(Source: kitkatlastimosa)
When I was young, I could see the future
real beautiful, fun, full of culture.
Then I got older, lost my father,
lens flare got dimmer and darker.
Now I’m just scared of what comes next.
Then reality started dawning on me, I’m no Atlas, I can’t bear this weight.
Well fuck it, I actually teared up when I saw a dad holding a video camera and documenting how his son receives his diploma. I know I’ll never see him do this again and I can tell everybody I’m over it but a crippling realization is still a crippling realization.
I recently came across a realization tonight.
That life isn’t really just a race, at least not just a race. It’s more of a relay race.
As most metaphors are, I do think that this one is incomplete in its description, but insightful nonetheless. Like we don’t really go through life alone, like someone who is in the race. But that’s a matter that could be covered in an entirely different metaphor (see no man is an island).
The point I’m trying to make is, life isn’t a race wherein if you finish/die its over for you, it’s more of a relay race wherein if you finish/die you’re going to pass the baton to the next person/generation. It’s remarkably simple but I think it makes a lot of difference in one’s perspectives. Everybody seems to have at one point or the other compared life to a race, but rarely into a relay race. It might be why people don’t care about the future. Because those people don’t see the future. That if you’re not there crossing the finish line doesn’t mean you didn’t contribute to winning. It’s just that it wasn’t you that was supposed to win. It isn’t your part to win, maybe it’s your part to play the one who starts the ball rolling, and I don’t really think that’s a part that’s less of an achievement since we’re all in the same team.
I admit that the metaphor is imperfect (especially after writing it down), but at the moment of realization that life is less of a race and more of a relay race? It felt pretty amazing coming to that conclusion and comforting even.
2012
I haven’t actively gotten myself in a situation to drink alcohol.
Which is if you know me can pretty much be considered as a feat by itself. I don’t know if it’s because there’s this wonderful girl back at home that’s waiting, or if it’s because I realized my impending mortality, or that opportunities to drink alcohol has been displaced by opportunities to bible study and meet new friends.
I drank my problems a lot earlier this year and by year’s end I haven’t myself missing the bottles and the shots.
Is my active goal of not doing anything stupid (read only exception was getting rolled over in a 10 foot hill), a result of having someone to go home to? I don’t really know. It’s definitely a nice and warm thought. Did I start holding back and being more cautious after that realization that my body will break down eventually and that these stupid antics are not helping sustain me? Or did it happen because against all odds I’ve found a community, a religious one at that, that I do enjoy going to and spending time with?
In hindsight, as I reflect on the year that was, I feel that a lot of things came full circle. A lot of changes, a lot of adjustments, a lot of things I would really, really want to stop from happening. 2012 is the year of my apocalypse. It changed a lot, life perspective, how I see people, how I react, how I act. Of course most of these changes remain to be tested but I already know that 2012 is that year when my world was shattered and turned to brittle little pieces.
My reality and my dreams are melding together.
Events that I dreamt I mistake for reality, sometimes I don’t really know if I’m even awake. And it’s difficult because it’s one of those things that nobody can really help you with. No one can just, you know, delete your dreams, not that I would want to. At the very least he’s still alive in my dreams. And at the very least I can keep him alive there. I wake up and all sort of weird shit happens, and then I wake up again only to realize I was sleeping. Then I start sleeping again when I should be awake. Everything is just one big blob. I’m fucked.
I guess it helps too. I honestly don’t know what stage I am right now. It’s difficult because I know I’m the one responsible for his death. And that kills me. I should have been better.
Eh,
I wake up in a room full of people.
complicated people talking all things simple.
celebrity x went out of the closet?
I think i like her, but you’ve only just met her.
but i stick around and clearly they’re better
minds clearly on gowns and suits
words like politics, economics,
points i couldn’t refute
couldn’t get into the mix,
started acting like a fool
they’re real eyes realize real lies
wont be fooled with wool
I flopped like a fish outta water
everybody started giving me the cold shoulder
got jacked out after that one mistake.
felt like Indy Jones running from a giant boulder
didn’t see it but i missed takes
no tussles, just whispered cusses,
no hooks but a lot of dirty looks
glass shards embedded in my back
cut me some slack, fuck.
next thing I know,
I’m back,
back bleeding and i’m seeing
the whole room behind a mirror.
and que the horror,
tentacles with a hundred edges,
minds that sent dreaded messsages
eldritch form, no skeletons
not even resembling the norm.
bombs weighing hundred tons
would even leave a scratch on.
And she’s gone? Just gone. I miss her but whatever I say, whatever I do. She won’t ever know ‘cos she’s gone you know? Breaks my heart into two, just to say those words, but it’s true.
Why Filipinos Claim Jessica Sanchez - and Everyone Else with a Drop of Filipino Blood
From fabafter40
My friend Janine was having an interesting discussion on her Facebook wall yesterday about a question that Charice’s manager asked on Twitter. It was a valid question, but her follow-up statements pissed quite a few of my fellow Filipinos off.
Now before I write anything else, I think I should clarify that I think Jessica Sanchez is a fabulously talented singer, but I haven’t really been following her career so I’m a little out of the loop. Last time I saw her, she was narrowly escaping the jaws of Jennifer Holliday at the American Idol finale.
I’m glad she survived.
But like everyone else on my islands, I do think of her as part-Filipino — even if, as Charice’s manager pointed, she doesn’t speak Filipino, never visited the Philippines, holds an American passport and blahblahblah.
She has Filipino blood, so she’s part Filipino. It’s that simple to us.
I understand that this concept of Filipinos claiming Filipinos (whether they’re willing to be claimed or not) is mystifying to foreigners, because you have to be Filipino to understand it.
Here’s the thing… The Philippines is made up of 7,107 islands and one big-ass network of extended families.
Allow me to illustrate.
When most people think of a family, this is what usually comes to mind:
When FILIPINOS imagine a family, THIS is what comes to mind:
Sorry, I didn’t have space to draw the neighbor’s kids, the daughter’s BFFs, and the guys who come by every night to have a drink with dad or the boys, but they’re part of the family too.
We like to adopt people. That’s our thing. Everyone’s welcome to join the fam. And I think that’s beautiful. In fact, I think it’s one of the best things about being Filipino.
I know this because I’ve been adopted into so many families, I can’t even count anymore. I have like 25 extra Moms. And I’ve been adopted by countless Filipinos abroad as well — even staff members in hotels, who barely knew me but decided to take care of me anyway.
Because we’re blood, baby. It’s awesome.
So I think it’s only natural that when a member of the big ol’ Filipino Mafia does well, we show our support and give a big ol’ collective family cheer.
We don’t particularly care if the family member in question is aware that he/she is actually part of the family. Pfft. Minor detail.
It’s not always rosy, of course. We also tend to make a big fuss and bicker and criticize and gossip among ourselves and talk about each other behind each others’ backs.
Just like regular families do.
And you know how it is with families… you can bitch about each other like crazy, but it’s a whole other thing when someone else pipes in….
That’s just the way it is.
And that, dear Charice’s manager, explains (1) why Filipinos claim Jessica Sanchez (and everyone else with even just a drop of Filipino blood), as well as (2) why you’ve pissed a lot of Filipinos off.
FAMILY. It’s what being Filipino is all about.
That’s pretty much the best way to explain it.
My family and I went on a cruise once and maybe 40-50% of the crew was filipino. It was awesome because being stuck on an overpriced floating hotel will drain your wallet but a lot of the pinoy crew members were really nice and gave us a lot of freebies. We didn’t get free meals or swag or anything too grand. It was more like when we’d go to the ice cream bar, I remember the scooper was a filipino named Tony, he’d always give me an extra scoop. He’d make the ice cream of a large cone fit in a small cone just for me.
