About 3 hours ago (as I start writing this piece it’s 12:27 AM), my mum and I were invited to my uncle’s wedding anniversary. There were lots of food, my cousins were there, my cousins’ children were there, and my anxiety was there too. I barely spoke a word—bouts of anthropophobia kicks in during social gatherings of like nature—and the relatability of my thoughts appear not so much in conjunction with the moment I was in so, as expected, my ruminations became more intense as I sat there staring at the TV. Sure it was prime time, which means series upon series of soap operas grace program spots thus it became my utmost resolve to remain glued to the idiot box while each individual would be dallying with their affairs (not that I actually like soaps, especially local ones with all the slapping and shrieking supposedly for cinematic effect… which I don’t agree to as much; look at my penchant for movies such as the current nomination for the Academy Awards “Spotlight” that entails more of normal conversations as each scene’s focal point).
But I did eat and the food was gastronomic heaven.
It made my day in some odd manner because food serves as a catalyst for self-reimbursement (if there would be such a term, since vocabulary sometimes can be tedious for someone who had severe epileptic seizures in the past). It was at that juncture where I figured my moment of redemption imminent, so I ate a sampling of most of the servings, erstwhile skipping carbonara because I had never endeared myself to anything with white sauces or les blanches garniture**. Admittedly so, the arroz valenciana was a blast that I had to eat additional spoonfuls of it along with a slice of chilled mango graham cake. I’m a food freak.
Still, there were other sorts delectable delicacies: for all you know, hot coffee along with ice cream—for exotic palates, no doubt—was served and everything was inviting; however I decided to take a step back and rethink my yet another round for the table. The Weight Armageddon shall definitely take place if I do and that would be catastrophe personified.
It was 10 PM when the little party came to a close; and while all my cousins were getting ready to pack up and go, mum and I decided to exeunt. We were benevolently handed a package of take-home goodies from the reception which I figured my other family members would enjoy. Oh yes, they did because the cake and carbonara were present, not to mention the shanghai spring rolls—all four of them left because people were picking things up here and there at the party. So no take-home arroz valenciana for me either.
When I got home, I thought my gastric juices needed help so I sought my ever-reliable panacaea for everything that needs tummy first aid: green tea. This time I had something with jasmine so I eagerly boiled water and finally let my tea steep according to instructions (I am a stickler for instructions when it comes to tea). Two cups felt like sunshine within my intestines, thus alleviating my oft-belligerent paranoia for anything that sends my tummy to occasional sequences of gastro-flagellations.
Either way, I think I had a pretty good time notwithstanding my flair for silence and the tragedies of overeating. Food has some trickling of magic after all.
** Pardon my French as I was supposed to say “white glazes: I just like how it sounds, supposedly, and was applying my finite knowledge of Latin; but I’d like corrections so feel free.
Stuttter, BuddyPress and BbPress’ developer John Jacoby has some eloquent things to say regarding how difficult he is to work with:
from http://jaco.by/2015/08/21/im-difficult-to-work-with/
If only this writer (yours truly) knew how to elaborate that much, namely with all existing vocabulary that may be extracted with such ease from my brain’s quarters, then I would be a happy blogger.
As I write this, I’m on the verge of logging off because I have to keep up with my sleep. Unfortunately, though, my head keeps ramming itself with a barrage of ideas that prevent me from dozing off. Yes, I do have a hyperactive brain, no thanks to my occasional mania and—believe it or not—epilepsy (I have temporal lobe epilepsy which, in its queerest form, initialises bipolar disorder-like symptoms). So, it’s like, I get to have “conversations” in my head every now and then: sometimes to the point of irritation.
Oh well, it seems I just have to keep up with this. Off to sleep with you, you nocturnal philistine…
(I was talking to myself there.)
****
Oh by the way, I have this new little widget on the right sidebar which indicates what I’m currently reading. Right now it’s Frank Kermode’s “Concerning E.M. Forster” which I’ve been enslaving myself for days. (Uh, wait till I get my hands on “The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire”… as if I would, eventually. It’s almost impossible in this country to have a copy of that.)
For those who are familiar with the now-defunct (but very memorable) series “Gilmore Girls”—of which I am much of a devoted fan—Kirk might be one of those out-of-this-world characters Stars Hollow has to offer. As much whimsicality he personifies, he blends equally well with all the quirks of the town starting from Taylor the town selectman, Miss Patty the dance instructor, Lorelai’s best friend Sookie, Luke the diner proprietor, Rory’s best friend Lane, main characters Lorelai and Rory Gilmore themselves among tonnes more, plus a troubadour who makes his appearance in some acts to give a more Greek chorus-like narration of a character’s feels in a certain episode. That said, Kirk is almost all of them combined as his very persona lifts itself from surrealism as its finest, what of his mostly-botched attempts to be the all-around guy at the same time struggling with his very own presence as Kirk the town “weirdo” . It is this scenario that makes Kirk a classic Charlie Chaplin, the hero of whimsicality despite his seemingly unobtrusive (or more correctly, harmless) nature, bereft of any contrived hilarity.
Thus, what goes around Kirk comes around Kirk. This becomes more apparent in Gilmore Girls’ Season Two when Kirk devises his own movie-making scheme as a sort of filler before the town’s movie night of the year commences. Of course, the whole town manages to watch it; and as is usual, being immune to much of Kirk’s being Kirk, the populace willingly accepts his oddity (which at some point, to any Stars Hollow outsider like Rory’s father Christopher, may be somewhat worthy of derision). Aptly titled “A Film by Kirk”—apparently Kirk has no other title in mind to name his masterpiece—the sequence starts with Kirk accompanying his date, a plain girl who confesses to being her father’s favourite daughter. Kirk is pleased, and the rest is history. The question as to whether the town actually liked the film seems of no matter at all for, as is customary, Kirk is Kirk and shall always be.
As I previewed the said film for the first time (as shown within that aforementioned Season Two episode) and yet again when I dared browse through the series’ extra clips, I could not keep myself from wondering how the heck Kirk was brought up. Aside from some snippets of information from the series as an oddball who is a certified mama’s boy and has never dated until seasons 4 and 5 (if I am not mistaken), there are no other backstories concerning his rather bizarre behaviour. This mystery furthermore fuels my amazement as well as curiosity on how Kirk can be “prolific” at times, what with his myriad of jobs that Taylor supposedly lets him do for the town. Nevertheless, it is this very enigma juxtaposed with how the common man defines “weird” that makes Kirk especially endearing, funny too.
Without further ado, here is the most of Kirk’s braggadocio. Enjoy.
(N.B: Another equally fascinating write-up about Kirk the character can be found here. And oh, laughing out loud is an understated reaction to his Kirkness in this short film. In fact, I could not get it out of my head, which I attribute mainly to the song that Kirk dances to.)
It’s 2016! Well, of course this should mean in terms of the Gregorian calendar as we know it which, for some, would not make sense at all since there are tonnes of calendars extant in the world depending on particular creeds or traditions, preferences even. However you may put it, though, the new year—again in terms of the Gregorian tradition—has been a usual source of drive to change oneself for the better if not be more productive during the onslaught of a Monday-to-Sunday cycle occurring 365 times (which should then compose a year). Given this fact, most people would dare redeem themselves by a myriad of other tasks to “make themselves better” or finalise some overhaul they’d like to append themselves to so life would flower into such bliss, away from all the mayhem of the “year that was.” Given this fact, new year resolutions begin to crop up with all those duly-worded pledges aimed at making good at one’s dabbling with daily affairs—sometimes all too gallant, professing indignation over the anathema of 12 months’ past. Well of course this would indeed be of noble cause since new years almost always signify new attempts at reforming those which need reform, despite how inconvenient.
In light of the aforementioned, I too have my personal resolutions which I have dared myself (in all true mettle) to hereby reveal—not so much to brag about agendas but more of a resolve to transcend my personal flaws (some of which have been totally ingrained in me ever since childhood). Indeed so, I need change in a myriad aspects of my imperfect life, given that I’ve been mainly embroiled in a diversity of abhorrent life routines that consist mostly of the depression-mania-depression-anxiety-depression cycle. This, as far as I am concerned are borne out of my own flair for indecisiveness, not to mention indiscretions concerning a plethora of life choices sort of muffling my own inner voice. So, for this year, I decided to decide: I want my own inner voice back (plus an unbridled personal force to execute ideas into completion) and not those run-of-the-mill conversations in my head spawning different aspects of ruminations muddled by hurt and hatred notwithstanding some sort of pining for a long-lost almost-love interest. Relatively so, I began having other things I believe would make my 2016 a tad bit more cultured than Shakespeare’s ruffianesque characters or a smiling macaque; and such I sought to list down here as accurately as possible… before they slip away into a black hole’s oblivion.
Without further ado, I hitherto present to everyone my aspirations for 2016, goals that I shall strive to achieve but without any rumbling desire to pressure myself unto perfection (the list shall be divided into short-term and long-term so some items seemingly impossible or far-fetched may be categorised appropriately):
Short-term goals:
Commence a habit of prayer;
Not overthink;
Seriously, once and for all, keep up with my writing tasks given me for various websites;
Be more diligent in job applications since I am desperate now for a job;
Blog more often about better things to satiate a burgeoning desire to write and write;
Sleep on time and not overwork myself to Gehenna’s pits;
Wake up early and jog every morning to keep myself fit;
Eat only what’s healthy and required AND stick to my prescribed dietary regimen;
Drink my meds diligently;
Read a book often to prevent dementia (concurrently am on a selection discussing E.M. Forster the novelist);
Write a poem each day;
Watch at least one movie per week (sensible ones and a trickling of Pinoys’ version of hilarities for comic relief);
Keep my temper in check (mine could rival Henry VIII’s);
Develop a knack for patience (it’s a virtue after all);
Rein in social media presence because I have bounding pulse syndrome whenever I get hooked up the computer too much;
Be more punctual and organised;
Delegate my time wisely;
Be more prudent;
Watch out for sudden outbursts and be amenable in apologising for those (the legend of such outbursts is a long story);
Settle my library dues;
Embody the “cleanliness is next to Godliness” slogan (not that I’m utterly messy but that attitude of beholding the cleaning occupation as tedious and allergy-inviting… uh, unbearable those)
Long-term goals
Learn to face challenges head-on and not complain about them;
Adjudge oneself worthy of tasks being given especially in the workplace;
Remain longer than two years in a job despite numerous challenges;
Be more open to possibilities beyond my own safe-zone;
Become less scared in venturing into different writing projects (currently I’m focused on poetry but short stories and novels do not seem to be a bad idea);
Be more appreciative of children—I am not a fan of children actually, in contrast to most of those I know whose hearts melt easily as they get to see cutesy little tots in their most humourous and innocent ways, and I’ve struggled with that for years;
Take the initiative to seek other people’s company more often and not let my anthropophobia get the best of me;
See the brighter side of life even when the going gets tough;
Practice humility as it ought to be practiced;
Dwell not on hurt, anger, and disappointment but make these as means to edify my attitude towards things;
Explore new interests;
Love family ever more than before;**
Make sure to consult God primordially before any endeavour;
Know what I really want;
Stick to sound and Godly decisions
Sure, my aforementioned list seems to be a mouthful but they all boil down to the following: a rejuvenated personal take on things I live with and live by. Sure, I do have desires of acquiring some worthwhile possessions, some luxurious in a sense (like a car and a hefty amount of cash that I can spend on whatever I find necessary, like insurance) but I believe those should take a backseat for now. All I’d envision for my 2016 is more of the immaterial, intangible: how I may possibly translate from living a ruckus of a life to that which fulfills Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (sort of like that). Veritably enough, I want to change with a viable goal to elevate myself from being a “loser” in my own terms. As God definitely gives us more chances to live in His version of perfection—his mercies and love are new every morning according to the book of Lamentations—the more do I vie to live up to that which incidentally forms one of His longings for us as His adopted sons. 2016, therefore, must witness a transformation on my end and this shall be my mantra.
Ut in omnibus glorificetur Deus.
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** My parents and I have never had an equally cordial relationship due to some issues that have blurred my self-esteem; and for years I could not forgive them who I have branded miscreants in my own definition of the word.
