A Spoonful of Sugar 2003, v.17
Strange Vibrations
By Niña Rica Marie L. Terol
This Spoonful might turn out to be a mouthful—random ramblings that are the result of a troubled mind and spirit. Just as a bad dream has to be told, I feel that some thoughts need to be expelled for me to Great!sleep well tonight. Please bear with me.
Yesterday was an almost perfect day—spent exactly the way I wanted to, with exactly the people I wanted around me then. Today wasn’t so bad, either. I got a lot done, and I went through the day feeling productive, fulfilled, and energized.
Then, all of a sudden, this feeling of extreme drowsiness overtook me. I felt extremely lightheaded and… uneasy. My heart started beating rather irregularly (and it still is, I think). As if I had worked out intensely, then taken a sleeping pill, slept heavily, then woken up from a nightmare. That kind of feeling.
Feeling troubled about it, of course, I sent Paul a message—who called within seconds of receiving it, saying: “I feel exactly the same way. Those would have been exactly my words.”
Then we sat in a strange, uncomfortable silence. It was as if our minds were conversing in a language that we dared not speak, about things that we dared not acknowledge. We tried to explain what we were feeling, and why we could possibly be feeling the same vibration about the same external thing at the same time, but it was futile. We just couldn’t understand it, nor use the right words to express what we were feeling. (Knowing that we had the same birthday and are capable of finishing each other’s sentences with the exact words we had in mind didn’t help; it just compounded the anxiety.)
It also didn’t help that my sister dreamt just a few days ago that I was in an event of some sort—a business or political conference or something—in a warehouse-looking edifice, and that there was a shootout and I was instantly killed—a victim of a stray bullet.
It’s really difficult to stay alive long when your heart is in politics.
Knowing this, Paul ruled that I stay home tomorrow, instead of accompanying him to a highly politicized gig in “unfriendly territory”, at a school building that could pretty much pass for a warehouse.
Darn. And I even bought a shirt for it.
It might not be anything at all, really. We might just be paranoid (yes, we’re highly paranoid individuals), or anxious, or plain old stressed out. But, just in case, I’ve already told my siblings where my insurance policies are, and who would get the bed and my bags. I still have to figure out, though, who will get my books, and who will have the honor of reading my journals.
My heart still beats irregularly as I conclude this.
(Written: November 27, 2003)
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
A Spoonful of Sugar 2003, v.16
Red Pills for Breakfast
By Niña Rica Marie L. Terol
My favorite breakfast is warm, sticky oatmeal—with just a dash of brown sugar (Muscovado, preferably). If not that, it’s gotta be a sunny-side-up egg or two, without salt or the yoke (that’s where the cholesterol is!), and no rice. That’s it; plain and simple (I’m on an eternal diet).
This morning, however, I got a totally unexpected treat when my sweetie called me at 4:30 a.m., telling me that he was going to drop by in 15 minutes with something he had to give me. To the rest of the world, 4:30 is an ungodly hour, but to us, it’s a perfectly good time to come calling.
He showed up at my doorstep shortly before 5, with a small bunch of red flowers in his hand.
It was just the kind of thing to make my day—or even my week. Or maybe even longer than that.
To all those guys who want to get the girl, take this hint.
(Of course, you may not be allowed to visit at 4:30 a.m., but try to be creative and see where this takes you.)
Then, after a lot of chit-chat and catching up, he pulled out another red pill from his bag of tricks: this really funky, trippy¸ in-your-face magazine called The Stick Insect Hunter (“the website you can bring to the bathroom”). Published by artist, photographer, writer, and creative genius Andy Maluche, it features 36 pages of amazing (if not twisted and perverse) artwork, photography, and scribblings. It carries most of the content from his weblog, http://dont-touch-my.com, and has enough wit, sarcasm, toilet humor (literally), and creative genius to last me several weeks.
His style is eons apart from my own, but here was another red pill staring me at the face.
I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone seeking a little bit of artistic inspiration, as well as a good ol’ kick in the b---. Okay, it may be a little offensive to some, but it’s worth a look-see anyway. And, mind you, the magazine is beautiful… even if the website comes across as amateur and “mishmashy”.
Here are a few interesting lines I stole from page 28:
Doubt is creativity.
If there is doubt, then there must be an alternative.
By doubting you automatically create an alternative.
The urge to find an alternative is what makes an artist or scientist.
As an artist you should doubt everything, even truth.
Don’t try to find the truth.
What are you going to do with it once you found it? (sic)
Find security in doubt.
Art doesn’t make sense.
So you have to do it fast before you realize that.
Before the ugly doubt beast starts gnawing at your insides.
That is the other doubt—the destructive kind—
Self-doubt.
I may not totally agree with everything he says, but I find it interesting, nonetheless.
So… here’s to art, creativity, genius, and red flowers before dawn.
(Written: November 25, 2003)
Red Pills for Breakfast
By Niña Rica Marie L. Terol
My favorite breakfast is warm, sticky oatmeal—with just a dash of brown sugar (Muscovado, preferably). If not that, it’s gotta be a sunny-side-up egg or two, without salt or the yoke (that’s where the cholesterol is!), and no rice. That’s it; plain and simple (I’m on an eternal diet).
This morning, however, I got a totally unexpected treat when my sweetie called me at 4:30 a.m., telling me that he was going to drop by in 15 minutes with something he had to give me. To the rest of the world, 4:30 is an ungodly hour, but to us, it’s a perfectly good time to come calling.
He showed up at my doorstep shortly before 5, with a small bunch of red flowers in his hand.
It was just the kind of thing to make my day—or even my week. Or maybe even longer than that.
To all those guys who want to get the girl, take this hint.
(Of course, you may not be allowed to visit at 4:30 a.m., but try to be creative and see where this takes you.)
Then, after a lot of chit-chat and catching up, he pulled out another red pill from his bag of tricks: this really funky, trippy¸ in-your-face magazine called The Stick Insect Hunter (“the website you can bring to the bathroom”). Published by artist, photographer, writer, and creative genius Andy Maluche, it features 36 pages of amazing (if not twisted and perverse) artwork, photography, and scribblings. It carries most of the content from his weblog, http://dont-touch-my.com, and has enough wit, sarcasm, toilet humor (literally), and creative genius to last me several weeks.
His style is eons apart from my own, but here was another red pill staring me at the face.
I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone seeking a little bit of artistic inspiration, as well as a good ol’ kick in the b---. Okay, it may be a little offensive to some, but it’s worth a look-see anyway. And, mind you, the magazine is beautiful… even if the website comes across as amateur and “mishmashy”.
Here are a few interesting lines I stole from page 28:
Doubt is creativity.
If there is doubt, then there must be an alternative.
By doubting you automatically create an alternative.
The urge to find an alternative is what makes an artist or scientist.
As an artist you should doubt everything, even truth.
Don’t try to find the truth.
What are you going to do with it once you found it? (sic)
Find security in doubt.
Art doesn’t make sense.
So you have to do it fast before you realize that.
Before the ugly doubt beast starts gnawing at your insides.
That is the other doubt—the destructive kind—
Self-doubt.
I may not totally agree with everything he says, but I find it interesting, nonetheless.
So… here’s to art, creativity, genius, and red flowers before dawn.
(Written: November 25, 2003)
Friday, November 21, 2003
A Spoonful of Sugar 2003, v.15
From the Rooftop and Beyond
By Niña Rica Marie L. Terol
There’s something absolutely sublime about looking down at the city lights from a rooftop, with a glass of calamansi juice and rum on one hand. True, calamansi juice and rum may not, on their own, conjure up images of style and sophistication—on those occasions, a glass of Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon, or even champagne, would be best—but, together, they proved to be a smooth, enchanting pair.
Enchanted… That may very well have been the state I was in last Monday, as I looked down on Manila from the tower on which I stood. Below me, lights from Roxas Boulevard, Makati, and the nearby airport were winking and swaying, as if a young dancer in the midst of a slow and seductive tango that leaves one feeling ethereal and suspended in time. The lights hypnotized me and seemed to speak to me in hushed and tender tones: “Shhh… shhh… It’s okay… relax… relaaaaax…” I felt weightless, ageless, and worry-free.
The stars above seemed to be speaking the same language, as Taurus, Orion, and The Pleiades—the only constellations I could recognize then—winked at me and shushed me to sit down. “It’s a beautiful night,” they seemed to murmur, “what are you standing up in three-inch heels for? Sit down and enjoy the view, for crying out loud!”
So sit down I did.
Moments like this are rare in this bustling metropolis of several million people, where my days consist of slaving over a PC with my back hunched and my eyes almost kissing a 14-inch monitor, or communing with dirt, sweat, and tricycle belch as I commute my way around to clients who don’t even pay on time. My life is a frenzied one; if there isn’t a deadline to beat, there’s always someone to meet. Oh, and let’s not forget the staple stressors of the credit card company that demands payment now, the niece who wants to play outside no matter how warm the weather is, and the sibling or friend who runs to you with a heavy burden to unload.
Thank God for rooftops.
It wasn’t even my rooftop to begin with, and it wasn’t my calamansi and rum concoction, either. But it was this sense of borrowed time, borrowed space… borrowed comfort drink that made the moment even more… transcendent. I didn’t buy this moment; I didn’t demand for it; and maybe I didn’t even deserve it. But it was given to me by some unknown force so I could silence the critics, the editors, and the slavedrivers in my head… and really just listen… Listen to the faraway hustle and bustle of cars on Roxas Boulevard, to the slow slapping of the waves (there were few, anyway) on neighboring Manila Bay, to the hushed conversation of Paul, Iggy, and Lisa beside me, and to my soul, this mad, restless spirit that always wants so much of itself.
My soul is the greatest slavedriver of all, and I’m glad the lights and the stars shushed it a bit to give me a few hours of peace.
Yes! Up on that rooftop by Manila Bay, I felt peace and serenity for the first time in many, many months. Borrowed serenity on a borrowed rooftop.
It amazes me how it seems to take so much for us to escape our daily grind and find refuge in a familiar and comfortable place. This building-with-the-rooftop has become my second home, and yet I hardly visited the rooftop, the terraces, or the swimming pool below for some quality time with myself. The same goes for my room at home; I have surrounded it with my favorite books, photos, magazines, and candles… and yet I never sit still in it long enough to enjoy my prized possessions.
It always takes an almost-extreme situation for us to really value the things that are just right there beside us. Why is that?
In this wild, wired world, why can’t people sit still and not be accused of being indolent, unproductive, or foolish? Why must we always be standing up and moving about?
Of course, you all know that this question is directed most of all to myself, the only person to blame for this frenetic lifestyle that I have been submerged in. It is I who keep the time, I who crack the whip, I who push myself to the limits of insanity, and I who have no choice but to face the floodwaters every time the dam of my soul breaks.
I thank God for Monday evenings on rooftops—with glasses of calamansi juice and rum to soothe the soul. I thank Him for the lights and stars that lend wonder and serenity to these rare occasions. Most of all, I thank Him for the company of friends and loved ones, without who this moment would have just been another cold night spent in solitude and silence.
(Written: November 21, 2003)
From the Rooftop and Beyond
By Niña Rica Marie L. Terol
There’s something absolutely sublime about looking down at the city lights from a rooftop, with a glass of calamansi juice and rum on one hand. True, calamansi juice and rum may not, on their own, conjure up images of style and sophistication—on those occasions, a glass of Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon, or even champagne, would be best—but, together, they proved to be a smooth, enchanting pair.
Enchanted… That may very well have been the state I was in last Monday, as I looked down on Manila from the tower on which I stood. Below me, lights from Roxas Boulevard, Makati, and the nearby airport were winking and swaying, as if a young dancer in the midst of a slow and seductive tango that leaves one feeling ethereal and suspended in time. The lights hypnotized me and seemed to speak to me in hushed and tender tones: “Shhh… shhh… It’s okay… relax… relaaaaax…” I felt weightless, ageless, and worry-free.
The stars above seemed to be speaking the same language, as Taurus, Orion, and The Pleiades—the only constellations I could recognize then—winked at me and shushed me to sit down. “It’s a beautiful night,” they seemed to murmur, “what are you standing up in three-inch heels for? Sit down and enjoy the view, for crying out loud!”
So sit down I did.
Moments like this are rare in this bustling metropolis of several million people, where my days consist of slaving over a PC with my back hunched and my eyes almost kissing a 14-inch monitor, or communing with dirt, sweat, and tricycle belch as I commute my way around to clients who don’t even pay on time. My life is a frenzied one; if there isn’t a deadline to beat, there’s always someone to meet. Oh, and let’s not forget the staple stressors of the credit card company that demands payment now, the niece who wants to play outside no matter how warm the weather is, and the sibling or friend who runs to you with a heavy burden to unload.
Thank God for rooftops.
It wasn’t even my rooftop to begin with, and it wasn’t my calamansi and rum concoction, either. But it was this sense of borrowed time, borrowed space… borrowed comfort drink that made the moment even more… transcendent. I didn’t buy this moment; I didn’t demand for it; and maybe I didn’t even deserve it. But it was given to me by some unknown force so I could silence the critics, the editors, and the slavedrivers in my head… and really just listen… Listen to the faraway hustle and bustle of cars on Roxas Boulevard, to the slow slapping of the waves (there were few, anyway) on neighboring Manila Bay, to the hushed conversation of Paul, Iggy, and Lisa beside me, and to my soul, this mad, restless spirit that always wants so much of itself.
My soul is the greatest slavedriver of all, and I’m glad the lights and the stars shushed it a bit to give me a few hours of peace.
Yes! Up on that rooftop by Manila Bay, I felt peace and serenity for the first time in many, many months. Borrowed serenity on a borrowed rooftop.
It amazes me how it seems to take so much for us to escape our daily grind and find refuge in a familiar and comfortable place. This building-with-the-rooftop has become my second home, and yet I hardly visited the rooftop, the terraces, or the swimming pool below for some quality time with myself. The same goes for my room at home; I have surrounded it with my favorite books, photos, magazines, and candles… and yet I never sit still in it long enough to enjoy my prized possessions.
It always takes an almost-extreme situation for us to really value the things that are just right there beside us. Why is that?
In this wild, wired world, why can’t people sit still and not be accused of being indolent, unproductive, or foolish? Why must we always be standing up and moving about?
Of course, you all know that this question is directed most of all to myself, the only person to blame for this frenetic lifestyle that I have been submerged in. It is I who keep the time, I who crack the whip, I who push myself to the limits of insanity, and I who have no choice but to face the floodwaters every time the dam of my soul breaks.
I thank God for Monday evenings on rooftops—with glasses of calamansi juice and rum to soothe the soul. I thank Him for the lights and stars that lend wonder and serenity to these rare occasions. Most of all, I thank Him for the company of friends and loved ones, without who this moment would have just been another cold night spent in solitude and silence.
(Written: November 21, 2003)
Saturday, November 15, 2003
A Spoonful of Sugar 2003, v.14
High School All Over Again
By Niña Rica Marie L. Terol
I’ve been running away from my high school days for as long as… well… for as long as I’ve been out of high school.
If you had known me back then, you wouldn’t really be surprised.
* * * * *
I’d always been on the pudgy side. My mom gave birth to me when I had been in her tummy for only seven months, so I was sickly and gangly until I was three. As a result, my parents embarked on a mission to get me, uh, healthy, and by the time I was 10, I already weighed close to my current weight. I reached the peak of my “chubbiness” (oh, please don’t use the “F-word) at 13, when I weighed 135 lbs, and my waistline ballooned to 33 inches.
I refer to those years as “my fat episode”. I hated every minute of it.
The times I detested most were high school dances and fairs, because dressing up for them would always be a problem. I never fit into the nice dresses that I’d see in stores, and I’d always have to be fitted for something or another, leaving me to the inevitable date with the seamstress—and my current waistline. Worse, all my friends had absolutely trim figures, so I pretty much stuck out like a big, fat, sore thumb. It didn’t matter that I still managed to get boyfriends and dates; what was foremost on my mind was, “How could anyone like little, fat me?”
It was the ultimate esteem dropper and confidence plunger. And now that I’ve managed to get rid of a third of that weight (hopefully permanently), I still get nightmares over being f-f-f… chubby. And, this, my friends, explains my paranoia and obsession over weight and health food.
* * * * *
The funny thing is, a lot of recent experiences seem to be leading me back to high school. I’m not sure if it’s God’s way of getting me to come to terms with my past, but—whatever it is—it’s freaking me out.
One early, early morning several weeks ago, Paul and I went to visit a really good friend of his, at his home at Alabang 400—near my high school. Throughout the entire conversation with his friend, Chico, I’d been getting the strange feeling that I knew the guy from somewhere. He looked, sounded, and acted too familiar; but I just shrugged it off as another of those psychic feelings.
Before we left, I casually asked Paul for Chico’s whole name. It turns out that I did know him because we were classmates in high school. I pulled down the car window, screamed out Chico’s whole name, and explained that we were classmates in high school. When I told him who I was, his eyes practically jumped from their sockets, and all he could mutter was, “No way…! You look so… different!” At least he was being polite. Other high school friends would literally curse their heads off when they’d see me without all that weight.
* * * * *
Then there’s Friendster.
I had been avoiding getting in touch with high school friends for the longest time, because I didn’t want to be reminded of who I was back then. I didn’t want to have to explain what happened to me, what I’ve been doing since then… yada, yada, yada. But, one by one, little by little, these blasts from my past came knocking on my Friendster door, and I had no choice but to let them in.
And it actually felt good. For one, people actually remembered insignificant little me (of course, I’m exaggerating!)… and, for another, aside from the weight issue, they actually had nice things to say about me. Since then, I’ve enjoyed searching for long-lost friends with whom I have a lot of catching up to do.
My newest “Friendster” is a classmate from 10 years ago, with whom I barely exchanged words back then, but who remembers me for being “one of the pretty girls in class”. (Hehehe… don’t worry, I won’t divulge names here!) That surely was an ego booster! Hmmm… so maybe a little fat can be beautiful. (But, on the record: I’ll never wanna go back to being that again.)
* * * * *
Probably the only thing I loved about high school was the warm, fuzzy, kilig feeling that I used to get when I’d see my crush—who became my first boyfriend. Back then, everything was new, unpredictable, and exciting; and the butterflies had made a permanent residence of my stomach.
We tend to lose that feeling as we get older and settle into more “mature” relationships, but a part of us still craves for it. We’d joke about the mushy stuff with our friends and say, “Oh, that’s SO high school!”… But, deep down, we know we want some of it back—yes, including the roses, chocolates, teddy bears, and little love notes that would get us in trouble with our teachers. (These days, of course, the kids would exchange cold and boring text messages.) Everything was uncluttered and uncomplicated, and there weren’t any exceedingly high expectations or premature talk of “The Future”.
I feel extremely lucky to now be with someone who makes me feel like I’m still in high school, in spite of his being out of high school for 10 years already. I love how I still get butterflies in my stomach every time I see or talk to him, and I love how being with him has made me appreciate the little things that mean so much—like a piece of Ferrero Rocher that he managed to swipe from his dad’s stash, the beads and scarves that he’d pick out from the neighborhood tiangge, or a really funky movie that I hadn’t seen in ages. Although our conversations are far from being trivial and immature, everything else feels new, unpredictable, and uncomplicated. (Ah… smells like teen spirit? Definitely!)
* * * * *
I may have been running away from high school for the longest time now, but I’m realizing that there are some things worth coming home to. And at least I’m going back a little bit wiser and definitely a lot thinner.
(Written: November 15, 2003)
High School All Over Again
By Niña Rica Marie L. Terol
I’ve been running away from my high school days for as long as… well… for as long as I’ve been out of high school.
If you had known me back then, you wouldn’t really be surprised.
* * * * *
I’d always been on the pudgy side. My mom gave birth to me when I had been in her tummy for only seven months, so I was sickly and gangly until I was three. As a result, my parents embarked on a mission to get me, uh, healthy, and by the time I was 10, I already weighed close to my current weight. I reached the peak of my “chubbiness” (oh, please don’t use the “F-word) at 13, when I weighed 135 lbs, and my waistline ballooned to 33 inches.
I refer to those years as “my fat episode”. I hated every minute of it.
The times I detested most were high school dances and fairs, because dressing up for them would always be a problem. I never fit into the nice dresses that I’d see in stores, and I’d always have to be fitted for something or another, leaving me to the inevitable date with the seamstress—and my current waistline. Worse, all my friends had absolutely trim figures, so I pretty much stuck out like a big, fat, sore thumb. It didn’t matter that I still managed to get boyfriends and dates; what was foremost on my mind was, “How could anyone like little, fat me?”
It was the ultimate esteem dropper and confidence plunger. And now that I’ve managed to get rid of a third of that weight (hopefully permanently), I still get nightmares over being f-f-f… chubby. And, this, my friends, explains my paranoia and obsession over weight and health food.
* * * * *
The funny thing is, a lot of recent experiences seem to be leading me back to high school. I’m not sure if it’s God’s way of getting me to come to terms with my past, but—whatever it is—it’s freaking me out.
One early, early morning several weeks ago, Paul and I went to visit a really good friend of his, at his home at Alabang 400—near my high school. Throughout the entire conversation with his friend, Chico, I’d been getting the strange feeling that I knew the guy from somewhere. He looked, sounded, and acted too familiar; but I just shrugged it off as another of those psychic feelings.
Before we left, I casually asked Paul for Chico’s whole name. It turns out that I did know him because we were classmates in high school. I pulled down the car window, screamed out Chico’s whole name, and explained that we were classmates in high school. When I told him who I was, his eyes practically jumped from their sockets, and all he could mutter was, “No way…! You look so… different!” At least he was being polite. Other high school friends would literally curse their heads off when they’d see me without all that weight.
* * * * *
Then there’s Friendster.
I had been avoiding getting in touch with high school friends for the longest time, because I didn’t want to be reminded of who I was back then. I didn’t want to have to explain what happened to me, what I’ve been doing since then… yada, yada, yada. But, one by one, little by little, these blasts from my past came knocking on my Friendster door, and I had no choice but to let them in.
And it actually felt good. For one, people actually remembered insignificant little me (of course, I’m exaggerating!)… and, for another, aside from the weight issue, they actually had nice things to say about me. Since then, I’ve enjoyed searching for long-lost friends with whom I have a lot of catching up to do.
My newest “Friendster” is a classmate from 10 years ago, with whom I barely exchanged words back then, but who remembers me for being “one of the pretty girls in class”. (Hehehe… don’t worry, I won’t divulge names here!) That surely was an ego booster! Hmmm… so maybe a little fat can be beautiful. (But, on the record: I’ll never wanna go back to being that again.)
* * * * *
Probably the only thing I loved about high school was the warm, fuzzy, kilig feeling that I used to get when I’d see my crush—who became my first boyfriend. Back then, everything was new, unpredictable, and exciting; and the butterflies had made a permanent residence of my stomach.
We tend to lose that feeling as we get older and settle into more “mature” relationships, but a part of us still craves for it. We’d joke about the mushy stuff with our friends and say, “Oh, that’s SO high school!”… But, deep down, we know we want some of it back—yes, including the roses, chocolates, teddy bears, and little love notes that would get us in trouble with our teachers. (These days, of course, the kids would exchange cold and boring text messages.) Everything was uncluttered and uncomplicated, and there weren’t any exceedingly high expectations or premature talk of “The Future”.
I feel extremely lucky to now be with someone who makes me feel like I’m still in high school, in spite of his being out of high school for 10 years already. I love how I still get butterflies in my stomach every time I see or talk to him, and I love how being with him has made me appreciate the little things that mean so much—like a piece of Ferrero Rocher that he managed to swipe from his dad’s stash, the beads and scarves that he’d pick out from the neighborhood tiangge, or a really funky movie that I hadn’t seen in ages. Although our conversations are far from being trivial and immature, everything else feels new, unpredictable, and uncomplicated. (Ah… smells like teen spirit? Definitely!)
* * * * *
I may have been running away from high school for the longest time now, but I’m realizing that there are some things worth coming home to. And at least I’m going back a little bit wiser and definitely a lot thinner.
(Written: November 15, 2003)
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