Sunday, October 22, 2006

Automatic Random Musings (ARM)

The brain, if taken out of context from the person, is a thing. Not living without a heart. So in effect, it's a machine. Once plugged into a life source, it makes everything operate and sometimes can be mistaken as a life source itself. But it isn't.

Sometimes, this tiny but amazing machine backfires. Yes, there are mental illnesses. But to a lesser degree, there is this uncontrolled random musings better known as Memory and Thinking. No, nothing has to be logical. Things just pops up once in a while and if you are armed with a word processor you have every means to type it down.


I am frustrated at my new job. I had the idea that it was this wonderful change of pacing and a step nearer to my dream of being a writer. So far, my output had been a couple of media advisories and meeting with gnarly old ladies about an event that propagates the tradition of cutting down trees for decorations.

I keep saying myself, to write I must need tools. I don't even have my own computer there. I just squat on my other workmate's computers. Thing is, I can't give my all when I'm on my toes trying to see if they'd be needing their computers already. I can't write without a computer. I have lost the patience to jot on paper. It's frustrating.

Now, I haven't done anything significant yet. Given that I am barely a month old in the position, okay, I shouldn't expect much. But I don't feel productive. The only way I can feel useful is if I churn out the articles sometime soon. But without a computer, how am I supposed to do this? Work at home? That'll screw up my attendance. Steal a laptop? Use computers in LRO, when they are also experiencing a shortage (and I admit, hirap kaya umakyat-panaog)?

I know I must deal and force myself to write on paper. But I am critically disadvantaged everytime I try. I think too fast and I write too slow. My hands hurt easily.

I am screwed.


The other night, my guy best friend texted me asking if I was awake. I wasn't. I read his text the next day and I felt guilty. He rarely texts that late. Our history shows, I'm more likely to do that. When I txt him, he responds; now that he txted me, I was snoring in lala-land. Call it intuition, but I knew he didn't contact me to ask my favorite ice cream flavor.

It turned out he was angry and frustrated about something. I think it's guy-troubles, because he ended his text with: Love is hard.

Well, what do you know. Welcome to the planet, darling.

I'm a bit unsure how to help him. Half a decade ago, he was the one who taught me love was hard --- when I was still holding a candle for him. Now that the tinderbox has been annihilated, I'm free. But then, I don't know if I can start giving him advice on boys since I obviously have no talent for getting one. Or distinguishing one, for that matter. Not even if I scry for them, I think.

Or more importantly, I have no understanding of love since it also still eludes me. Speaking of which, I am...


I'm tired of waiting. But I can't stop hoping. I'm tired of being alone (aka John Mayer), but I'd rather not do anything about it. When it comes to finding love, I'd really rather let it find me. The times when I tried to forge my way to and through a relationship, results had been disastrous. Or tepid. Sometimes both.

Last week, a friend asked me why I'm so scared to let a boy know I like him. My only answer was, Because.

In my head though, I completed the sentence. Because he'd run away screaming bloody murder, that's why. Because he'd have to be insane to like me back. Because he'd be disgusted. Or worse, he'd be patronizing and start pitying me all the way from here to the moon.

I've got a lot of baggage for someone who'd never been in a relationship ever. I'm sure people left and right would be telling me to lose the baggage then. Yes, sure, just chuck it out after years and years of being molded by it. Easy peasy right?

Not in this lifetime. Maybe lessen it, but to completely abandon it is implausible. I'm just being honest. (And stubborn as well)

I suppose all I ask for is (as they say it in that NY musical) someone whose baggage goes with mine. Doesn't have to be Louis freakin Vuittons. Me, I've always been the Gap kinda luggage. A matching set isn't really too much to ask, is it?