In Retrospect.

Right now, there are two types of M-06ers: the jubilant and the secretly saddened. Needless to say, I fall under the latter portion. There's nobody but myself to blame for the situation, I guess. I've set myself up to be the latter portion from the very first day, when sitting in the front row, I hesitantly raised my hand to volunteer as beadle. She asked me to fetch her coffee, forcing me to leave the classroom and buy one Americano, two brown sugars, no cream. 

After that, there was no turning back.

People ask me a bunch of things about her:

a.) Do I have parental issues that manifest in my complete adoration of Miss Diaz?

b.) Am I masochistic?

While the first isn't true,  I guess, and the second is debatable, I really thank this woman for making me work and understand my limitations. Similarly, she is the reason I understand the depths of my passion for Literature: cheesy to say right now, but boundless.

And so, without further ado:

Diazpora: A Guide for (Mourning) M-06ers *

You wake up in the middle of the afternoon, realizing it's been weeks since you've let yourself sleep for more than ten minutes in the middle of the day. The sleep is refreshing, but-

There is a numbness you feel when you realize there are no papers to write, no inch-thick readings to pore over and no sunlight streaming/storm clouds hovering over B-102 (surprisingly reflective of Ma'am's mood and lipstick color of the day) to look forward to.

You drift off to sleep, only to jolt yourself awake ten minutes later (SHIII- I haven't finished my CRP) only to realize:

It's the numbness again.

Denial is evident in the stack of papers you've filled your desk with and the stack of books you've gathered under the pretense of "I need it for school" when secretly, you're thrilled at the thought of being an "honorary" Lit minor. You browse through your books and pick one out (Grief, Joan Didion says, strikes us most because it is always preceded by the ordinary.)

While you can't call this grief (There is no loss, is there? Merely the regaining of the "ordinary", the sense of normalcy after those ten months spent in a daze), there's a certain depth to the emptiness you deny feeling. (Breakups are sharp shards of glass; deaths are waves upon waves of loss while this- this is just the starkness of the unknown.)


Grief, Didion says, strikes us most because it is always preceded by the ordinary. You realize that what you are feeling is the reverse: what do you do when you've become so used to the extraordinary? When the extraordinary becomes your ordinary ( and then "rights" itself again)?

Being the true Diaz student that you are, you write. You write and you forget the expository techniques you've so recently learned. You look at what you've written and you laugh, knowing she would have a lot to criticize about your work (This is terrible; you've actually tried to be metafictive- it did not work; I told you; you must have a narrative framework).

You smile as you realize: it's never the writing skills you've completely imbibed; it's the raw emotion.

You guess it's not a loss, after all.


*Thank you, Jan Ong, for thinking up Diazpora.

(Disclaimer: While this is a sight better than the drivel I've been posting the past few months, this is in no way indicative of the quality of M-06 works.)

Yupsies.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6v_gOmVJ4I

I never really appreciated this song until now.

Kaunting tiis na lang!

Curse my attention span.

I got a Tumblr.

Also also. I've been meaning to write an entry about how developed Asian countries seem to stick to our culture more than we do. It's just something I've noticed. Their main dialect is still their national language, and not English. More often than not, the songs I hear playing on the radios are Singaporean or Malaysian or Hindi depending on wherever I am. Their cultural and historical landmarks are well-preserved. Heck, they have national parks within the jurisdiction of their capitals.

Is this the reason why they're doing pretty well today?

I wouldn't know, but it's worth a try.

Also, I've just been to Malaysia recently and I heard that Putrajaya, their city devoted to government facilities, was once based on the Philippines' Quezon Circle and its surrounding buildings. Funnily now, when you mention the Philippines there, people say in their Malaysian-accented English, "Oh no. People kill each other so easily there."

Can I just say.

The moment when a girl realizes she has a gay friend she can talk about cute guys and emotions with, she feels fulfilled. Very fulfilled. And when there's another girl to talk about cute guys and emotions with, it's even more fun.

I hope we're blockmates.

anywhere i go you go, my dear

E.E. Cummings. <3 My favorite poet so far. Actually. I don't know much about poets, but well, this guy, this guy, he's just amazing. Stupendous. Brilliant. It's in my opinion, but I'm guessing a lot of people agree. I was first asked to read his works in our Creative Writing Elective. We were asked to read "i carry your heart".

It....was..wonderful. Still my favorite poem of all time. I love reading it, mouthing the words as I go along. It's brilliant. He modelled the poem after actual heartbeats. (The rhythm of it.) And. The emotion. It is very, very relatable. I can really feel ..it. It is, well, ...how I feel.

And ever since then, I have been browsing through his poems online. But really. Nothing would beat having a copy of his poem collection. Too bad there is no sign of it in this country. Sigh.

And yes, I am sounding incoherent and not exactly rational, but this is what blogs are for. :p

A Tussle Between Feeling and Reasoning.

This is the first bit of free time I've had in ages (thanks to trips and summer plans and going out), but I feel this is is a long delayed post that I have to share.

Come to think of it, if I have thought it through a little bit more, I'd have gone to State U (not going into real names) instead of Blue School (Now this is getting really obvious.) For one, it's a lot cheaper . And, I find the campus really, really beautiful. Wilder, really. A lot more fascinating as compared to Blue School's impeccably manicured lawns and fenced-in surroundings.Thirdly, everyone from my grade school expects me to go to State U. They think I'm intelligent, you see. Fourthly, my parents have only allowed me to visit State U ..well.. just..not often. Lastly, almost all my really good friends and a large chunk of the people I know are going to State U.

It would break me to lose some of those friends due to busy schedules or increased awkardness or new friends or a lack of things to talk about, especially with my best friend. (Ugh, we're both going into supposedly some of the most difficult courses in our respective schools.) Trust me, a million scenarios/nightmares/worries have flitted through my head the past x months about being a.) forgotten b.) replaced c.) deemed unimportant. And the list goes on.

So really, what boils down to it is that I went with my gut feel (and heart) for choosing Blue School over State U. One, I actually do like the course I am going to despite the ginormous amounts of Math involved, Math being my Waterloo. Two, Introduction to Fiction, Introduction to Poetry, and Philo are all required in the school. Booyeah. Four. Three, I do need Theo classes. I love God, and I believe in him, but I think I do need to anchor my faith in Him a bit more. Fourthly, for some reason, my gut feel says I will turn out to be a better person if I go here. Fifthly, well, some friend of mine who just graduated college said, "Your real friends will be there no matter how often, or not often you'll see them. Think of it as a test of friendship."

So yes, for my freedom, I'll fight. For my grades, I'll work it out. For my friends, I'll always be there. Always.

Here's to going somewhere completely new, and hopefully staying there, for the next four years.

Number X of the things that make me abnormal.

I don't think in images. Or videos. I think in words.