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Showing posts with label personal paranoia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal paranoia. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 1
Sunday, June 10
smoking kills
Nicotine, nicotine, good old nicotine.
As if some higher force has commanded, I dug through my shameful lady-bag and looked for a fag. No cigarettes here, sir. Just tobacco debris that pollute the shallow darkness. I curse.
And I panic. There must be some cigarette somewhere. It's the devil's hour - 3AM, and I can't get a ride to rush to the nearest StarMart. There's hope. There must be Hope or some other stick somewhere.
I didn't give up digging. This time, I swam under my desk, into the jungle of my drawer. It is here I keep the bills, pills, phone numbers, old notebooks, my box of reserve contact lenses, an empty canister of Wrigley's Orbit, and heaps of mysterious white paper-crumpled and stuffed into the belly of my wooden shrine to a cheap Mac emulation. There must be some forgotten, bent cigarette here.
Of course this is also where I keep some used packs, twenty-two crumpled or folded Lucky Strike soft packs, and four Black Bat hard packs to be exact. But I couldn't find any Strike or Bat. My un-Lucky day.
But wait --- Sandwiched between the hard covers of my deserted journal that holds the keys to my secret daydreams and the passwords to all my accounts in the cyber-universe --- is a flat Philip Morris. Shaped like a coffee stirrer, I patiently rolled it into the original form that God intended for it.
If cigarettes had expiration dates, this unholy find would have been way, way unacceptable for my choosy lungs. But I couldn't complain. (Yeah, it tasted like cockroach urine).
I smoked. I waited for the ghostly tendrils to form rings or claws or strangers' faces. I stared.
A dead pack was staring back. Its facial expression was imposing, it's message was clear. As if this nonliving thing intends to insult me, to mock my existence, to condemn my addiction.
It was a government warning. Smoking kills.
And it got me thinking. Wasn't I already dead when I first dated the cunning Marlboro Man? Or did he murder me?
As if some higher force has commanded, I dug through my shameful lady-bag and looked for a fag. No cigarettes here, sir. Just tobacco debris that pollute the shallow darkness. I curse.
And I panic. There must be some cigarette somewhere. It's the devil's hour - 3AM, and I can't get a ride to rush to the nearest StarMart. There's hope. There must be Hope or some other stick somewhere.
I didn't give up digging. This time, I swam under my desk, into the jungle of my drawer. It is here I keep the bills, pills, phone numbers, old notebooks, my box of reserve contact lenses, an empty canister of Wrigley's Orbit, and heaps of mysterious white paper-crumpled and stuffed into the belly of my wooden shrine to a cheap Mac emulation. There must be some forgotten, bent cigarette here.
Of course this is also where I keep some used packs, twenty-two crumpled or folded Lucky Strike soft packs, and four Black Bat hard packs to be exact. But I couldn't find any Strike or Bat. My un-Lucky day.
But wait --- Sandwiched between the hard covers of my deserted journal that holds the keys to my secret daydreams and the passwords to all my accounts in the cyber-universe --- is a flat Philip Morris. Shaped like a coffee stirrer, I patiently rolled it into the original form that God intended for it.
If cigarettes had expiration dates, this unholy find would have been way, way unacceptable for my choosy lungs. But I couldn't complain. (Yeah, it tasted like cockroach urine).
I smoked. I waited for the ghostly tendrils to form rings or claws or strangers' faces. I stared.
A dead pack was staring back. Its facial expression was imposing, it's message was clear. As if this nonliving thing intends to insult me, to mock my existence, to condemn my addiction.
It was a government warning. Smoking kills.
And it got me thinking. Wasn't I already dead when I first dated the cunning Marlboro Man? Or did he murder me?
Thursday, May 31
the corporate curse
I never even thought I could land a job so easily. And to fit in quite fine in an air-conditioned, corporate environment? Definitely a far cry from my left-leaning / tree-hugging / peace-volunteering days.
But the pains of working for a trans-national company begin to kick in. I can feel the rising tension between manager and subordinate, between policies and employees, between a job that pays the bills and a dream career that is obviously not this.
I am feeling the corporate curse. That eerie knowledge that you have a Boss, someone who perpetually questions your performance, your office ethics, your punctuality, your adherence to the dress code, and even the authenticity of your reasons for calling in sick.
That guilt, knowing if not for that goddamned pay, you don't have to deal with overreaching, over-competitive, ultra-conservative co-employees who all plan to climb that narrow corporate ladder.
That moment I become possessed by greed and pride, spending away my half-month's pay for petty things like overpriced pizzas and vices like Lucky Strikes and Chardonnay bottles.
That certainty you are under the spell of your payslip. The corporate curse.
But the pains of working for a trans-national company begin to kick in. I can feel the rising tension between manager and subordinate, between policies and employees, between a job that pays the bills and a dream career that is obviously not this.
I am feeling the corporate curse. That eerie knowledge that you have a Boss, someone who perpetually questions your performance, your office ethics, your punctuality, your adherence to the dress code, and even the authenticity of your reasons for calling in sick.
That guilt, knowing if not for that goddamned pay, you don't have to deal with overreaching, over-competitive, ultra-conservative co-employees who all plan to climb that narrow corporate ladder.
That moment I become possessed by greed and pride, spending away my half-month's pay for petty things like overpriced pizzas and vices like Lucky Strikes and Chardonnay bottles.
That certainty you are under the spell of your payslip. The corporate curse.
Thursday, February 1
tell me who your friends are and i'll tell you if they're on my friendster too
Friendster still alive huh?
I've been a member since 2003. I had seven Dave AL accounts. Remember those series of accounts that are known like Dave AL UNO, Dave AL DOS, Dave AL TRES, Dave AL CUATRO, Dave AL CINCO, Dave AL SEIS and the cunning Dave AL EXCLUSIVE?
Please don't laugh at that. It was popular in years 04-05, right? Having multiple accounts was a norm two-three years ago because one Friendster account can only accomodate 500 friends (or sometimes 502) back then.
It was an elitist cyber-space race.
If you had three FULL accounts, you're popular. You're an online extrovert. You're Mr. Friendster. You're an official web-slut.
Of course we agree. I was one of the web-sluts. I don't even know who these people were, these faces without names on my Friends list. Whatever happened to the definition of the word "friend"?
Heck, I never even met most of those hundreds of friends. I never got introduced, never got acquainted, never talked, never mailed, never texted, never hanged out, never had time to drink coffee OR beer with.
So you get my point. Or let me ask this:
"WHAT'S THE F****N POINT OF KEEPING FIVE OR SIX OR SEVEN OR EIGHT OR NINE OR TEN FRIENDSTER ACCOUNTS WHEN YOU DON'T F****N KNOW WHO THOSE PEOPLE IN YOUR FRIENDS LIST ARE?"
Pardon my French. It just helps to belt it out sometimes. So that I'd wake myself up from a very bad, fad nightmare.
(To my Caucasian friend's question: "Has anyone in the Philippines ever thought of migrating to MySpace? Friendster lost steam in the West" My answer is Naah. Never crossed our Third-World minds. Let the American teenage girls and trying-hard rock bands deal with the hacker-friendly MySpace... Filipinos are Friendster fanatics-loyalistas, so f*ck off)
Last week, I canceled all my other Friendster accounts except the one I'm using now (the former Dave AL Exclusive account -- Exclusive accounts are supposedly the accounts that hold real-life friends/acquaintances)...
I felt pride and relief when I let go of those slutty Friendster accounts with all the cam-whoring pictures that come with them.
Goodbye Dave AL UNO FULL!Now I'm wondering, what will I do to my fake and ghost Friendster profiles? Hehe.
Goodbye Dave AL DOS FULL!
Goodbye Dave AL TRES FULL!
Goodbye Dave AL CUATRO!
Goodbye DAVE AL CINCO!
Goodbye Dave AL SEIS!
Sunday, January 14
BOND 007
Bond. Dave's bond.Nope, I didn't go to the movies for c-ASS-ino royale. I am refering to a "bond", which is according to the Reader's Digest - Oxford Complete Wordfinder (a childhood friend since the late 90's), a thing that "ties another down or together... a binding engagement; an agreement."
And BOND 007 is just my trite label for the brand new set of personal new year resolutions.
Since new year resolutions always end up eaten up by circumstance and therefore they never really got resolved at all, I will post my 2006 new year res's again.
1. Lose weightI had other res's on that 2006 list, but all the others I unbelievably managed to execute. Like, eating slower, talking slower, writing more than talking, loving life, moving on, and all those lame emotional promises I made to myself. Really. Got over my frustrations and I feel good I ended the year right. I ended 2006 the way I started it: with conviction to get rid of emotional and psychological baggage and just to sit back, relax and accept my life's pace and direction.
2. Quit smoking
3. Stop biting my nails (it's so
redundant for a smoker)
4. Never commit
5. Maintain a blog
Congratulations, Dave. You made it.
This year I stand up and take back what I lost. Sure, I pacified myself in '06 and temporarily put my dreams at halt. It was like sailing in the Pacific Ocean without the storms. But for '07, I gotta move my ass. I got to chase my dreams and make things happen in my life. Enough of the meditations and silent pauses for Zen rituals.
I want to stop aspiring and dreaming. I want to start dreaming stronger and doing things like I should. The storms of the Pacific are gathering, and I should sail through them all. Typhoon after typhoon I shall withstand the rough and violent waves of this sea, for I know there is always a calm after the storm.
An elegant, beautiful, inspiring, rewarding calm after the storm.
In addition to those 5 res's I haven't managed to execute well in 2006, here are my Bond 007 resolutions:
1. Get a job
2. Win back some friends
3. Make decisions with conviction
4. Work out my aspirations
5. Move my ass to where I should belong
6. Prove my worth to myself
7. Stop bitching about how bad life is
8. Start rolling up my sleeves and do the dirty work
9. Keep a wallet for money and receipts and photos and condoms
10. Arrange my books in my study shelf
11. Win a Palanca award (haha, I think this one res would run up to 2020)
Now I feel like James Bond with a Great Mission for Her Majesty.
(insert Agent 007 theme song here.)
Tuesday, January 2
new year, new blog
Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I've done it hundreds of times.
That was what I always remember from Sam Clemens (Mark Twain)'s brilliant catch-phrases. And to para-phrase that:
Giving up blogging is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I've done it approximately eleven times.
Started the whole blogging thing in the year 2003. My first blog was called "Disturbing Derelict", proof of my habit of alliteration with the letter D. My email back then was Davestation@Techemail.com (I don't even know if Techemail still exists) and my forum/radio codename was DearDaniel (male partner of Hello Kitty). I know. That was four years ago. It's almost cyber-nostalgia.
So the Disturbing Derelict became just plain derelict. I lost all my posts there. Then I started posting at Allpoetry.com. It's not really a blog, but a personals site where you can post your poetry, stories, writing contests, etc. I still have my profile HERE. The writeups there are totally disturbing,and immature. Read at your own risk. Just don't tell me I didn't warn you.
And then I started my first Friendster blog year 2004, along with my Downelink blog late that year. Both blogs in the said personals site are all gone since I canceled my accounts from both sites. Back in 2004 I had my Old Blogger account, too. But all my posts in the old Blogger are so three years ago. Then I have a few other, negligible blog attempts. I estimate I had eleven blogs for the last four years.
My problem with blogging is that I start pretty good, I maintain it for a week, and lose time and interest for it the next. I always forget I have a blog to maintain, concluding that I didn't have to keep a blog anyway because blogging are just for bored and boring people.
I am wrong, of course. Or right. I don't know. BLOG=BORE?
So what. Now it's 2007 and I want to re-live my blogging habit. My mind has been stagnant (but pacific, to be positive about it) for the past year. And this year, I want to get crazy with my thoughts again.
THUS, THE TRAUMESTURM. (German phrase for "dreamstorms").
Träumesturm is my sojourn through the violent storms of my imagination; it is sailing through the vast ocean stirred by supertyphoons of ideas, thoughts and sensations. My dreamstorms take me away from reality... But the calm after the storms always bring me back to life.
So there.
(I am simultaneously posting at my Friendster account)
Tuesday, May 16
the smell will solve them all (a junkie's introspection)
it's thursday night and i can't rest
my head from one whole day
of frolic and of panic
i turn the a/c on and
plug my ears with mp3s
that drown my misery
in my head they are amok
running to, fro and through
my exhaustible brain cells
speeches on social problems
scary sounds of global conflict
and images of injustices
i see them, hear and feel
all these mindboggling
heartwrenching agitating
situations that i can't just end
nor resolve on my own
but can't possibly ignore
so i turn my player louder
to kill this beat of hate
anger and negative surrender
i brush my face and i had
to smell my index and middle
fingers pass by my nose
i remember where this
distinctly strongly unique
scent is coming from
it's the smell of weed
i can't quit, an afterscent
i come to love and hate
why, let me stop this ranting
and shun the world off
with the pot i smoke
my head from one whole day
of frolic and of panic
i turn the a/c on and
plug my ears with mp3s
that drown my misery
in my head they are amok
running to, fro and through
my exhaustible brain cells
speeches on social problems
scary sounds of global conflict
and images of injustices
i see them, hear and feel
all these mindboggling
heartwrenching agitating
situations that i can't just end
nor resolve on my own
but can't possibly ignore
so i turn my player louder
to kill this beat of hate
anger and negative surrender
i brush my face and i had
to smell my index and middle
fingers pass by my nose
i remember where this
distinctly strongly unique
scent is coming from
it's the smell of weed
i can't quit, an afterscent
i come to love and hate
why, let me stop this ranting
and shun the world off
with the pot i smoke
Monday, November 28
the toothpaste commercial smile
I don’t know if it’s my usual scepticism or if it’s the commercial that truly sucks. What I’m talking about is this TV advertisement for a popular toothpaste brand. Yes, that one with a guy loading a bus, with an all-American smile. See? You know the loser.
Wait a sec, let me clear one thing first. Numero uno, I think the song played in that particular commercial is cool. But hey, isn’t it irritating to hear it from a 30-seconder showing a “cute” or pa-cute guy grinning nonstop? Oh come on, what’s the point?
The advertisement is with no doubt an exaggeration. I understand that’s the part of the trick: the purpose of every toothpaste commercial is to make the consumers buy the toothpaste. So they use this basic formula: they have to show you a cute guy and girl in the mall, at the beach, on the bus – doesn’t really matter where (but the more public the place is, the better). They keep staring at each other with their love-stricken smiles showing off their extra-white teeth. And by the way, these two cuties don’t know each other yet – and they just “accidentally” bumped, or the caught the falling girl or the other way around. In short, they just met.
This ‘school’ of exaggerated toothpaste commercials insults me. They commercialize a certain breed of hypocrisy that is paired with superficiality. They teach you to smile to a complete stranger, in the most uncommon of circumstances. They tell you to “just smile”.
Smiling is a physiological and psychological phenomenon. According to research (you read that right, there actually are researches on smiling), a smile is drawn when facial muscles are moved, especially the zygmomaticus muscle near the mouth and the orbicularis oculi muscle near the eyes. This is said to be physiologically genuine, named the “Duchenne” smile after researcher Guillaume Duchenne, because this smile is only produced as an involuntary response to true emotion.
A Duchenne smile in a toothpaste commercial? I don’t think so.
There is also what researchers call the “Pan American” smile, which is said to be voluntary. It is named as such because it shows politeness, for example, by a flight attendant of an airline of the same name. Research says this is an insincere smile because only the zygmomaticus major is moved when you sport it, and that it is done because it has to be.
A polite smile, yes. In a toothpaste commercial? Not what I’m talking about.
I looked and looked for any comprehensive identification of the type of smile I see in toothpaste commercials and I find nothing. Perhaps this smile is still unnamed. So please let me call it the “Toothpaste Commercial Smile”. What makes it unique? You just have to open your mouth and bare your clean, white teeth to everybody in the hopes of someone noticing and getting it on with you tonight. Being true to emotion and being polite are totally unnecessary.
Smiling, whether genuine or for politeness’ sake or for a toothpaste commercial, is supposedly beneficial. Remember that aphorism that a smile requires less facial muscles to move than a frown? How about your guidance counselor telling you how a smile can pre-introduce your positive personality? Have you by any chance heard a study conducted in Sweden concluding that a smile is contagious? That a smile is answered with a smile? That when you put a happy face, you also put up an air of happiness around you?
But I am a sceptic. I suspect that a smile might be from a toothpaste commercial, from being hypocritical and superficial. And especially when it’s from someone I don’t know and who just happens to sit beside me on a bus.
These TV advertisements showing us that we can actually smile “whenever, wherever” are annoying. But what’s frustrating is the cumulative effect this hypocrisy and superficiality has on us. They eventually influence us into showing off a “killer confidence smile” to practically everybody in the public.
If it’s true that smiling makes you feel happier, then do it, for crying out loud. Make other people smile back, even if you don’t know them. But don’t overdo it. And don’t do it at all, if you aren’t happy or glad or amused or pleased. Or else, you’ll end up in a toothpaste commercial.
Hey wait; now that’s one good reason to smile.
Wait a sec, let me clear one thing first. Numero uno, I think the song played in that particular commercial is cool. But hey, isn’t it irritating to hear it from a 30-seconder showing a “cute” or pa-cute guy grinning nonstop? Oh come on, what’s the point?
The advertisement is with no doubt an exaggeration. I understand that’s the part of the trick: the purpose of every toothpaste commercial is to make the consumers buy the toothpaste. So they use this basic formula: they have to show you a cute guy and girl in the mall, at the beach, on the bus – doesn’t really matter where (but the more public the place is, the better). They keep staring at each other with their love-stricken smiles showing off their extra-white teeth. And by the way, these two cuties don’t know each other yet – and they just “accidentally” bumped, or the caught the falling girl or the other way around. In short, they just met.
This ‘school’ of exaggerated toothpaste commercials insults me. They commercialize a certain breed of hypocrisy that is paired with superficiality. They teach you to smile to a complete stranger, in the most uncommon of circumstances. They tell you to “just smile”.
Smiling is a physiological and psychological phenomenon. According to research (you read that right, there actually are researches on smiling), a smile is drawn when facial muscles are moved, especially the zygmomaticus muscle near the mouth and the orbicularis oculi muscle near the eyes. This is said to be physiologically genuine, named the “Duchenne” smile after researcher Guillaume Duchenne, because this smile is only produced as an involuntary response to true emotion.
A Duchenne smile in a toothpaste commercial? I don’t think so.
There is also what researchers call the “Pan American” smile, which is said to be voluntary. It is named as such because it shows politeness, for example, by a flight attendant of an airline of the same name. Research says this is an insincere smile because only the zygmomaticus major is moved when you sport it, and that it is done because it has to be.
A polite smile, yes. In a toothpaste commercial? Not what I’m talking about.
I looked and looked for any comprehensive identification of the type of smile I see in toothpaste commercials and I find nothing. Perhaps this smile is still unnamed. So please let me call it the “Toothpaste Commercial Smile”. What makes it unique? You just have to open your mouth and bare your clean, white teeth to everybody in the hopes of someone noticing and getting it on with you tonight. Being true to emotion and being polite are totally unnecessary.
Smiling, whether genuine or for politeness’ sake or for a toothpaste commercial, is supposedly beneficial. Remember that aphorism that a smile requires less facial muscles to move than a frown? How about your guidance counselor telling you how a smile can pre-introduce your positive personality? Have you by any chance heard a study conducted in Sweden concluding that a smile is contagious? That a smile is answered with a smile? That when you put a happy face, you also put up an air of happiness around you?
But I am a sceptic. I suspect that a smile might be from a toothpaste commercial, from being hypocritical and superficial. And especially when it’s from someone I don’t know and who just happens to sit beside me on a bus.
These TV advertisements showing us that we can actually smile “whenever, wherever” are annoying. But what’s frustrating is the cumulative effect this hypocrisy and superficiality has on us. They eventually influence us into showing off a “killer confidence smile” to practically everybody in the public.
If it’s true that smiling makes you feel happier, then do it, for crying out loud. Make other people smile back, even if you don’t know them. But don’t overdo it. And don’t do it at all, if you aren’t happy or glad or amused or pleased. Or else, you’ll end up in a toothpaste commercial.
Hey wait; now that’s one good reason to smile.
(This essay was published in the Wesneco Torch November 2005 Magazine)
Monday, November 21
another blog attempt; life's vital statistics
If I remember right this must be the fifth time that I started a blog. The first blog was at the same "blogspot" as this one. The second...er... I do not fully recall. To make the long story short, I am again trying to maintain a blog that is supposedly helpful to me.
You see, I need to blurt out. I have so many frustrations and anxieties (did I spell that right) at this moment that I cannot possibly be at peace with my mind. I need to relax, just jot all the way to relief. Can I do that?
Well I'll know, wouldn't I?
Just this afternoon, some teacher asked me "What is life?", a perfect evidence of how cliched class discussions can be. Everybody should give out an answer, I didn't know why. When it was my turn, I said "Life is an art form." To which my teacher reacted subtlely. Perhaps my answer was as trite as her question. I didn't care.
But what struck me at the course of this discussion is the teacher's proposition that life is beautiful and should be kept that way. Of course there are just too many conflicting views regarding that. Consider my other classmates who describe life as "hard", "difficult", "sad", etc. etc. Even I, who said Life as an art and who personally prefers to capitalize the word Life, agree that Life is a disaster. But it is also artistic, no matter the weight of disaster.
Views on life are too varied, so varied that they take on extremes. Take, for example, the famous lines "Life is a box of chocolates (you'll never know what you'll get)" and "Life is a bitch". They don't go well together, don't they? But still, they are widely accepted.
My introspection on the matter made me more confused. Should I be guilty that my life is not as beautiful and happy as others'? Should I cast away the bad images and scents in my life to make it a "bed of roses"?
I hate to say this, but my answer is No. Life is a pretty bitch in a dashing red gown. Life is a hard-coated candy. Life is hard, and you must swallow it hard. Life is only beautiful when Life happened to you.
For me, It's just happening. In this point in my life, I am down, sad, angry, alone, lonely and a complete asshole. But I am Life's number 1 fan. I see it as a Dark Art, one like the Durmstrang students learn in Bulgaria. Or a Potions class. Or an artists' cult. Or those Humanities lessons done in crap. Life is a shitload. I love it.
You see, I need to blurt out. I have so many frustrations and anxieties (did I spell that right) at this moment that I cannot possibly be at peace with my mind. I need to relax, just jot all the way to relief. Can I do that?
Well I'll know, wouldn't I?
Just this afternoon, some teacher asked me "What is life?", a perfect evidence of how cliched class discussions can be. Everybody should give out an answer, I didn't know why. When it was my turn, I said "Life is an art form." To which my teacher reacted subtlely. Perhaps my answer was as trite as her question. I didn't care.
But what struck me at the course of this discussion is the teacher's proposition that life is beautiful and should be kept that way. Of course there are just too many conflicting views regarding that. Consider my other classmates who describe life as "hard", "difficult", "sad", etc. etc. Even I, who said Life as an art and who personally prefers to capitalize the word Life, agree that Life is a disaster. But it is also artistic, no matter the weight of disaster.
Views on life are too varied, so varied that they take on extremes. Take, for example, the famous lines "Life is a box of chocolates (you'll never know what you'll get)" and "Life is a bitch". They don't go well together, don't they? But still, they are widely accepted.
My introspection on the matter made me more confused. Should I be guilty that my life is not as beautiful and happy as others'? Should I cast away the bad images and scents in my life to make it a "bed of roses"?
I hate to say this, but my answer is No. Life is a pretty bitch in a dashing red gown. Life is a hard-coated candy. Life is hard, and you must swallow it hard. Life is only beautiful when Life happened to you.
For me, It's just happening. In this point in my life, I am down, sad, angry, alone, lonely and a complete asshole. But I am Life's number 1 fan. I see it as a Dark Art, one like the Durmstrang students learn in Bulgaria. Or a Potions class. Or an artists' cult. Or those Humanities lessons done in crap. Life is a shitload. I love it.
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