I have come to the realization that soon, I will be parting with a dear, dear piece of my life. It's a major part of my identity. My companion since my first year of college. My alone-time buddy. My comforting sense of freedom. Sigh.

Of course I'm talking about my car. After that overheating escapade I had last Thursday, it donned on my that it is inevitable. I will lose it. I have to lose it. My dad will get me a new (meaning, used and not brand new) one, but as the cliche goes, it will never be the same.

So I pay homage to the beautiful bull-bars, the ass-kicking mags, the roof rack (that I never used but it looked good anyway), the trunk that doubled as the tech & properties storage room for Once on this Island and Murder in the Cathedral (the other productions I can't recall).

I characteristically resist change (especially big ones). And this one would be hard.

I don't get to hang out with guys anymore (a stark contrast from my college days). For one thing, my whole account group is made up of females. On the creatives side, well, the team's 100% male copywriter resigned. That leaves the encounters with testosterone down to our Creative Director, who isn't so much male. So it's more of testrogen than anything else. There are other people down in our 8th floor who are male... not the types you'd want to chat over coffee with though.

Thank God for my boyfriend, and the male-dominated industry he's in (I'd like to generalize at this point). Friday nights at Greenbelt with beer (they drink, I eat Ice Monster), pulutan, hearty laughter and sly remarks. There are two guys doing Jimmy Santos impressions alternated with "Sumusunod" Jaboom Twins dance moves and recitations of that a butchikik song. No gossip (well, a few), no high pitched shrieks, and I get to be witness to how guys ogle at girls with short skirts... and laugh at them when these short-skirted beings are revealed to be their former male counterparts. I find that I enjoy their company a lot. Maybe because it's a refreshing break from all the estrogen going around in the office. Maybe because the truth is, guys are waaaaaaay meaner than girls (which I enjoy). For example, at the sight of a lady who shouldn't for the life of mankind be wearing a miniskirt (hint: lifesavers down below), I say: "packshet, that is just soooo wrong" while they say: "excuse me miss, 'san ang sawsawan?". At the end of the night, we all got too much air in our bellies, cramping jaws and teary eyes.

This weekend, we went to a birthday party of one of Chips' old friends. We met up with his former fencing team, again a male-dominated bunch. And true to their species, walang-hiyaan ang lokohan. They kid me about my hair, pulling in lines from the Rejoice "Rebond" tvc. I play along and later realize that they may really think my hair is rebonded. It's 100% natural, excuse me. But it's too late for a defense plan. How can you rack sense into guys that have had a round of Bacardi shots and an unhealthy serving of beer anyway.

Now I'm back to my estrogen planet. And I'd like to think that however buff and manly males think (and claim) they are, we women are as manipulative and conniving. Last week I heard this topic on a radio station, obviously thought up by the male DJ: why do women think they can change men? I texted in my simple answer: because we can.

After having gone through by far the worst shopping experience of my life by going to Market Market, I went to play badminton. Yes, that frenzy of a sport claiming the lives of so many people.

But let me digress a little - a side story on Market Market. Popular perceptions brewing around are of this being the high-class Greenhills shopping center, the Philippine version of Thailand’s MBK (right). I excitedly go in with my parents last Sunday, only to be greeted by literally a swarm of what seems to be the entire Taguig and Bicutan population. No offense to anyone living there. But here's the picture - kids, thugs, families and their extended families. Kids are in absolute awe of the escalator, after discovering that when they walk the opposite way, they actually go nowhere. It was the treadmill revelation. More kids whose goal seem to be to short circuit the automatic doors in the shortest possible amount of time... if I step here it opens, step back and it closes... open, close, open close... if only these things can act on their own, I would see freshly squished kids lying around. And I bet that huge colorful playground would be broken even before the Christmas bazaar starts. I could last 14 hours in Divisoria on a holiday, 6 hours in an unventilated Ukay-ukay cluster, and not even 2 hours in Market Market. It was a migraine waiting to happen. Well, actually, it already did.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. We played badminton - me, Chips, his brother and sister and their respective partners. I, being the only one with a practically naked background on the sport (having last played the thing in my early High School days - not even legitimately... palo-palo lang sa kalsada), missed hitting the shuttlecock like a blindfolded kid missing a pinata (though I had my eyes wide open).

BF of Chips' sister gave me a crash course on the forehands and backhands of badminton. He oriented me with the grip - thumb should be on this side, pointer finger somewhere... and the rest would just grip the thing gingerly, not tightly, for support. He went on to say that the elbow should be raised in such a way, the knees slightly bent, body facing wherever, blah blah blah (short term memory talaga). Wala na. Hindi ko gets. Hindi ko rin na-get ang mga shuttlecock na lumilipad-lipad. He then resorted to analogies: the right way to grip is like how you hold a knife. Great, I got that right. The forehand is like hitting someone over the head, with a follow-through to the side (towards the left side, if you're right handed). And the backhand is like slapping someone with the back of your hand. And from that, I could hit the little damn feathered teepee. It's good to get lessons from him - he knows how to talk to his target market.

Since then, I can barely use the right side of my body. I am in pain. Extreme pain. Yesterday the muscle aches battled for my winces with my first-day cramps (sa kinasamaang palad, dinatnan pa ako, leche). I went to get relief via a massage, but at no avail. Today I am trying to stay awake given 500mg and counting worth of painkillers circulating in my system. I could barely for the life of me even ponytail my hair or clasp my bra. Packers.

And let me end with a digressive question: How did they come to call the little feathered thing a "shuttlecock" anyway?

This presents the Pax Mobile. The transpo of choice for all the packers in the world. Them packing shets.



Sigh. Stressed. PMS. Clients. Rush. Work. Stress. Packer.

I'm trying to salvage my PC. I got the better Windows XP CD plus a step-by-step instructional on how to reformat the thing. So as far as I was concerned last night, everything would be fine. But then again, it said that it couldn't boot properly because some file called hal.dll was missing or corrupt. Packers. I somehow got to remedy that with some online tips (gazh, I feel like such a nerd). After a gazillion restarts, and even going into this Bios place I have never even heard before, after even completing the re-installation that the other foil of an XP installer failed to finish. There it was, still the same. A wee bit faster, but nonetheless the same.

So at almost 2:00 this morning, I gave up playing the doctor.

I voluntarily locked myself in my room today, despite my mother's invitation to go to Rustan's and shop (gasp! is this moi?). Reason #1: I am cashless and payday is still on Tuesday. Reason #2: I wanted to fix my computer and read a book. I dug up this Greenhills-acquired installer for Windows XP. I decided that the current state of my PC was going nowhere, that no matter how many times I deleted cookies and temporary files, the pop-ups will not stop; that the Pentium 4 sticker on the CPU was just a foil; that I might as well throw this out the window in a fit of frustration if it once again restarts by its idle self. I back-up all the important files by sticking them on a 10-gig spare harddrive and get ready to re-install.

I find that the Greenhills-acquired installer is also a foil. It fails to re-install XP completely, presenting more problems for my patience and this damned thing of a PC. I am borrowing a hopefully better installer from Chips' friend (also probably a Greenhills-acquired one). I can't get it until Monday, and me and my patience will just have to wait. I forgot to ask my dad when that guy selling slightly used laptops will be coming along.

And so I proceed to do what's next on the agenda - something I haven't done in quite a time - read a book. I used to be such a bookworm, having my nose in a new book every one or two days. I'd go to National Bookstore and sit on the floor and finish a pocketbook in an hour. I picked up Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho from my sister's shelf. It's very different from his usual novels. It's about a prostitute - her battles with life and love, or the absence of both. However different the plot may be, it is in essence the same with those I have read -- The Alchemist and Veronika Decides to Die -- in a sense that it is a lifestory, the losing and finding of oneself and the realization of lost dreams. And it is still a Coelho, because of how the story is crafted, because you are drawn into the innocence of the character, up until the moment she loses it, even if you yourself are not as innocent as she. I am only halfway through the book. I just took some time out to make myself a pesto and cheese grilled sandwhich (thanks to pre-mixed pesto and Kraft cheese slices). I shall go back to the book now.

And yes, the computer is still so goddamn slow.

When I entered the agency, this was one of the first queer phrases I latched on to. The appropriate way to say it (to maximize the desired effect) is with a raised eyebrow or a killer rolling of eyes and a mild falsetto. The irita-factor doesn't refer to plain quirks or abnormalities. Quirks are just mere peculiarities that you can bear. The irita-factor usually escalates with the number of interactions you have with the person bearing the said factor. A few people I have encountered in my workplace that have optimized their irita-factors are:

A fellow AE in my account group (to whom i turned over one of my past accounts to). She asked me about a radio material that they finished and were about to release (note that this AE has been in the company for more than a year, inclusive of what we shall call her practicum). The query was on the radio release materials for this brand: in the past when we release, do we dub on both sides? My answer: You're releasing RB3's (they're like little movie reels). She says: Yup. I confirm her stupidity: RB3's don't have sides. They're the little reels. She says: Oo nga (Yup). Ano ba. From now on she will be known as stupid. Here are other questions that drove us nuts:

- On a print campaign that was turned over: The compre is already approved, what's the next step? (uhhh... production?)
- On the month-by-month billings forecast: Foz, where did you get the month-by-month budget for media? (ummm... sa media grid? AOR gives us MBM's diba?)
- Still on the MBM: The MBMs I have don't have costs (Look in my factbook, there's bound to be one with costs) Ang dami ko kasing factbook, nakakalito. Ito ba yung binder that says MBM Plans & Powerpoint Presentations? (uuuhh... baka oo)

Next, our Creative Director who lashes out everytime you tell him you have revisions. When you clarify a board or copy, he accuses you of not appreciating creative intent and immediately junking a work without such appreciation. He explicitly said that he doesn't want to get close or "chummy" with us AE's because it will affect workplace relations and creative output (where's the maturity there?). And how about saying that they are Creatives so they should know best how to talk to the consumers - they come up with the handle and they know they will work? Uhh, excuse me, as far as I know we're called a team...

Out of our office, there's the 7th Floor people in our building. One of our CD's call them the "masa". They squeeze themselves into one elevator, no matter how many they are or how many people are currently filling up the elevator. As in marami sila. It's like being engulfed by pistachio ice cream (they wear pistachio-green colored uniforms). At one point, the elevator just stopped and beeped because of the overload. It seems that they don't accept the idea of being separated from each other. This closeness is beyond comprehension and the normal level of annoying. Aside from that, the universal mute button that elevators impose on people who enter doesn't apply to them. They yack and cackle as if they were on an open field and not in a cramped, slowly moving box. Everyone hates being with them in the elevator. It's like being in a box with turkeys.

I can go on and on about different people with this irita-factor complex. I'm sure you can too. I'll just have to stop myself for now, it's a Friday and I should be happy :)

Around 9am yesterday morning, Chips and I were on VA Rufino, in front of my building. I was waiting for the traffic to mellow down so I could step out of the car (safely, without becoming roadkill). Chips then blurted out an "Oh my God." I turned toward his side and there she was, walking down the street. A lady (middle-aged) in a grass-green blazer, flip-flops and a big knapsack. That was it. No pants, no skirt, no anything under the blazer (which only aptly covered her ass). I only hope she was wearing underwear. She didn't look like she was coo-coo. Her hair was braided properly and she looked clean. She also looked happy (as in normally happy). She had this mark of awe on her face, similar to what Babe looked like when he first set foot in the city. It's probably that - her first day in the city. Well, whatever. It was weird. Probably the most absurd thing I've ever seen.


Moving on,I spent the day looking at my to-do list. Nothing is so far being scrapped out of it. My bosses are out for the entire week on an out-of-country conference, and I have no defense against powertripping clients. For example, a media meeting discussing the copy plan for the rest of the year (AOR and other people present):

Me: on the rushed --- campaign, copies are in-development and we're looking at the month of ---, as we agreed during the previous meeting.

Client: Fozzy, where's you're copy?

Me: (thought balloon: in development nga eh! at rush ito no! last week lang tayo nag-align sa brief... duh!) We're already working on it, but don't we need to settle media for this already.

Client: I don't want to commit media on a copy that does not exist.

Me: (ano ba! in development nga eh! sana kung dati mo pa inapprove yung brief may copya na tayo ngayon.) Okay, we can just talk this separately then. But we're looking at being ready for the month of --- so we can just slide in the new copy if needed.

Client: I don't want to talk --- yet. That's a separate issue kasi. Let's focus on

Me: Okay, clear. (fine, fine, fine!)

It's not like I can do anything. She kind of has the right to powertrip. She's the marketing director. I'm just an AE. Another encounter, this time with a brand manager who is asking for an FA by monday. We don't have an approved compre yet, she still has revisions. The artist will be at a shoot the whole day of friday, and FA artists are already working on publication deadlines for monday:

Client: Fozzy, we need it by Monday. I can't accept a Tuesday submission.

Me:(Sorry ka nalang, sana ikaw nalang gumawa)We're still revising the compre and I am still looking for a photographer who's available. The artist will also be attending another shoot. But we are managing it internally, because as you know, a lot of creative work is going on right now for the brand. I can't commit on a Monday. (meron akong installer ng photoshop, kung gusto mo)

Client: Marami namang art director dyan eh.

Me: (Hello, you're not our only client! Anong akala mo, buong ahensya sa'yo?!?) I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, I'll send you the revised compre for your approval. I'll give you firmer timings once we talk with the photographer and the team. (Leche, bilhan mo ako ng sapatos ha)

This is the current wallpaper on my phone. It's Jay, my youngest cousin, being squeezed by my Dad. It's a feel-good picture for times like these. How cute is that? Okay, now I feel better.

I found this article while leafing through old magazines in the office. This is by Gemino Abad, from the Jan-Feb '03 edition of Flip. It was quite a good read for me, it made me realize a lot of stuff. And so I thought others should read it too. Quite long (dragging at parts), so prepare yourself.

A poet's own private clearing always stars with some such question. It is a good way to start the year and perhaps, like a caterpillar, turn a leaf and sleep and wake up a transformed creature.

What are lawyers for? Law. What are poets for? Language. But both law and language are instruments, one for the cause of justice, the other for our sense of reality.

The poem isn't a language, it is the living become word. "Get real," I always remember Franz Arcellana saying at writers' workshops. Words do not have their meanings from themselves, but from lives lived. It isn't 'meaning' that language carries, it carries you. The poem's rhythm is the very sensation of living.

If the poem's language isn't adequate for its subject, which is a moment fully lived, it isn't a poem; the subject eludes it, or we read only among its ruins. On the other hand, if the poem depends too much on language, it isn't a poem either. The poem must always transcend its language, and not be entangled in the language's endless play of meaning. That infinite regress is the curse laid upon the mind's hubris that denies spirit and mystery.

What is fixed in the poem is not meaning, as in interpretation, but rather, a meaningfulness that, for one thrilling moment, is all of life for one human being. All of life, that is, the very sensation of living, of being real to oneself, with all that lives. And that one human being is the poet only, but opens that moment's meaningfulness to all the poem's readers.

Let me elaborate a little. As regards justice, we may be betrayed, and as regards our sense of reality, we may be deceived. As the poet Ricardo M. de Ungria puts it in a poem called Afternoon with Young Writer & a Cup of Coffee: "You must find your way back to the real world. / It is always new, and not always true." The uses of law and the uses of language - both must be subject to reflection and change, or we fall blind to "the shape of a reachable perfection", as another poet, Luisa Igloria, says in a poem called Rings. This is why, with statutes and decrees as with poems and stories, interpretation is critical, a word sprung from crisis, from Greek krinein, which means to "divide and judge."

No matter de Saussure, words have their meanings from lives lived. Our words carry us, give us our exact weight, and define all possibilities. Yes, every word speaks other words, and may transform itself through the history of usage in ever-changing contexts, but once it enters a poem or story - a new organic system, as it were, within the vast system of language whence it came - it elicits from every reader subtle evocations of each one's lived experiences. In fact, what we usually take as the word's connotations and associations of meaning are really those nuances and shades of lived human experience from which they draw their color and verve.

That is how poem or story transcends its language for every reader, because its subject is the living become word. Get real, have a life: that's what every poem or story tells us; its language has only been a means, at times a powerful instrument, to help us achieve a sense of our reality. That is even how we achieve our humanity.

I did it! I figured it out! The cobalt blue lining is gone. Yey. The A-thing is gone as well (thanks Kuya Mac). The only problem is, I don't know if everyone is seeing what I'm seeing. As in do you see horizontal grey bars (about 4 of them) underneath the blog title? Or do you just see one huge grey bar? Let me know. As in I need to know.

On a side note, I'm actually growing into this new template. It's nice and clean. Also noticed that the templates are getting darker and darker. I wonder if that holds any figurative meaning. Baka nagpapanggap lang ako nung una. Haha.

The sweet schizophrenic givings of success and discontent. I revel in it.

Okay. I was bored last night, and my bosses were out for a conference. So here is the fruit of my boredom. Surfing through Blogskins.com and ta-da.

Feel free to comment. Just to get the ball rolling, here are a few of mine:
- that "A" thing on the top left corner is annoying me. i have no idea what happened, i just copy-pasted everything anyway.
- the cobalt blue border around my picture is just waaaaay off. i can't find the code that corresponds to it. it's driving the OC in me insane.

Help.

I usually don't write rhyming poetry. I don't know what happened. Hmm...

The leaves fall tonight
and the breeze carries them to the sky.
Into the wind, into the rain,
the tears that the heavens cry.
For a moment there they float
but the earth eases them down
into the place where their mother grows,
into the dark, dew-kissed ground.
And there they sleep, slumber deep
beside fallen dreams and shadowed hopes.
And the heavens sigh, the winds then die
and the earth lets the darkness roam.

2:45
26 Aug 2004

Because my impulsiveness prevents me from funding the things I really desire. I shall wishlist the top of mind items here. Donations accepted.

1. a laptop. Whatever brand, as long as it has a DVD-R, minimum of Pentium 3 (I really don't have high standards for this, I survived perfectly with a Celeron) and a 40 gig HD. I want everything internal. Because when you have the laptop on your lap, you'd need someone else's lap for the plugged in CD or Diskette drive.

2. shu eumura eyelash curlers. Exaggeratedly priced at more than a thousand bucks. For a piece of welded metal and a strip of rubber it's way beyond normal. But for my ruler-straight eyelashes it's the only one that so far works. Sigh, the price you pay...

3. nike/adidas thong slippers. After curiously slipping my feet into a pair and being awakened to a new concept of comfort, I promised myself that this would be my next project. Si Chips may kasalanan nito.

4. a portable mp3 player. Not an i-Pod, coz I don't have a MAC.

5. shoes. Different from #3. I'm talking nice, comfy and sexy shoes. Those toe-peepers at Kenneth Cole never go on sale. Drat.

So yon. Wala lang.