On the changes happening

None of us, not even the most free-living of souls, would want to remain in this sorry state for good, would not want to be domesticated and be sort of pinned down to the ground. Novelty can be fatiguing at certain points. We all want to go back to a place where there is a sense of order in things, where we all feel secure and warm and feel and see the beauty behind waking up the following day and the days that follow in the same bed next to the same person.

I spent the entire morning today in front of the tube, aimlessly switching channels to recuperate from the onslaught of the previous week. I attempted to deaden my mind’s incessant worryings about the approaching week through the nefariously deadening programs on cable TV. I found the Chinese comedy shows hilariously incomprehensible, Arirang interestingly odd, the Indian soap operas alluringly ostentatious, and the American game and talk shows exasperatingly stupid.

At lunch time, instead of going to the nearest McDonald branch, I put on my aging trainers and pumped iron until around two. Feeling bored doing the routines I’ve been doing for the past two weeks, I ran back home to GA under the glaring 2pm sun.

I phoned him to check if he was already awake, but it turned out he’s still lingering in his bed recovering from last night’s outing with his friends. So I took a quick shower, went to his place, and forced him out of it. I accompanied him to the nearest supermarket to do the grocery, buy some Christmas decors, and back to his place to give his cupboards some semblance of order.

Then we heard mass.

These past months I came to realize that the entire process of domestication, the giving in to the quotidian, is not that bad after all. We all have to eventually succumb to the predictable and the known because only in this way can we give ourselves a break from the aches of the punishing what-will-bes.

An old photo

Thanks to Facebook and its subscribers who almost instinctively upload pictures unearthed from their files or old family albums and tag everyone in the picture, I am happily reminded of how malnourished-looking I was when I was very young, how my older sister was much taller than I and darker-skinned, how my younger brother was so fat and cute, and, most importantly, how straight my hair was. It was shiny and straight then, now it’s nothing but frizzy and thick and can only be controlled by having it shaved too close to the scalp.

This picture was taken during a birthday party of my second cousin, the kid in blue shirt at the center of the picture. My sister and I always looked forward to his birthday because it meant balloons, spaghetti floating in sweet ketchup sauce, and lots of sweets and toys given away. Images of that party, far removed from my memory until now, is very vivid I can almost taste the fruit salad, pancit, and lechong baboy; hear the laughter of children my age and the conversations of adults; feel my childhood that passed me by so fleetingly.

And see the piercing look of my sister if she finds out this impertinence–my posting here of this horrifying reminder of a past best kept hidden in memory.

Is the world any better after 25 years?

No one can claim a more privileged spot under the sun anymore. Each of us is assigned a unique number that corresponds to nothing but happenstance, devoid of any divine plan we all are wont in deluding our pathetic selves that we have. And this interesting thing  I found in http://www.bbc.co.uk, by now has long lost its novelty, only shows how insignificant we all are.

I’m the 4,914,589,331st alive person on the planet, this number changes depending on the number of mortality and births at the moment. Not very special I must say.

I was told that I could expect to live up to a not so ripe age of 64 years and six months. My heartfelt thanks go to BBC for reminding me of my inevitable demise and conditioning my mind into thinking that it’s 64.5 years and tata. And more thanks, this time to fate, because I happened to be born to poor Filipino parents. Had I been a Japanese I could have expected to live up to 82.7 years, too senile for me (I am not an ageist!), but not too young as in the Central African Republic (45.9 years); I still want to get a PhD. before I reach that age and have those initials affixed to my name on my tombstone (or not anymore because it’s tasteless).

I expect to stand before my God, at most, when I’m in my 50s, though. Extending my life after those years, for me, is already overstaying my welcome.