Touched by Religion

I meant to write about this priest I saw about a week ago (ABOUT A AGOOO!) and with him someone interesting. Her snow powder skin and ivory smile caught me, and I wanted to catch her like a firefly in a bottle. What drew me to her more was her uniform. You may think it’s strange that I comment on this but it’s because I once studied in her school so I know the uniforms well. The conservative deep-sea skirt had transformed into a pencil skirt that ended three inches above her knees, which rode up her legs each time she took a longer stride. The sailor top that was meant to be loose was now skin-tight showing her developing breasts. The sleeves were shortened baring her arms even more. She was not a Filipino. She wasn’t even Asian. This Caucasian girl with her hazelnut bob cut and blue eyes was a toy for this fat white priest. They got in a cab and as they were about to depart, the priest’s hand slid up her 12-year-old inner-thigh.

A Vision of a Cleaner Future

I’ve had this idea of how the human race could cut its dependency on oil. It all started with a man named Elon Musk and his company, Tesla. Electricity is the future. It ain’t nuclear, and it’s definitely not shale. The only problem I have with Tesla is its battery. It takes too long to charge, and it has a limited lifespan of five years. Although the lifespan may not be such a big thing since it could be recycled to an extent. Of course there are some people, like TIME, that think that an eco-friendly battery isn’t enough. This is where my idea (that combines other ideas and is technically not even a new idea) comes in.

Have you heard of solar freakin’ roadways? Well now’s your chance:

Solar roadways would be the first big step into a cleaner future. This will drastically cut our dependence on fossil fuel or any form of consumable energy (not to be confused with the laws of conservation). For those that didn’t watch the video, solar roadways replace your run-of-the-mill asphalt roads which do nothing with smarter roads. Theoretically, it can boost the economy with the jobs it generates needed to construct these roads. It can potentially give a state an excess of power if all the roads were replaced. Imagine, a city with an excess of clean power.

Last year, a company called WiTricity came into the limelight. They’ve invented a safe way to transfer electricity from one device to another.

If WiTricty, Solar Roadways, and electric car manufacturers team up, we could see the largest scale bumper cars in the world. Cars could charge and source their energy from the roads leaving charging for long-distance travelling almost obsolete. Hopefully I’ll be alive when I see this happen.

“And I might look calm and collected at a glance/ But I taste the void when I’m not connected/ To the world kinetic, as opposed to static/ Idle hands a workshop of a modern-day addict”

I don’t know how else to put this. I feel that this country, society, culture or whatever is restraining me. I kinda knew that I never belonged here ever since I got back. It’s like growing up with a foster-mother then years later live with my real mother who is practically stranger. Most things are still pretty alien to me: eating rice, this fascination for malls or even the locals. When I see them, I find myself transported to an unfamiliar place. Yes, I described them as mythical creatures in the most peculiar and racist way.

My mom and I have been wanting to leave this country for a while. We just aren’t as lucky as those deep-pocketed individuals. It annoys me that these people treat life opportunities like loose change. Sometimes they use it. Sometimes they lose it. Sometimes they forget about it. But they know that they can just get more later on.

Going back to point, I know that I can never reach my full potential mostly because of the bad memories from the Clan and my father. Shing02 raps about his muse (or whatever she is) and how she has moved him forward. This struck me too since I need to find my muse in life and getting off these 7,107 islands is the first step.

And I might look calm and collected at a glance

But I taste the void when I’m not connected

To the world kinetic, as opposed to static

Idle hands a workshop of a modern-day addict

On a hot streak for inspiration is key to feed

The mind in need of stimulation

Elevator music to the space station

Penthouse of stars a-blazing

This country is too small for me. I don’t know how else to put it.

Bidding Farewell to an Old Enemy (again)

This is the fourth draft. I’ll just make this simple. I quit smoking again. I smoked for a month when my mother was hospitalised. I stopped because I felt so disgusting. The cigarettes felt good but I just felt so gross afterwards (I used the word felt four times, I know. Deal with it). I left the pack and lighter on top of some Murakami novels in National Bookstore at Katips. Somehow it was appropriate to leave it there like it was meant to be.
Chewing gum is infinitely more satisfying.

Reconnecting with the Mainstream

Among my friends, I’m probably the most disconnected mainstream person. Here is a list of US produced songs that I’ve never, partially or have not heard of or seen the MV for the past year (if I’ve only heard cover versions than the original version will make the list as well). The list I came up with comes from the DJ Earworm Mashup – United State of Pop 2014 (Do What You Wanna Do). This will be a very surprising trip.

The lyrics are well written, and the melody is catchy. What I don’t get is that there’s a guy that just hangs out with the pianist and Aguilera, she HAD to look visually pleasing as opposed to the pianist and the hanging-out-guy, and everyone seems to be looking up most of the time. Pretty sure you could look down when you’re depressed. Pun not intended.

Who the hell is that whispering black guy? And she does not look like a 12-year-old, as many people keep pointing out. Continue reading

Framed in a Japanese Dream

I had this dream about 12 hours ago. Incredibly surreal, I have to say. Let me paint you a picture first. About four days ago, I burnt what I think was all my “mementos” of my ex. I also realised how rubbish I am at burning things. Three years ago, my wallet that had money, an ID, and my ex’s letters to me was stolen.

The dream, as far as I can remember, starts with me walking alone in a small street lined with low-rise buildings in Tokyo. It was a cold and grey day. My red and black winter jacket was up my neck. The black beanie I wore didn’t do shit so I bought a pair of brown earmuffs. I wore black mittens that did nothing to protect my delicate woman-like fingers against the weather so I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jacket. I passed by a couple of traditional Japanese ramen bars. You know, the ones with the wood and paper sliding door. I kept walking until I saw this shop that sold accessories. The glass windows that reached from the ceiling to the floor were the most modest not that I know what a boastful glass window looks like. There wasn’t any door, which I didn’t find strange at all. The walls were a kind of sea-foam-green with glass shelves upon shelves bolted to it. Some shelves had bags and shoes, some had magazines.

One rack near the entrance caught my attention since it said, “Used wallets. 50% off.” I was convinced that people came to this shop and had pawned their wallets. Following that logic, the rack of wallets of different shapes, sizes, colour, and material were those that weren’t bought back. The thought that these could be stolen was non-existent. I looked at these wallets like how I was looking for books to buy–by appearance. I only ever buy wallets that are made of leather, folds, and has many slots.

My eyes widened when I saw a leather wallet with black lettering on a red canvas. For a moment I turned into Indiana Jones in the Temple of doom, slowly reaching for the wallet. It certainly was the same brand (Tough Jeansmith has the best Japanese leather wallets btw). I slowly unbuttoned it open as if it were my lover in a rainy day. It had nothing but the letters from my ex. “I can finally burn everything,” I mumbled. Continue reading

No Right to Fall in Love

This will sound completely stupid bordering absolute absurdity but at 2am, anything probably makes sense. There is this one person that I wanted to fall in love with ever since I first knew about him. It’s been five years since then, and all I’ve been able to do was stalk him over the internet. I try to look for decent photographs but he’s never out. I wanna know what other people think of him but he never interacts. He loves jazz on vinyl, coffee and alcohol with decent food, and incidentally has opened a coffeehouse and jazz bar because of it. Tokyo night life is probably the second thing he’s most interested in. Not the host clubs and karaoke, the I’ll-smoke-this-pack-till-4am kind. The first is probably love or some sort of human relationship, just in case you were wondering. I wouldn’t want to leave a thought out. Many of his colleagues, who are in the same line of profession, criticise him. He just loves breaking boundaries, and he’s good at it. That’s why I’ve always wanted be in love with this man. Yet I feel like I have no right to be. I know many things about him but know little about what he loves doing–write. I guess that’s what Haruki Murakmi does to people. I told you this would sound stupid bordering absolute whateverity. It’s 2am so who gives a fuck. It will probably take me years to finish all his works given that I’m taking my sweet time making notes on every page.

Headache

A sick mother, I have no job to help pay for medicine and the operation (let alone save for grad school), and a father that’s apprehensive on giving help. This is pulling me down. I can’t go anywhere with this. I unfortunately have to take responsibility because I really would like to see mother live longer. It’s a disgusting thought to know that my father has abandoned his role as a loving husband, which is why I bear the responsibility. I’m jealous of friends that don’t have a two-ton anchor weighing them down. Fuck you all.

The Effects of Being Rejected for Employment

I’ll keep this short since I don’t have much drive in me. For about three months, I’ve been sending CVs, going to interviews, and taking tests. I told myself that feeling disappointed after getting a rejection letter was normal but as more rejection letters kept pouring in, a cesspool of depression began to build inside of me. It wasn’t the companies’ fault that they rejected me, and it isn’t even my fault that I was rejected. “I just wasn’t good enough.” That thought found itself in the crevices of my brain wrinkles, and it was pure poison.

This poison couldn’t be stopped. It was the truth. Doing my best wasn’t good enough, and there are an infinite (well not really) amount of people who are infinitely better than me.

I went to a job interview a week ago with high hopes of getting accepted. I got there early, an hour early. There was a 7 eleven nearby so I decided to grab myself a cup of hot water with soil and milk. Sitting there and staring out the windows with dozens of people whizzing by made me feel alone. Everyone needed to be somewhere because their work told them to do so. I was a stationary rock with an affinity for hot water with soil and milk. I threw the joe away and made my way to the office. All my confidence had mysteriously disappeared.

I saw an acquaintance from uni at the office, and my stomach began to churn. Needless to say, I got rejected. The interviewer told me upfront that I was just going to be frustrated in this workspace. I will never forget her words, “You’re so young. You’re like 24? 23? And yet you look so weathered out.” Lady, you don’t know the half of it.

At the elevator on the way out, my friend asked, “What are you going to do now?”

I drew a blank. I didn’t know what to do next. “I guess I’ll just go home then.” I said.

I was so depressed that I didn’t even hug my friend good-bye. I just waved and walked away. Each step I took to the bus station was a pang to the chest. My teeth began to grit, and my hands turned into fists. The poison had hit me hard. On the way to the train station in the bus, I broke down. I just started crying. I covered my face with my bag but everyone could hear me. The only thing I could think of was, “Why wasn’t I good enough? Why am I not good enough? WHY WHY WHY? FUCK!!”

For 20 minutes, I cried in that bus. For 20 minutes, I tried to hide my red eyes in the train. For 20 minutes, I cried at home.