Short but happy

Splurged on a Fiio E7 DAC/headphone amp and a Grado adaptor to replace my dinky cheap one (which did last me a year), and am currently in the process of ooh-ing and aah-ing over the increased detail, crispness, differentiation, resolution, dynamism, insert-some-other-audiophile-term-I'm-not-really-worthy-of-casting-about of music I thought I already knew. How much of this is attributable to a placebo effect, I wouldn't really know. Merry Consumermas!


We've also released! Such a relief. Of course now the onslaught of bugs, but that's still preferable to antsy anticipation. Bring it on!

Home stretch

The all-too-brief holiday weekend is over and it’s time to kick off another workweek. I didn’t really want to go back to work just yet (it was perhaps a horrible idea to decide to try to get into Oblivion again when I know I won’t really have time to play and in any case will be leaving the country and my gaming desktop behind in a week or so).

I should cheer myself up with some happy music, some happy thoughts. As ever though, it’s quite a struggle against my natural melancholy inclinations (I suppose that makes it sound less pathetic than it actually is), and the composition of my music library isn’t helping at all. (That seems like a worthwhile New Year project: liven up and diversify my music!)

I think it’s partly barely having had any vacation time or time off this whole month I’ve been home, and partly that this interlude is ending soon and I’ll be heading back to Singapore to live and work there once more. I can’t say that the prospect isn’t exciting -- getting my time to myself again, being in the First World, having a room to myself, not having to commute -- but at the same time I suppose I’m beginning to realize that there are a lot of things about being back home that I’ll miss: home-cooked food, being around the family (despite the persistent distance), being around the few friends I have left in the country, the places and people I bump into on my daily routine here, and the basic familiarity of the language, the culture, how everything looks and sounds and feels.

At the same time, I also feel as if I wasted this opportunity to reconsider and re-evaluate the course of my life. In a week or two I’ll once again be swept out of the country and back into the life I’ve been leading for the past year. This more-than-a-month-long sojourn should’ve provided me with some time to get much-needed perspective and finally do the thinking I feel I’ve been putting off for too long, but, well, it hasn’t seemed to yet.

Just a general update.

So, it's been a pretty crazy December so far, and I can't really believe that it's about to be over soon. I've been back in the country for almost three weeks now, yet I haven't really been doing much apart from getting buried in work.


It's been gratifying, sure, but the constant pressure and stress isn't doing any wonders for my already precarious mental well-being. Okay, being overly dramatic aside, I haven't really been able to settle down and have a good long think about all the things I've been meaning to have a good long think about.






My routine has mostly been: wake up when I wake up (usually just a few hours before lunch time), go out to have coffee and read or listen to music somewhere, then take a cab to work. Work until late (staying and sleeping over if necessary, though now there isn't an extra room to crash in so I've actually only done this once), then go home and turn off my brain and relax until I fall asleep. Rinse and repeat.






I notice that I've been rather free with my money since I got back. Not to a crazy extent, I don't think, but when I stop to think about it I do feel small pangs of guilt. (But I get over it.)






I don't feel entitled to go on for much longer about my own petty problems in the light of the recent flashflooding disaster in Cagayan de Oro and Iligan. This is going to accomplish nothing, not even assuage my throbbing conscience (I have one?), but here's a pretty useful list of ways to donate and help out: http://www.nowpinoy.com/typhoon-sendong-how-to-help/

(A more socially-minded and knowledgeable person would take this opportunity to talk about the environmental issues that caused the flooding, and perhaps suggest ways to improve the state of our disaster prevention, warning, and relief infrastructure. Just saying.)






Alright, regardless of the fact that this is my blog and I can write anything I want, I think I shall still resist segueing into another round of bootless introspection and personal woe-tallying. Life goes on.

Back in the Philippines

So, I've been back in the motherland for almost a week now, and I still haven't gotten into a good routine. I'm not used to having to factor in commute time when considering things such as what time to wake up and what time to start working (not to mention the experience of commuting and taking public transportation here again).


Haven't even visited all the old haunts yet - have yet to hang out at UP. Did spend a delicious, lazy, gluttonous weekend in Bulacan for a thanksgiving-type fiesta last weekend (lechon! kakanin! utter idleness!). 


Haven't met up with anybody yet. I am friendless and aloof. Or just lazy.


Glad to finally have woken up early today, at least, though it was really a fluke more than anything intentional. Maybe today's the day I can start a productive routine again. (Or I could take this morning time and spend it finishing Snow Crash in UP, the weather seems nice and cool...)

Presents

I've never been the gift-giving type. I never know what to give people, and even though I sometimes get the urge to do so, I hesitate because it seems like it would somehow be unfair if I started giving gifts only selectively, but then it seems overwhelming to have to think of giving gifts even just to my very small circle of family, friends, and acquaintances.


Perhaps I'm just too prematurely self-conscious about it, fearing that recipients wouldn't like whatever I get them, and that this would just make them hate or pity me all the more (if they don't already thoroughly loathe me, but then again, I suppose I really wouldn't be giving gifts to those people now, would I?).


It's December, and Christmas is just around the corner, and I'm not yet sure if I'm getting anyone anything. On the other hand, maybe I can guilt myself into finally getting over my stupid fear by thinking of all that I've received over the years, and how now it's time to give back. Hmm, no, not working.

Keng Wah Sung

One of the things I miss the most about being home is having a room to myself, a private space where I can be alone whenever I want to be. Which, as it happens, is usually most of the time. I'm an introvert through and through.


Here at the SG office I share a room with two officemates and while I have no complaints about this arrangement (the room is more than big enough for the three of us, what with a relatively spacious loft, and there's even an extra bed up there), it does mean that I have no such sanctuary. My desk does feel private enough, and there is some sense of ownership and belonging there, but at the same time, it feels 


I found this private space in Keng Wah Sung, a nearby mom-and-pop cafe (kopitiam, I believe, in the local parlance). Along with strong black coffee (kopi o kosong, no milk, no sugar), kaya butter toast, and soft-boiled eggs. No wonder I quickly became a regular.


There's something innately comforting about seeing the same people everyday, even if you don't really talk or interact, even if your lives remain mostly disjoint, or touch only superficially. I go there, I buy coffee and read or write. Sometimes at night I would change my beverage to one or two bottles of Tiger, and sometimes I'd also buy some sticks of satay from the people who set up nearby (only in the evenings). If they didn't close on Sundays, I'd probably be there at least once every damn day!


Needless to say, I'm going to miss that place when we finally move out of this unit that's much too big for us. I could always come visit on weekends, but it won't be the same, I won't have the luxury of just stumbling there from the house, still unwashed and bleary. Ah, well, I don't know whether I should just be happy that, at least so far, I haven't yet been able to really settle in and call this place home (I know, I'm slow, it's been almost a year!). The move, though it's still going to be a big hassle probably, will at least not be as uprooting as it could've been. (Then again, this is a tiny country...)

This whole telling people about myself business...

...still sits more than a little uncomfortably with me. This is in no way just an excuse for laziness and mis-scheduling on my part, such that now I have no time to work on an actual entry for today. Not entirely, anyway. (I have less than an hour to come up with something.)


As a child and as I was growing up, I barely had any friends. Now, as you might imagine, this did tend to make me rather sad at times, and even up to now when my mind alights on the subject it can get pretty melancholy. I don't think it's surprising at all for a shy, withdrawn, chubby kid to keep to himself, and at times feel horribly maladjusted and unfit for society.


I kept this all to myself as I simply sat inside my own head, firm in the conviction that even if I had someone to tell, they wouldn't really understand, anyway. Perhaps at first I drew some little consolation in this perceived unfathomableness, but soon enough I grew to think that it was my own damn fault for being somehow defective, somehow not quite as suited as the average person to the average life by 


You've heard this story before, I'm sure. I found solace in the solitary pleasures of reading (and for stretches in high school and during college, of trying to write and keep up a blog), and never got close to anyone even though a part of me must have always kept yearning for this so-called friendship so thought highly of by normal society, i.e., the people who actually had it.


Now I'm a little older, a little more experienced, and I wouldn't be so quick to label myself friendless. Even if I do still feel a little socially and emotionally stunted, clueless and clumsy (oh boy, the things my clumsiness have led me into and out of, but those are stories for another time), and not at home in the world of men, more and more I'm beginning to (finally) convince myself that this isn't a hopeless state of affairs: I'm young, the world is big, and I have time yet to grow into the life I want to be living.

Keeping on keeping on

Finally got myself back on the treadmill this afternoon, after many weeks of inactivity. Who needs nicotine when endorphins are more readily available, and, even better, free? (Sigh, I wish I could say that with as much conviction as it deserves. I don't think my future looks too good, since we'll be flying back home soon, to that magical land of cheap booze and cigarettes, oh, and friends to enjoy them with, right, that's important too.)


While I was actually in the moment of exerting myself and trying to pull just a little more energy to run just a little bit further, it hit me: isn't this just what it takes to get anywhere in life, and to develop any skill or aspect of oneself? Yes, yes, to be sure, I was tired and endorphin-addled and much too proud of myself for breaking a sweat, but even now, calmer and cooled down, I think there's a lot of truth to that realization.


A truth, mind you, that isn't always as convincing as it is when it manifests itself in such a straightforward manner and in a simple situation. Keep running, gradually increase your pace or duration or distance, and you'll grow better at it. Simple, no two ways about it. (Well, maybe I do simplify a bit too much, since there is of course the problem of hydration and the dangers of overtraining and possible injury, but the fundamental concept is still one of progressive improvement, right? And that improvement can be measured quite precisely and unquestionably.)


Unfortunately with most other things there are many orders of magnitude more factors to consider, and it isn't always easy to see through all the perceived obstacles and reasons for hesitation to the fact that's still there, behind everything. Just keep on keeping on (hopefully of course learning and enjoying yourself as you go).

Singapore, Singapore.

It's really quite strange to think that I've been on this (arguably) First World island for nearly a year now. I've probably grown to take many things for granted, such as the first-rate public transportation system and public infrastructure in general, the almost total absence of crime and the attendant city-dweller fear, and, to get much closer to home, the blazing fast connection to the Internet at the office¹.


The train and bus system here is a real marvel, especially in comparison with the Philippines' own paltry, overcrowded efforts. Combined with an impressive dedication to pedestrian-friendliness and accessibility, I feel as if I could get anywhere I wanted on the island cheaply, safely, and without any hassle. At times it feels almost like the open world of a sandbox game, where you could simply head off and walk in any direction and be sure you could eventually arrive anywhere within your field of view.


But enough one-sided gushing, I'm beginning to feel too much like the Third-World refugee that I am. My intended point was just that, hey, I've been here for a while in this place that encourages wandering around and going to places, and I haven't really stretched my legs that much. Sure, I've walked a couple of times from here to the Orchard Road area and back², and sure, I've walked the Southern Trails, been to Bukit Timah Nature Reserve and the Botanic Gardens, but I don't feel as if I've really come close to the heart³ of this place.


What I mean to say, I suppose, is that I don't feel like I've been making the most of all the opportunities available to me here. Malaysia's just a bus ride away, yet I've never gone there and have only the vaguest intentions to do so. I don't have a curfew to worry about, and I'm free to spend my time however I want⁴.


I think it's long past time I started really exploring this place⁵, and living experiences to tell stories about. (And, no, the visits on weekends to the same cafes⁶ and restaurants don't really count.)


---


[1] Not to mention decent access to it almost everywhere else on my phone.
[2] Two hours or so each way. Not the most scenic route, as it's city street after city street, but the feeling of being able to take such a long walk is worth it.
[3] OK, this isn't the place to argue about whether there even is a "heart" to this place that can be found. I know too little about the local culture and can only rely on vague impressions and secondhand hearsay. But it does seem, on that scant evidence, that there is a valid concern as to the existence of a uniquely Singaporean heritage apart from the admittedly-impressive if boring one of order-from-chaos and First-World-from-Third.
[4] Only to an extent of course, I am after all gainfully employed and can't just hare about whenever I want.
[5] On a related note, it's also long past time that I started settling in and just maybe making more of a home in this place, but that deserves to be talked about in its own venue.) I'm young, unattached, and have ample resources to enjoy my life and mold it to what I want it to be.
[6] Oriole Cafe does really have excellent coffee, though!

This is harder than I thought

...or I've just grown to have higher expectations of myself and what constitutes blog-worthy material. I gamely jumped back into doing this regularly again, and while I don't regret that in the least, I have to admit that I thought I'd be coming up with better posts in much less time that I've been taking with these recent ones.

Perhaps it's just that spending much more than an hour or two of effort on blog posts seems like such an alien concept to me. Isn't a blog a place to be entirely self-indulgent and not care about what readers (if any) would think? 

No, I don't think so. At least I don't want this blog to be such a place again.

And finally he gets to the obligatory quarterlifing

Although, really, it hasn't been quite as bad lately, due to greater excitement (read: stress, but closer to eustress than distress, most days, anyway) at work. After all, who would have time to worry about such vague fluffy things like a sneaking sense of directionlessness, or a lack of perceived agency, or the feeling that the past twenty-three years of existence haven't - on the balance - amounted to much, or, in short perhaps, a fear of just "not getting" something terribly important (and terribly obvious to everyone else), when (whew) there are much more clear-cut concerns to deal with, like bug reports and deadlines and task lists?

Still, well, ahem, I guess I would have to admit here that I would. I would always have time to worry, it's just the way I'm wired, and the way I've comported myself for most of my life, though it never really showed to people who never got to know me. To most, I was and am just that quiet harmless dude with a reputation for being smart and aloof, and some have even called me carefree, oy, little do they know.

Don't worry though, gentle reader, I'm not about to launch into that practiced, desperate roll call of everything that, over the years, I've determined to be wrong with myself and my life. We've had just about enough of that over my blogging lifetime, haven't we, and now it's time to grow up and move on. Instead of dwelling on the negatives and on feelings of helplessness and doom, why not look forward and ponder solutions? 

I once believed with all my heart and mind (such as they were and are) that enlightenment would eventually come if I just continued mentally chewing the cud. The act itself also held a strange, masochistic allure, or maybe it just became more comfortable to worry about the same things over and over than to actually act and do something about them. I didn't think I knew what to do, I couldn't get out of the cycle of thinking, and so I bemoaned many ruts and periods of depression. (Clinical sufferers may scoff at my use of the term; I've never had myself diagnosed, but I can say those times were no walks in parks.)

Bit by bit I think I'm making progress. Right now, I do still feel as if I have no idea whatsoever what I want to or should do with my life, but it hasn't got me quite as down, and I feel as if I've also grown much less tolerant of stupid wallowing in that years-fermenting muck of useless self-recrimination. I'm grateful to be where I am now, despite still not being able to shake the feeling that it's all just been a series of lucky stumbles. I mean, if I've just been lucky so far, I should be in for even better times now that I'm beginning to actually pay attention, right?

Making lists helps, and writing thoughts and hypotheses down, anything to concretize the vagueness and thus make it manageable, even for instance this little exercise of acknowledgment and making light. Maybe it's a false sense of accomplishment that such items arouse, but at the same time it can't be denied that doing anything is better than doing nothing. (Well, in most cases, and if you keep from doing stupid things.) Move, make mistakes if you must, but just keep moving.

I promise, if I ever figure anything out, I'll tell you all about it. (Or did that come off more like a threat of more stories from a boring uncle?)

Storytelling

Confession time: I'm a terrible storyteller, lacking in both experience at the telling and experience to tell of. On the rare occasions I'm called upon to do so, it's usually to people close enough to me that they don't need much explaining, and don't mind the artless back and forth before I finish or get to the point, either. 


The difference between the story in my head and the story as I am able to get it out into the world is simply too big. It helps to select a receptive, similarly-tuned audience who can fill in many of the gaps themselves, but that feels too much like cheating, and besides, I can only impose on friends' patiences so much, and even they would appreciate better-wrought anecdotes.


Of course, that doesn't preclude me from appreciating a well-told tale (and in fact, admiration can easily turn into envy and frustration, as every would-be writer knows all too well). The most recently encountered example for me would be Gemmell's Troy trilogy¹, which strikes me as a more earnest and straightforward relative of the A Song of Ice and Fire series².


(Digression: the compellingness (for lack of a better term) of a narrative seems to lie along its own axis, quite orthogonal from its literariness or originality or even overall likability, giving rise to so many guilty pleasures.)


There's nothing to be done except to continue reading and writing and perhaps begin telling more stories about myself. While I do have the introvert's aversion to even remotely approach oversharing it's up to me to develop the skill to be able to artfully mask my own self-absorption, or at least make it seem less blatant and offensive, isn't it?


The hope is to get the snowball in motion (says the guy who's never seen snow in his life), and then to just roll with it as it gathers material and momentum and turns eventually into a natural phenomenon I never knew I had in me to make real.




[1] A retelling of the fall of Troy in an ancient Greece where the warriors are doughty, the heroes magnificently mortal, and the gods exist only in men's minds.


[2] Are we friends? Have you not heard of or read this series? Consider this a firm recommendation to do so. Though technically an epic or high fantasy series, it has more of a historical, medieval atmosphere to it, and the focus is more on the characters struggling variously for power, love, or just to survive, rather than an overarching good versus evil confrontation (although that exists as well). Each book in the series is a hefty doorstop, but you'll find yourself blowing through them in no time and joining the rest of us in the impatient wait for the next. 

On television series.

It’s been a while since I last let myself be drawn into a television series. I never really developed the TV watching habit, probably due to never having had cable in my room. In fact, I believe I only had a TV in my room for a short period before it was reclaimed by my parents for their own room. Our internet connection wasn’t the fastest, either, and I never had the patience to either stream or download shows. Here in SG our television gets even less use. It’s too close to the office area, and the sound would be too distracting for the others at work. I don’t usually find much to watch even when I give it a chance and turn it on, some weekends. We don’t have Food Network available which would usually be a reliable channel-surfing choice, and I never seem to chance upon good movies or documentaries being shown, either. In any case, I really just wanted to talk about enjoying watching Gilmore Girls. There, with that statement I announce my gayness to the world. (Well, to the rest of the world that doesn’t already know it. Some people have most likely already suspected as much.) I can’t help it, Rory’s too cute, her mom’s such a little kid (though more than a little pleasing to look at, and man, isn’t that conjunction just unfortunate), and there’s something almost hypnotic about the fast talk peppered with pop culture references, half of which (okay, maybe more than half of which) just flies right over my head. The cheerful quirky small-town vibe is also undeniably attractive. So, I think, despite it on the surface being a mother-daughter drama series (he says defensively), there’s more to it, okay, and I’m not just being an effeminate stereotype. And, of course, just the usual perverse, voyeuristic, escapist pleasure of it all, of for a while inhabiting a world that’s infinitely more eventful and, ultimately, more perfect than the one filled with all of our mundane worries. On the flipside, when the episode or season or series ends, a terrible feeling of inadequacy almost always gets to me as I return to my own rather pedestrian, disappointing life. But I don’t want to end on such a depressing note. Fiction does have the capacity to uplift and inspire instead of simply proffering hollow, temporary escape. As with everything else, it’s all in how one chooses to look at it. Though unfortunately I seem to naturally tend towards melancholy, I believe I can grow out of that indulgence. There are many more episodes of the show and in my life remaining to be experienced. Eventually perhaps I’ll learn my lesson.

Typical workday at 25A

I open my eyes. It’s already light outside, but the blinds do a pretty good job of keeping our room dark enough for sleep. My back begins its usual waking-up complaints, but they barely register anymore and are usually taken care of by a few glorious twisting stretches. I slide the blanket off my body, take a deep breath, close my eyes for a moment, and, resisting the mighty “just a few more minutes” urge, get up and out of my single bed.

I walk out the bedroom door, through our small, narrow kitchen, past the dining table, and on to my desk at the far end of the office area. I either make myself a cup of coffee or have our office assistant (I’m not sure what her actual job title is, but she takes care of all the ancillary household and office chores) do it, if she happens to already be in the kitchen anyway. I open a notebook and write for about forty-five minutes to nearly an hour, filling up my six allotted morning pages.

By the end of the session, I’ll usually be feeling more than a little guilty about not checking on and catching up with work yet, but I’ll still hold out for around thirty minutes of checking my own personal news feeds and other online sources, letting the caffeine circulate and wake me up fully. (Here’s a part of my daily routine that could use tightening.)

The office and our entire unit in general is a very quiet place, which is just how we like it. All day long it’s just the low hum of the airconditioning, people typing and clicking, and, sometimes but more often lately, work-related conversation. The television in the living room slash guest room behind me is rarely turned on, even in the weekends, and I can’t even remember the last time anyone touched the Xbox! We don’t often have visitors, and when we do, they’re usually here just to crash on the couch, and are out touristing or taking care of business in the day.

In the afternoon after finishing a few pieces of work, I usually find myself in need of a short break to refresh myself for some more hours of work in the evening. So I’d take my Kindle out to the nearby kopitiam for some coffee (kopi o kosong - black, no sugar), toast, and sometimes two soft-boiled eggs and an hour or so of leisure reading. Most of the people there have little English, but being a regular (he says with a weird sort of pride), I’ve picked up their accents, they’ve probably picked up mine, and we understand each other well enough.

Then it’s back to my desk with (ideally) renewed energy to knock off some more to-do items and build or fix more parts of the Insync client. Productivity usually comes in bursts that sometimes (have to) continue on until late in the night. That’s one thing that’s awesome about working from home -- no need to worry about pesky things like it getting too late to commute back home easily. (Although I suspect it’d still be quite easy to get home here, even late at night, but I digress.)

The day ends whenever I run out of energy and find myself needing to get some sleep. Sometimes I take a second break and have tea or coffee (or occasionally a beer or two and peanuts or satay) at the kopitiam, unwinding a bit before going to bed. I close my eyes, and the cycle repeats in eight hours or so.

***

This has been my routine for the past few weeks, and as far as daily routines go, it’s not a bad one, although there is one glaring omission that’s been bugging me to no end: gym time. Perhaps a month or two previously, I would usually make sure to take about an hour and a half off in the afternoon to work out, either spending about an hour on the treadmill or elliptical while listening to a Pimsleur Japanese lesson, or doing a mixed dumbbell-machine routine with ChannelNews Asia in the background.

(Apart from exercise, I also intend to add an afternoon writing session for working on essays, blog entries like this one, among other creative-writerly items. Thirty minutes or so should be enough, if I prepare materials and draft ideas sufficiently beforehand.)

Just to even begin.

I find myself in a rare thoughtful mood, sparked by listening to St. Vincent on a cigarette break just now. Perhaps this is still an after-effect of last night’s long-overdue personal time; I’m beginning to feel as if I’m filling myself out properly again, bit by bit regaining comfort in being inside my own skin, in being in this situation and living this life.


“Marry Me” begins to play, and I’m suddenly walking down that familiar Cubao street, on the way to the MRT station from where the jeepney lets me off. I’ve nothing on my mind but a commuter’s quotidian worries and what to do with the rest of my evening upon getting home. My much-too-bulky bag that I stubbornly still haven’t gotten around to replacing bounces familiarly against my hip with every brisk stride. I briefly consider dropping by the 7-11 on the way home for a couple cans of beer, a pack of spicy cracker nuts, a bag of chips. Then the song ends and I’m at home. I shrug off my bag, take off and put away my shoes, head into the kitchen for the obligatory drink of water, go upstairs to my room and change.

Here the vision ends and I’m back in Singapore, sitting with my legs up on my chair, listening to the rest of the album and enjoying a slight buzz from the strong black coffee I bought from the nearby cafe on the way back from my break. Stretching my fingers and facility of description, trying not to let my disappointment get too much in the way. The important thing is to keep moving, keep practicing. In fact, just to even begin.

Touch

I

Your fingers might have sought
mine but they didn’t
quite make it, couldn’t bear
to traverse the distance between
barely knowing each other’s names
and knowing all too well the unease
of slipping through hair
without getting entangled.


II

Let things unfold, and don’t complain
too much. Be still and listen
to the breathing of this heart,
sitting next to this other one.
You say, enfold; do not contain.


III

I remember nothing
I haven’t already forgotten
at least in part:
Your hand taking my hand,
slipping away.

Posted via email from miscellaneous momeng

Unstable equilibria

Not for us the languid falling
into place of pieces
that have lain comfortably
in wait, no, not for us
the rolling down a gentle hill.

No, the pendulum will not slow
or stop for us, nor the wheel
lie quietly on its side.

No, the waves will not cease
grinding our beaches into sand
or washing away
our footprints, our castles.

But no, though the bridge will sway
and not stay still, and though
the drop beneath will only deepen,
not for us the torpid sinking
into the oblivious river.

No, our feet will stop
only for that nervous peak,
that brush of lips and fingers
before a gasp and a misstep
send us hurtling back
to once more start again.

Posted via email from momeng's posterous