A conversation late last night / early this morning with Big Boy and LR over ice cream, cheese rings and coke brought about this nugget of wisdom / crap:

"Between love and hate, hate is easier. The very nature of love requires reciprocation and no matter how much you shower love on anyone, it never guarantees that it will be returned. Hate, one the other hand, does not require equal feelings. It is quite possible, and very easy, to hate someone who does not hate you back. And yes, when you heap hate on someone, it's entirely possible that they would learn to hate you right back -- but that hardly matters as hate does not require to be returned."

(Sleep deprivation x the time of the day or night) + (weirdoks) + (sugar) = random pieces of brilliance.

Or statements I feel will bite me in the ass at some point.

Tags: demented doses, good days, number 42 theories, tripping away
coordinates: changi airport
state of mind: impatient
background noise: people waiting to board planes

[Written at the Johannesburg airport, back-dated in Singapore]

7 years ago, on this very day, Velma was lost to us. Violently. In a way that ruined the face that she spent more than 6 decades maintaining and keeping young. The face that I loved. That I still love.

The face that looks exactly like the one in the mirror.

The same chinky eyes. The same forehead -- with barely noticeable widow's peaks and birth marks (though hers was a clover-shaped one and mine is a tiny bump on the left side). The same brow shape (though hers was slightly over-plucked). The same skin hue and tint. The same bored expressions when our faces are relaxed. And when I smile, my eyes disappear very much the same way hers used to do when she smiled. And yes, my frown is very much like hers, too (though hers was usually accompanied by scathing words, and mine generally come with sarcasm).

When I was young, Velma and I both rejected our resemblance. She didn't particularly think that I was pretty so for her it meant that there was no way that we looked alike. She (and the rest of my family) used to say that I looked like Charles Bronson -- which I thought was insulting because he had an overly-crinkled face and he had facial hair!

But then again, at that time, between looking like my mother and Charles Bronson, I preferred the latter.

She was, after all, some kind of socialite who needed (heck, demanded) people to take care of her. She always looked so glammed up and delicate. Which meant that for the longest time, the only way I could relate to her was from the standpoint of over-protectiveness. I took care of her. When the Manipulative Bastard betrayed her, I moved into her room because she was not used to sleeping alone and I worried that she would forego sleep for crying. Whenever I would see her face fall and remember just exactly what the Manipulative Bastard did to her, I would start a tickle war to literally snap her out of it. When she began to pick up the pieces of her life and went into grad school, I helped write her papers. I reacted violently to anyone who tried to hurt her.

No, I was nothing like my mother. And I was fine with that. I think that that allowed me to see and love her for what she really was. To relate to her as being more than my mother but as as woman who was spoiled but hilarious, cold but generous, beautiful but imperfect, naive but strong, vain but charming as hell. I think I was always aware of Velma's contradictions. For sure, I always loved them.

I knew her well. More than any daughter who only saw her mother. More than any child who only wanted a motherly-figure. She was Velma first and foremost. Everything else, including being a mother, was secondary. And I love her for that.

I'm in my 30's now. In the last few years, even before Velma died, my resemblance to my mother grew. My face has aged and sharpened, looking more like hers than Charles Bronson's. The bored expression that was constantly on her face is now more constant in mine.

But more importantly, I have realised that I inherited more than her face. I have her contradictions, too. I am beginning to accept that I have her flaws: vanity, insensitivity, self-involvement, perfectionism. But I know that I also have what was good about her: generousity, strength, sense of humour, charm.

But I am also well aware of where I differ from her. The parts of me that are all my own.

I wish that I could speak to Velma about this. For sure, had she been present, we would have had disagreements about our similarities and differences. I would have probably hurt her feelings (as I have in the past) with my assessment of her contradictions. She would have probably hurt mine, as well. But I know for sure that we would have ended that conversation as friends. The two of us always did manage to patch things up and never let hurt feelings fester.

In my head, there's a growing list of conversations I would like to have had with Velma. Conversations I know she would have enjoyed and loved.

This is one of them.

Tags: number 42 theories, velma-ism
coordinates: johannesburg airport
state of mind: sad

One of the things I am very sure that I learned from Velma was how to matte lipstick. I was about 9 years old, and matte lipsticks were not so readily available then -- especially because the 1980's was all about glossy lips.

It's simple, she said. First, you apply lip balm, then you put on a thick layer of regular lipstick (in that instance, she was using some fire engine red lipstick). Then you take a sheet of tissue paper and blot your lips on it by putting the tissue in between your lips. Then you dust some powder on your lips. Then apply the lipstick again and blot your lips one more time.
This trick was designed to not only create a matte lip but to make sure that your lipstick stays on, she said.

And then she made me do as she instructed. I had no idea why she was teaching me all this, and I really would have preferred to mix lipstick and powder on a petri-dish in my makeshift "Lab" to put the concoction under my microscope than to see how a matte lip would look on me. And I think she saw that look on my face that told her that I thought nothing more of her than some ex-debutante / beauty queen / cheerleader type. So she put me in my place by telling me that I needed to learn how to matte my lips because my lips were too big to go glossy, and that I would be grateful for the knowledge she was giving me when I grew up.

Who could argue with that, right? So I ignored the jibe about the size of my lips and applied my first matte lip.

I have often wondered in the decades following that incident what made her get up from her bed and lead (read: command) me to her dresser for an impromptu make-up session. It's not like I was some girly-girl who would have bugged her for such Beauty Wisdom. Or maybe it was because I wasn't a girly-girl so she probably reckoned that she should volunteer the wisdom because I was too busy dreaming of white lab coats and robots to ask her -- or to even know the value of such questions.

Or perhaps it was simply unacceptable to her that one of her daughters would go on existing without knowing how to properly create a matte lip. That's a very Velma thing to think.

Velma may have forced her make-up and beauty tips on me at a young age. But she was the one who also bought me a toy Gatling Gun, a Spider-man arm and Swiss Army knives. She may have tried to raise me as the perfect corporate wife but she also never stopped me from taking Judo lessons. She may have stopped talking to me for a week after I came home with my first tattoo, but she was also the one who proudly brandished my daggered arm to her friends at work.

And I do think that all my contradictions, the inconsistencies that make me unique, I got that from her. Because I do know how to create a matte lip but I also know how to tell a Gatling Gun apart from a Hauser. Because she allowed me to learn both. To be both.

It's Mother's Day today. One of the few days in a year where I allow myself to miss her. So today, I will wallow in my memories of Velma. That's my way of celebrating today with her.

Tags: number 42 theories, pop culture, velma-ism

I've finally decided which Szymborska lines to commit to. There were too many to choose from. But her Travel Elegy just spoke to me last week, for some reason. So here goes:



And for those of you not fluent in Tattoo, it says:
Everything is mine but just on loan,
Nothing for the memory to hold,
Though mine for as long as I look.

It's there to remind of everywhere I've been,  everyone I've known and every time I felt like the world was mine.

Tags: life in manila, number 42 theories, pointless posts
coordinates: my bedroom
background noise: KN typing over at skype

<sigh> I miss Slackerville already.

Last week was spent slacking in Malaysia with the Polish Tourist, jhybeturtle and EM, where nothing was accomplished except:

• finishing more than a carton of cigarettes
• drinking flavoured, authentic Polish vodka
• eating awesome meals
• hanging out in random coffee shops
• a trip to Melaka for Japanese tourist photo ops, pineapple tarts and Nyonya food
• conversations that were good for my soul
• familiarising myself with Kate Bush (and loving her Wuthering Heights)
• hanging out with Kaffir and Kamus (the super cats)
• laughing my ass off in huge amounts
• sleeping at odd hours in the morning, and waking up late
• losing hours to the Time Blackhole
  

Slackerville.

I think the appropriate word here is tambay. Something I have not done in long periods of time since the Weirdoks kinda grew up and became busy adults. Something I have not done in large amounts since Big Boy left for Perth. Something I have not done since my head caved in and sucked the life out of me.

A week in Slackerville.

I miss it already. But the thing is, knowing that Slackerville is a Limited Edition place and time makes it more special. Imagine living in Slackerville forever. Man, I would die! What about my To Do Lists? What about my goals? What about my need to account for every waking hour? What about the tension I maintain to hold everything together?

Spending the rest of my life in Slackerville will kill me.

But missing Slackerville is not about wanting to spend the rest of my life there. It's about remembering what happened there and cherishing the people you shared it with. And most importantly, it's making sure that you take the time out to visit Slackerville again -- and to not wait too long to do it again.

Pictures of Slackerville are on my Flickr page.

Tags: number 42 theories, tripping away
coordinates: somewhere in singapore
state of mind: okay
background noise: Tracy Bonham -- Mother, Mother

fairlycloudy tells me at our smoke break after the Gross lecture: "I just realised that you're a megalomaniac!"

And I say: "Huh?"

She says: "When he said that 'Everything is physics' that got you excited. So I realised that the reason why you're so into physics is because it makes you understand everything. That's megalomaniac.

And I say: "Yeah, and control everything. Be thankful I'm not a physicist -- or a world leader."

I think that's how the conversation went.

(Thanks, fairlycloudy and Sputing for getting me invites to the event!)

Tags: geekery, good days, life in manila, number 42 theories, pointless posts
coordinates: manila
state of mind: awake
background noise: cartoons on tv

I think there's a weird gene in my system that gives me goosebumps whenever I'm in the same room as an honest-to-goodness, dedicated-his-life-to-theoretical-physics physicist. I couldn't help it, as soon as they introduced David Jonathan Gross this morning as a Physicist, I wanted to stand up and clap (which I did). I think this is the flip side of envy. Admiration? Perhaps. But tinged with thoughts running through my head at the speed of light on what could have been and the Dream that was never pursued.

But there's reason to be impressed. Gross is a pretty accomplished physicist. Won the Nobel Laureate for Physics in 2004 for his work on quarks and strong nuclear force which led to the discovery of the asymptomic freedom phenomenon, which further led to a new physical theory of quantum chromodynamics (QCD). This theory contributes to the quest for the Theory of Everything.

So I stashed my Skepticism in my bag and prepared to be dazzled.

And I was. Hearing a Theoretical Physicist confirm how I understood quantum mechanics, having a hardcore scientist like that talking about the provisional truths, about the need for an open and available scientific community, and how Science naturally leads to tolerant and open-minded perspectives, was pretty awesome. I lapped it up like the nerd that I am.

I suppose his being a Theoretical Physicist had a lot to do with that. The importance of perspective, the theory of relativity, the acknowledgment of how the very act of observing an event changes the event (and its results) -- these are tenets of quantum mechanics. The very reason why I fell in love with it in the the first place. It was great to hear someone who understood and lived all that.

I have no doubt that this dude is a great physicist (anyone who studies quarks, and talks about quantum vacuum like it's a nice place to visit is hardcore) but when it came to him relating physics to social issues, to development, to global warming, he lost me. At that point, Skepticism left my bag and the goosebumps disappeared.

• He talks about a World Government like it was strong nuclear force (not talking bombs here) -- able to keep quarks in line and within a proton according to the laws of asymptotic freedom. As much as he believes in the existence of natural laws that have yet to be fully understood, discovered and comprehended, he believes that the existence of a universal (even pan-galactic) government to make the world behave is inevitable and good. He is positive that the development and discoveries of Science in the last century will lead to a world where rationality and logic would rule.

• He talks about the advances in the study of the human brain and its neurons; he is quite excited by the results of understanding the human brain even further perhaps towards eliminating crazy human thoughts and reactions, making it easier to control nature.

• He talks about how Science has extended life expectancy and how it's probable that in the next 50 years, Science (genetic studies, in particular)  would extend it further. He speaks of the how the future may bring Speciation within the human race -- how through genetic manipulation, there will be other human species.

Midway through it, I realised that this is why I'm not a Theoretical Physicist.

• I don't have the kind of idealism such a life would require -- the belief that observation and experimentation would bring explanations and answers that can be articulated in an elegant mathematical formula.
• And I don't have the kind of discipline required to smash atoms and observe how they behave and then do it all over again until patterns and theories are formed.
• And at the mention of the words "world government", I immediately thought: whose government? how will women participate in it? whose culture will reign supreme? whose laws will rule the world? whose beliefs?
  
• And the thought of being able to figure out how the human brain works scares me. I like the mysteries of my insanity just fine.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I think I've finally come to terms with that Failed Physicist-Wannabe Fantasy. Not that I'd stop reading quantum mechanics books. Not that I would ever stop being in awe of hardcore theoretical physicists. Not that I would stop entertaining the idea of stalking Michio Kaku and Brian Greene.

But I think I've learned my limits.

Tags: geekery, good days, life in manila, number 42 theories, pop culture
coordinates: manila
background noise: liz phair - Somebody's Miracle

Human beings are funny creatures. I think Bjork said it best:

"If you ever get close to a human
And human behaviour
Be ready to get confused"

But there are human beings and there are Amateur Human Beings (AHBs).

Human beings are flawed. AHBs are just as flawed but they imagine themselves to be: (a) perfectly fine; (b) better than others; and / or (c) significantly addressing their flaws through make overs and surrounding themselves with the trappings of perfection.

Human beings are crazy. AHBs think that if they read enough self-help books and dress themselves up appropriately, they are sane.

Human beings are insecure. AHBs turn their insecurities into Victim Complexes -- and they often delude themselves into thinking that their insecurities can't be spotted a mile away.

Human beings need other human beings to live. So do AHBs but they have a penchant for finding people who are "stronger" than they are so they can leech off these people and feel great about themselves by association.

Some human beings are passive aggressive. Most AHBs are as well but when their passive aggression fails to work, they resort to their Victim Complexes to get what they want.

Human beings compete with other human beings. AHBs constantly compare themselves to others and judge themselves losers so that they can then abuse the winners, which they justify through their Victim Complexes.

Human beings can be mean. AHBs are only publicly mean to people whom they believe are lower than them in the Peking Order of life. And they are only mean in packs.

Human beings can be kind. AHBs are only kind when they're feeling condescending or when they stand to benefit from that kindness.

Human beings are selfish. AHBs believe that they are the most self-less, self-sacrificing people on the planet, and therefore they feel that their pathetic attempts at mean behaviour are justified.

Human beings are vain. AHBs believe they're not -- and then they proceed to attack anyone whom they perceive are better than them.

Human beings have opinions. AHBs have opinions, too -- but those are based on the opinions of people they idolise.

Human beings can be creative. So can AHBs but only if they're channeling their idols.

Human beings can be shallow. But AHBs try to mask their shallowness by buying the "right" books and dissing everything they deem shallow and baduy -- while secretly wanting everything that Kris Aquino has.

Human beings are fun to hang around with. Hanging out with AHBs can be fun, too -- but only if you think swimming in a vat of snot and phlegm is fun.

*****

There you go, fairlycloudy an articulation of what Amateur Human Beings are, as per your request.

Tags: number 42 theories, pointless posts
coordinates: manila, philippines
state of mind: blah
background noise: city of gold

Spent most of the day discussing Money and the Women's Movement, specifically where funds that support women's rights are invested and who's investing them. Interesting stuff that AWID is looking into to track trends in financial support and fundraising for women's organisations and rights. But one of the most interesting things mentioned today was how a person's first memory of money influences how one behaves towards money -- in all levels, be it the behaviour of individual donors in allocating their resources, to how women in charge of raising funds for their organisations see the task of fundraising and financial accountability. Interesting shit.

******

My first memory of money was not being allowed by my mother to have cash. Everything that I needed was provided for and I if I wanted something, I had to ask for my mom to buy for me. Velma long held the belief that kids with cash at their disposal were more prone to bad things -- like buying things they shouldn't buy or going to places they shouldn't be in.

The only time my mother ever gave me money while I was a kid was when the school asked for donation for whatever charitable institution.

Equally memorable to me was how one of my godfathers, a Poker Buddy of the Manipulative Bastard, attempted to fulfill his godfatherly duties towards me by handing me 500 pesos everytime he saw me (usually on the monthly poker games the Manipulative Bastard hosted at our place), and I was given the freedom to spend that gift on anything I wanted (comic books, toys, books, Mad Magazine). I think that lasted til I was around 8.

Fast forward to now and my relationship with money. Money is meant to be spent on things / places / experiences to make me happy / make others happy / satisfy an curiosity / experience a new thing / get something done. In order for money to have value, it has to have purpose. And I don't save money for its own sake. I save money in order to pay for a vacation / buy a drool-worthy pair of shoes / throw a party / buy a new gadget. I think the Tagalog term for that is galit sa pera.

*****

Still trying to think about the connections between my first memory of money and how I see / use / spend / earn money as an adult. Are there direct correlations? Are the connections linear? Am I having convenient memories to justify my current money values?

I need to sleep.

Tags: number 42 theories, pointless posts, tripping away
coordinates: rome, italy
state of mind: sleepy
background noise: fingers tapping on the keyboard

You know who you are who needs to read this: The Fool-Proof Break-Up Recovery Plan

Tags: number 42 theories, pointless posts
state of mind: accomplished
background noise: creedence clearwater revival -- proud mary