Past Life

I miss a lot of things. I miss blogging what’s on my mind without worrying if someone will think that my posts are too icky or too unprofessional. (Fine, I miss blogging, period.) I miss pasting receipts, candy wrappers, and movie tickets on my journal, and trying to record moments in writing so I could easily look back.

I miss wandering aimlessly in a foreign place, getting lost, and figuring out my way back by counting hotdog stands. I miss listening to the sounds of a busy subway, and watching people walk their dogs in Central Park. I miss enjoying the sight a *real* cruise ship, and watching the sun set over Darling Harbor while munching on fish and chips with people you love. I miss taking pictures of everything and nothing in particular, and spending hours post-processing my shots.

And then sometimes, I miss myself. Which I used to think was bad. But now, in the course of missing myself, this whole picture of who I *really* am, and who I want to be becomes even more clear in my head.

Icky, all of this, sure. But hey, I’m not scared to be myself anymore. I’m 25 and life’s too short to worry about what other people think. From now on, that’s who I’m going to be — myself. And let me start by being reacquainted with the things I miss.

Oh hai, 2009. I think you and I are going to be good friends. I’m excited to get to know you. :)

At least that’s what my five year old nephew, Jay, said.

Alignment of the Moon, Venus, and Jupiter over Sydney skies, 12.02.08

Jay: Tita Rhiza, you know why the moon is sad?
Riz: No. Why?
Jay: Because you’re leaving tomorrow.

I think I’m gona cry. :(

P.S. But then I heard that it’s smiling over Manila skies. Get the picture? :P

Did you know that the Greeks didn’t write obituaries or eulogies?  They only asked one question after a man died: “Did he have passion?”

Hep. Before you start googling those lines to see if I plagiarized a Hollywood film because you’re thinking, hey, that sounds familiar, let me help you by saying that yes, those aren’t my own words. They’re actually from the movie Serendipity.

And let me help you remember that movie by posting this:

Serendipity Cafe at East 60th Street

Sorry, I just had to post that one. I was there!! :P

You see, that’s one of the things I waste precious hours over lately. I’d watch old movies taken in New York sighing over the designer clothes, and if I see a place I happened to have been to when I was there, I’d open up my folder of photos again and look for that place and sigh and wish I could somehow go back.

Anyway, the point is, the New York fever is still not cured. And I’m currently stuck in that phase where replaying NY movies is more important to me than taking my regular dose of stress tabs. Or adjusting my sleeping habits so I can go to work early the next day.

The other day I dreamt I was lost in the subway, not knowing which train to take. And then the most annoying blonde approached me with her perfect teeth and perfectly combed hair and perfect New York accent, and she was the one who actually helped me find my way. Why, Lord, why those dreams? :(

And. I’m. Losing. My. Train. Of. Thought. Again.

What I’m really trying to share is, and I do have a point.. in the course of trying to nurse this seemingly incurable disease that New York left me with, I actually had an epiphany. And what do you know, a line in a movie actually made me realize what could be missing in this life of mine.

Passion.

I need to find passion. To be so obsessed about something again enough to make me wake up early in the morning and face the day with excitement. New Yorkers strike me that way — they’re a people full of passion and drive to move and live; after all, they probably won’t be able to survive a place like that not armed with loads of those.

And that’s probably what I need, too. I need a purpose greater than finding the perfect pair of boots. (Which I haven’t found yet, by the way, unless I finally decide to succumb to that Aldo pair which has been the closest thing to perfect, so far. Italktoomuchblahblah.) Or, perhaps, I need to re-evaluate myself and find that one thing that I used to be passionate about, and be re-acquainted with it.

And who knows, someday, that one question that the Greeks used to ask will be answered with a resounding YES in this life of mine.

I’m getting there, I know it. When I find it, I’ll let you know.

I wish I blogged more when I was there. Sure, I flooded my Multiply contacts’ inboxes with truckloads of photos, and I betcha, I can still retell the places I’ve been to and the events that transpired in my entire trip (in chronological order, take that). But still, I wish I journal-ed more. I can recall how it felt to be there, but I often wish that years from now, I could still have a way of remembering things a bit more vividly because I know that soon enough, everything would start to be blurry.

So everyday since I got back in Manila three weeks ago, I would click on the Write tab in my wordpress dashboard and stare at the blank space where my most favorite New York moments should have been, transcribed in words. I would browse through the unorganized clutter of photos (thousands of them) in my macbook, and flip through them for hours, and if that ain’t enough, I’d Google random New York images OR cyber-walk around Manhattan on Street View.

I’m not sure if it’s really New York that I miss or the feeling of being in a fabulus and foreign place. Then again, I could always compare New York to California (because California is also a fabulous and foreign place) and still say with all my heart that it is definitely NEW YORK (specifically, Manhattan) that I miss.

I mean, I watched High School Musical three-freakin-times, and my favorite has always been Ryan and Sharpay’s production number, I Want It All. (And if you’ve seen the film, you should know what I’m talking about.) Gossip Girl has become an important part of my week — it is imperative that I get my weekly dose. Little mentions of places in New York make my heart skip a beat, as if it has grown an additional artery that’s extra NY-sensitive.

I miss New York every single day. I miss watching the weather forecast early in the morning, to know whether or not to put my Suede coat on. I miss the subways and the sound of the train’s love affair with the rails as if music to the ears. (My ipod has always accompanied me everywhere I walk, but I had to take it away walking around Manhattan because I wanted to hear everything.)

I dare not say I fell in love with New York, because the last person I know who said those words left his wonderful life in Manila in exchange for uncertainty — to start a whole new life in a place where change is more constant than anywhere else in the world, and to live there for good.

Well, I’m not that obssessed yet. :)

I guess to me, New York will never be/feel like home, exactly why I long to be back there — to be away from home as I know it, and to experience more of the unknown as much as I can, while I still can.

In the airplane on the way to Detroit, this 70-year old woman who was sitting beside me warned me that people don’t walk in New York, they run. Yesterday night, I found out how true it is. Everyone seems to be rushing to go somewhere, and even at way past 12 midnight, Manhattan is still very much alive.

Taken at past 12 midnight at Times Square

I had to make the most out of my first day in New York (and first day in the US), jetlagged and all. (My body clock is sooo screwed, but who cares!) A friend of mine was generous enough to take me around, and I was in constant amazement the whole time, as if I was living a day inside a Hollywood movie. For starters, I got to walk the streets of Queens, experience the subway, walk around Times Square and take photos, look up the high and mighty buildings of Manhattan, watch a real Broadway show (and Phantom of the Opera no less!!), and have my first Hollywood sighting (Daniel Radcliffe in the flesh). And let me just add that I love having to wear scarves for what they’re really purposed for — not to make a fashion statement but to keep myself warm. :)

New York is loooove. Everything is new to me and I’m taking it all in. At first I had fears of feeling alienated in a place like this, being an Asian in a sea of Americans. But I immediately forgot about it the moment I experienced firsthand the diverse culture that is New York. I felt like Manhattan embraced me with arms wide open. While it didn’t really feel like *home* (no, not yet, not at all), it surprisingly gave me a sense of belongingness — an assurance that I won’t have to worry about being different because everyone sure is different, like I’m swimming in a sea of cultures blending with each other beautifully.

Today, I’ll have more walkathons around Manhattan — I’ll make sure I wear the proper attire nao, the hoodie was a stuuupid mistake (it’s too cold here.) There’s a lot of places I have to see, I’m not sure where to start.

Be nice to me, New York. I promise I’ll be nice to you too. Let’s be friends. :)

P.S. Hey Mom, don’t worry about me. I’m having the time of my life. :)

Everyone just had to blog about it, right? :)

But no, I wasn’t there that night. I was, half-hearted, on the way to Embassy with some colleagues when I got texts from my Mom and brothers (Kuya Nate was with the ABSCBN crew who covered the event) about the abrupt ending of the most-awaited rock concert of all time. Ely Buendia, having gone through loads of emotional and physical stress brought about by concert rehearsals and the death of his mom, had a heart attack towards the end of the first set.. but of course everyone knows already what happened.

My family has developed this familial concern for Ely Buendia, not only because my brother, Nikos, would spend all his high school allowance buying cassette tapes and making mixtapes of Eraserheads songs, and we would all have to listen to them blasting on our stereos all-day ’round. And not only because I eventually started sharing my brother’s addiction, spending all my lunch money buying songhits with Eraserheads centerfolds, lyrics and chords, much to our parents’ questioning however we convince them that Eheads was the new Beatles.

It was only when Ely had his first attack about two years ago that the rest of the family (read: my Mom) started being interested about the whereabouts and whatabouts of Eraserheads (and/or the lack thereof).

Which explains why I knew about Ely’s heart attack right when it was being announced. There I was, on the way to Embassy, in a conference call with my brothers and Mom. Yeh. :P

Last Saturday, Ely Buendia was released from the hospital, recovering from his third angioplasty, a heart procedure that is so familiar to me (and my family) because my Dad underwent the same procedure just before Ely’s first attack in 2007. Incidentally, Dr. Wilfredo Dee, my Dad’s Cardiologist, was the same person who performed Ely Buendia’s angioplasties. And I can just assume that it was Dr. Dee who performed Ely’s third angioplasty also, after all, there are very few cardiologists in the Philippines who perform angioplasty, and Dr. Dee is one of them.

Angioplasty is the new bypass. Unlike bypass, however, angioplasty is not an intrusive procedure because it doesn’t require to cut through the chest and open up the heart. In my Dad’s case, he was cut somewhere in his thigh, just big enough to insert the stent (“tightly folded balloons“) to flow through the vessels, and right through the clot that’s blocking the passageway of the blood to his heart. (Sorry for the very UN-technical explanation, I’m describing this based on how I understood what was done to my Dad. Heh.)

And, unlike bypass which cuts through blood vessels to install new ones for the blood to flow through, angioplasty restores the blood vessels to its original state, perhaps a bit weakened, but easier to recover from. You’d wonder how in the world can Ely Buendia still live to tell the story and promise a second Eraserhead Reunion Concert after three (!!!) heart procedures, well — it’s angioplasty alright. If Ely had three bypasses instead, I reckon his heart would be weaker, and he’d be on bed-rest the rest of his prime.

There’s a lot of buzz about another Eraserheads Reunion in the works. I make sure I get myself a ticket this time. Not only because Eraserheads has been the soundtrack of my young, carefree life too, just like everyone else; But I’d like to be rooting for Ely Buendia, most especially, for putting his whole heart out there — literally and figuratively — in the name of music and life. Hands down.

*Thanks to Jorem for the photo. Browse through his album to see more. :)

Plurk is was down, it’s raining, I’m home, and it’s Friday night. There you go. Four reasons why I’m here blogging *again*, breaking my record of sporadic posts, and on a Friday night no less. (Three blog posts in one week! Would you look at that!)

Confession: There are three things that give me manic depressive attacks on Friday nights: (1) Being stuck in the office; (2) Being stuck at home; (3) Being alone. Ergo, I usually make it a point to be out with friends on Friday nights, OR, if I must be by myself, I should be in some crowded place where I could burn moneysss (lol), i.e., shopping rediculously expensive stuff I don’t need, or splurging on overpriced dinner.

Like last Friday, when I spent two full hours at Shangrila after work, and had a grand live-now-pay-later time with my credit card. Or the Friday before that, when I walked about three blocks from the condo to Pearl drive just to get Starbucks coffee, and walked back taking all the wrong turns, exploring the village I live in, and experimenting where the unfamiliar streets would take me.

It’s weird how I often forget about the other days of the week and remember how I spend Friday nights. I’m starting to get worried about myself. Heh.

Tonight, for the record, I spent it blogging. And listening to Disney music, hoping that it would cure my Friday night sickness. And thinking of the many other things I want to blurt out on this space but can’t because I’m done being emo because I’m 25 years old and I have to blog my age, LOL.

Uhm-kay. 30 minutes left before Friday night ends. I think I should walk.

Here’s a superdelayed thank you post, for Karlo Pineda, who, not only encapsulated my Dad’s memories into a beautiful poem, but took also the opportunity to have it published for all to see. :)

Sometime March of this year, Karlo’s very first draft was posted on my multiply account, a mere comment on that photo from that multiply album I put up during Daddy’s first death anniversary. Without really knowing my Dad, and just by looking at the photos I uploaded in multiply, Karlo wrote a poem I wish I had the gift to write myself. It was beautiful. And needless to say, it made me cry buckets of tears.

Last week, Karlo (with Camz in tow) made me cry again with this lovely surprise.

The July 2008 issue of Philippine Graphic

..with my Dad’s memory, printed on page 44 :)

It’s one thing to have read the poem from the comments section of my multiply account, another thing to have seen it splashed across the poetry section of a magazine — preserved in print forever.

What can I say? I’m honored to have received something intricately crafted by a brilliant poet. But even more so, honored to have a father who lived a life worthy to inspire someone to write something so beautiful. I will forever treasure this masterpiece. Thank you, Karlo.

P.S. You and Camz are still, and will always be, my most favorite couple. I’m counting on you guys. I need my regular dose of inspiration. Stay in love. ;)

After the jump: Karlo’s poem, From the Sky to the Kite, in memory of my Dad.

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(Truth Thursday on a Friday: Here’s what I really want to say.. *ehem*)

Love has been defined countless of ways, and to add my own version is a fear I guess I’ll never overcome. I mean, take it from a girl who thinks that “love sucks” is probably the most profound thing she’s ever blogged about love. Get the picture?

So I’m simply quoting a classic, because I actually think it’s true: Love hurts. No matter how you look at it, it hurts, and if it doesn’t for you yet, it soon will.

I mean, look:

Must remain superhero.

Must choose social reputation.

Must choose loyalty.

Must remain friend.

Fine, the last part is just ME. There’s no romance between Harry and Hermione, I know right, but oh how I wish there is! :)

And fine, it’s no fair that I used fictional characters to prove my point. Then again, this needs no exhibits. Love does hurt. Love without pain, or sacrifice, is not love at all. Ultimately, when it starts to hurt, that’s when love is most real. Correct me if I’m wrong, I’m not an expert at this. But with love, IMHO, ending up together is (probably) not the most important thing.

So hey, it’s me, love blogging over coffee break, and loving the bittersweet taste of my coffee that has gone cold.

(In fairness, blogging about love is more enjoyable to me than bloggging about food. Then again, it must be the rain.)

Also, you think I should start working on my bitterness?

I may be a lousy blogger, but please don’t hesitate to tag me. Who knows I might respond in a year. Blpht. :P (Here you go, Mae. I dazzle you once again with my tardiness.)

What is love. *bitter pill overdose*

Love sucks. Love hurts. It’s confusing. It’s oftentimes deceiving. It makes you clingy, always wanting, always needing. It makes you forget about yourself, robbing you off your individuality, and blinding you with warmfuzzyblahs and hope and wishfulthinkings.

But what sucks even more is.. however frustrating this thing called love is, and inspite of everything that makes it suck, you know that at the end of the day, you’d still choose to love and be loved. Losers.

Fine, Joshua has a more optimistic way of putting it. I wish I thought of saying that first. ;)

Meanwhile, Riz’s attempt at love, age 25 = RIP. I’m lighting a candle. Join me watch it burn? :P

SPONSORED POST. Filipina Web Designer / CSS Goddess. (Haha, Mae.) Also, PHOTO by Poppy Smiles.