My Independence Weekend

I had not been reading fiction lately. In fact I had not been reading anything literary these past months, nor had I been watching plays nor movies. And we all know TV can hardly be considered literary. (Yes, I'm a snob.) The void was not immediately apparent, though, as my days were pretty much filled with words upon words of analyses of the ever-changing political landscape that was the Middle Kingdom. Yet my spur of the moment trip to Powerbooks on Saturday exposed the jarring hole. The realization was so sudden and unexpected. I had almost forgotten what I was missing.

Or perhaps I needed a justification for my purchase of the two books. I always feel the need to justify buying things, it's almost an illness. So I bought two books: a collection of short stories by the Canadian writer Carol Shields and a compilation of interviews of creative writers on the way they write, aptly titled, "The Way We Write." I couldn't wait to start reading them but it was late and I was tired so they had to wait.

I started on the interviews first, over a large flavored coffee at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on a bright Sunday afternoon. Again, something I hadn't done in a long time. There is something about the unfolding of people's stories that never fails to move me and, cliche of cliches, make me feel more human. But that has become a luxury.

Yet another workweek starts and I have to put off my humanity in favor of more important issues for more important people. Stories will have to wait.

On My Lack of a Lovelife

About a week ago, I overheard my sister Nuna telling our friends that she wished I would finally get myself a boyfriend, the reason being it had been a long time since I last had one. She would probably only know that I heard her when she reads this... which is right about... now. There. Hmp, talking about me behind my back. :p

And then last Saturday, after a hearty meal in Tapa King and while waiting for the halo-halo, she said that maybe I should go out more so I could meet more boylets. I had to ask again to clarify that she meant "me," as in, "I" have to go out more? Yes, of course. For a while I thought we were gossiping about someone. So where do I go about finding this boylet who has the ability to magically change my life? "Why don't you join one of those dating events?" "Speed dating?" "Yes!"

Now, I am a very lazy person. In addition to that, I am also very stingy. I refuse to join speed dating events (even as I had helped organize one before) because I would much rather buy myself something nice instead of paying for an overpriced dinner. Not that I don't believe in speed dating. I just cannot bring myself to cough up the money required to attend one.

And I do admit to having very high standards. Well-meaning friends would ask, "So what's your type?" hoping to set me up with their single guy friends. Without batting an eyelash, I would retort, "Why, nothing short of perfection." "No, really, what's your type?" as if I was joking. "Really, he has to be perfect." "But nobody's perfect," would come the reply, four out of five times, I swear. But you asked for my type and that's my type!

Of course "perfect" is relative. It's just that I don't want to have to enumerate all of these traits that everyone wants anyway. Really, would you rather that I rattle off smart (oops, not just smart... more like brilliant), sweet, charming, sensitive, responsible, sincere, affectionate, funny, articulate, successful, ambitious, kind, loving, cute, and open-minded? In random order, of course. I mean, would you? And doesn't it already follow that any woman would want a man who's all of those and then some?

And then people would ask why I don't have a boyfriend. Because there's a dearth of brilliant, sweet, charming, sensitive, responsible, sincere, affectionate, funny, articulate, successful, ambitious, kind, loving, cute, and open-minded men that's why! (In the remote chance that you are all of these, AND a man--a straight man, that is, and single--that's important too!; please come forward.)

Not that I haven't seriously wondered enough about my lack of a lovelife. In fact, I've wondered so much that I have gotten so sick and tired of wondering about it. Now I just spend the time reading about Mao Tse Tung's lovelife (the asshole, cheating on his wife!) because really, what else is there left to do?

Oh. And in another remote chance that you actually know of a living, breathing single straight man who is all of the adjectives above but who for some reason might not be able to read this, do me and my sister a favor and forward this to him. Thanks!

Stupid Pig’s China Blog

http://chunzhu.wordpress.com/
Here is one China blog that I've started following recently. The blogger (the stupid pig, if you must) is an American of Cantonese-Chinese descent, and he mainly writes about his life in China where he works now as an English trainer at Microsoft Beijing’s Advanced Technology Center.

I love the tongue-in-cheek humor in his posts, and the way he manages to present a different argument to anything from normal everyday situations to issues of national, or even international, concern. Plus he never takes himself seriously, which is fun. And he makes a lot of sense too.

So yes, I recommend that you read him. Go to his page. Now.

Pagbilao Beach, May 2008

I finally got to swim this summer. The last two times I was within five meters of a body of water, I had my period so swimming was out of the question. And because I love getting my picture taken, I had the most pictures. *giggles

I stole most of these from Jing and Artie.

Supersized Paranoia. To Go, Please.

As I was going home last Friday night, I noticed a woman wearing a black burkha (you know that head garment that basically covers the whole head and has only a slit for the eyes) sitting in the innermost part of the jeepney. Because she was dressed in dark colors, it was easy to miss her but once you'd seen her, it was impossible to ignore her. At first I was curious so I watched her. And because she was covered from head to toe save for her eyes and hands, there was that sense of watching something that could not watch back.

And then I got paranoid.

Thoughts flashed: She could be a holdupper pretending to be a Muslim so she could cover her face!

I watched even more.

The two women across from me were talking. One said, "Teka kinakabahan ako. Parang gusto ko na bumaba. (Wait, this is making me nervous. I think I want to get off.)" Friend replied, "Tara, baba na tayo. (Let's get off here.)"

Now that's mean, I thought.

I watched the woman some more. That's a pretty big bag. Wait, where's her hand? What's inside her bag? What if her hand's inside her bag, fingering a gun that she would point at us at just precisely the right time? What if she's a suicide bomber? What if she's not even a she?

Know that I am paranoid by nature. Compound that with the fact that everyday I read about attempted terrorist attacks, real or imagined. Really, it's like breakfast: a bus exploded in Shanghai. Pfft. A woman was reportedly caught with inflammable liquid onboard a flight going to Beijing. Um, is it time for lunch now?

Still I fought the urge to get off the jeepney. I was not going to discriminate against people of a different faith. I was not going to be mean to this innocent woman who did nothing wrong to me nor to anyone I know. I was not going to be one of those ignorant... wa-wait, I was not going to be in the headlines the next day!

Just make your hands visible, lady. Please. There, there. One, two. Two hands in sight. Ok, maybe five more minutes before my stop. Eyes on the hands...

Yes. Yes, I know. I am very, very ashamed of myself. I should not be thinking these thoughts.

I tried not to breathe an audible sigh of relief when we got to my stop. I got off the jeepney then walked fast. Away before it could explode.

Of course it did not explode and I berated myself even more.

And then she was there with me again on the jeepney last night. I was sitting beside the driver. I turned around and there she was right behind the driver.

The fact that nothing terroristic happened the last time should have been enough reassurance that nothing would happen again this time. But I could see her dark presence out of the corner of my left eye. And I couldn't keep watch of the hands this time.

And so I am here confirming that no jeepney was bombed last night.

And I am very, very, very ashamed of myself. Please forgive me.

Biting into the China Cake

I am taking a break from writing my special report on China's social unrest to retain my sanity. At least whatever's left of it. If you remember how it was back in school, two weeks before the final paper is due, then you'd have a fairly good idea how I feel every time. At best. Because unlike being in school where you have the whole term or at least half the term to fret about what to write, I have all of two weeks. And my heart would beat even faster as the days start passing me by...

As if that wasn't bad enough, I now also write special reports on top of the regular reports. It's like another term paper, only the deadline is more flexible. But not too much because then it would never get written. That's what I'm doing now: making sure it gets written. But then what's so special about it is that its scope is usually wider and the information more detailed. So I'm trying to work those in, aside from just getting it written.

The sense of intimidation emanates from the fact that I have only quite recently started serious reading of Chinese affairs. Every time I approach a topic, I would have at least 30 pages of research (font 9 because I want to save as much paper as I could) to read through before I can confidently convince myself that I know enough of it to write a credible article. And that's still only little crumbs of a much bigger cake that is China itself. Five thousand years of civilization! Can anyone blame me for feeling inadequate? I am always just trying to catch up at best.

And so everyday I calm my nerves enough to take a little bite and chew what I could handle. Never mind that it terrifies me to read about, we're not even talking about writing yet, inflation and how the yuan's rise impact the lives of both foreign investors and ordinary Chinese. Never mind that I didn't even know where Tibet was on the map previous to the riots that erupted there in March. Never mind that I could not identify more than half of the African countries China is now dealing with if not because of an article I had to write about the Sino-African relations.

And then comes the confession. Some masochistic part of me enjoys this biweekly torture. Maybe precisely because it reminds me of school. Or maybe because I am genuinely interested in the readings, except more often than not I wasn't made aware of their existence until I was already chewing on them. Or maybe I really am just a masochist.

And so break's over. Time to cram for my term paper due tomorrow.

Weekend Goal

So I was hanging out at the Mindstorm office, leafing through an old issue of Time Magazine... It's weird but everything I do now has to be related to China somehow. I couldn't help but leaf through Time and see if I could find anything on China that I might be able to use some time in the future. It feels like I learned so much about China these past two and a half months than at any time in my life.

But that's not really the point of this entry. I got sidetracked as early as the second sentence. So going back, I was leafing through Time and I saw a blurb about Miranda July's book. I didn't even know she has a book. I greatly enjoyed two films that I saw by her so that got me excited. Plus the blurb said, "The lives of misfits told in quirky, almost unbearably intense short stories." And then I suddenly missed writing.

Following that was a conversation with Artie how we also want to write intense stories. Unbearable ones, too. Sigh.

So I'm gonna try and write a short story this weekend. Hopefully, an unbearably intense one. I owe myself that much.