's mouths and those who accept these words as fact. Meanwhile, the climactic boo-worthy exercise of users that drop you like a hot potato is one for the books...like the Tibetan book of the dead. Oh, I have mastered the art of acting dumb and naive because I've observed it to be the most polite way of making stupid oppressors feel all powerful. No, you do not have power over me. I learned that the universe has a law involving poetic justice. Marjane Satrapi once advised to forgive but never forget. I never forget...to a fault.

at the bottom of the wheel

Young friends and acquaintances dying suddenly either due to medical reasons or accident can really make a mess of my subconscious. My husband and father getting surgeries plus my irksome 2-week old cough (not TB, i'm sure) showing no sign of letting go are getting into the nasty part of my mind. That part that likes to show up as very bad dreams. I'm taking comfort in the achievements of my incredibly smart and cool siblings as well as my spectacular son...the entire package that is my family. Even though it's not perfect.

Odd shrinking me

Beats the hell out of me. Attribute it to oxidative stress, mysteriously sped-up metabolism & some form of withdrawal symptom that causes loss of appetite. Or anti-thinking thinking exercise. Geez.

internet, i love you

Because of my gracious husband who got me The Beatles anthology series, I got to rekindle my fanatical Beatlemaniac days in grade school/ high school. Hey, I grew up in the 80's-90's but this TV channel in the late 80's had a 2-hour special called "Remembering the Beatles" and it was summer then so everyday I was introduced and became almost obsessed about the Beatles.

To the point that I asked my mom the names of the band members and because she was my mother, she knew I was staring nonstop at Paul McCartney...and she goes, "Anna, one of them is already dead." And my heart broke and that icy cold feeling went through me. Of course, after learning that it wasn't Paul McCartney, I kind of felt relieved.

Unfortunately, it dawned on me that time that all those music videos I saw were from decades past and that these guys were older than my parents. I was seriously convinced that I was born on the wrong decade, in the wrong country. Of course, that meant I wouldn't have existed at all because the only way I could be me was if the same haploid sperm & haploid egg existed in what I considered was the correct time. What did I know, I was just about to go on 5th grade.

So for my birthday that year, I requested a whole set of the Beatles' albums on cassette tape (CDs weren't around yet) and I got a free poster and T-shirt. That white shirt w/ the silk-screened faces of the Beatles in black became some sort of uniform. On hindsight, I think it bothered my mother because it was an unusual fixation for a kid my age then. Nevertheless, despite her efforts to beautify me & help my social skills, I still remained a dedicated Beatles fan. Fanatic actually, with the whole forging the Beatles signatures, memorizing the order of their albums based on release and the songs per album and per side (A side or B side). Of course, I can't enumerate them anymore now.

Then came the first time I got to visit the States with my older cousin. First time to travel without the parents. Apart from my childhood crush then (who is now my husband), I was still motivated by the Beatles, most especially Paul McCartney. He was just knighted by the Queen then so I thought that it would be the perfect opportunity to send him a card. I was in the US and I thought that it'd get to the UK faster. Of course, I never got a reply.

So what about Paul McCartney triggered this whole 1st love thing (5th grade, no less)? He had a fantastic voice, great showmanship, wicked sense of humor, regal accent, plus he played bass left-handed...oh, and he plays the piano, the French horn & amazing lead guitar. So that made him stand out a lot for me. Of course, I always knew that I had weird taste in men----OR to put it more anti-dorky-ly---I'm attracted to the unique or odd. Odd is always interesting.

Anyway, here I am, so happy to reminisce about that whole phase that I was always teased about in school. And social networking couldn't have made it easier for me to connect to @PaulMcCartney on Twitter.

Love, love, love. There's nothing you can do that can't be done.

unintentionally intentional

A few months ago, I decided to avoid anything that will cause unnecessary anxiety or some form of complicated mental turmoil. That's why. Period. That's why. And I'm hoping for your favorable response or favorable non-response...understanding and consideration. Respectfully, Yours Truly.

Four dimensional space-time c/o Einstein

While anxiously waiting to be subjected to certain medical diagnostic procedures, the waiting list screen decided to flash this statement by Winston Churchill:

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

Is it just me, or did God, through Churchill on an LCD screen imply that I just chose the path towards my fate? Whatever that pivotal event was. Not to be melodramatic or martyr-like, but I do have that sort of feeling that I'm going to be in some really tough Aesop fable-like challenge that will be the complete opposite of glamorous. If that would involve crime solving or being drafted to some super secret experiment to fabricate a time machine or being exposed to radiation so that I can be trained like some X-men/Jason Bourne hybrid or joining NASA on the first manned mission outside our solar system....then, okay. Anything that says super secret mission crucial to human survival makes me all tingly. You know, kind of like Frodo & the fellowship destroying the ring on Mt. Doom and going back to the Shire where other hobbits remained clueless all those years? Yeah, that kind of hero-wannabe/ quasi-altruistic mumbo jumbo.