Nodame Cantabile

Things are getting a little better lately, thanks to my friend M, who showed me the path to sheer happiness when she let me borrow a copy of Nodame Cantabile. Nodame is a Japanese show based on a manga series starring the beautiful Tamaki Hiroshi. I've always had a thing for slim guys with great hair. Tamaki certainly fits the bill, hehe.

The series is about a group of young musicians who form an orchestra. Individually, they’re not excellent. They still need a lot of practice. But these kids have a lot of passion, raw talent, and love for music, which, as any artist will tell you, is a great start towards a brilliant career.

Nodame shows how life-enriching music and the arts can be. It shows how passion for your craft can give your life a sense of direction, the kind that money will never give you. It shows that if there is one thing that life will never take away, its talent. Blessed are those who have it. And if you do, you should never let it waste.  

Ice cream and Shoes

I want to write about something, but I can’t find that something.

I have a lot of things to write really, but not now. There is a time to write about those things. Maybe I can write them 6 months from now. Or maybe not. By that time it will no longer matter.

I still have a short story to finish. I’m almost done. But I’m scared of how it would come about.

I keep checking my e-mail, hoping that something interesting would come up. The most interesting mail I got was about a meeting next week with one of my favourite professors. That was it.

Maybe I should just eat ice cream, but as it happens, I already have fulfilled my ice cream quota for the day.

Maybe I should just buy shoes. That always worked for me in Manila. The higher, the better. It would hurt so much I will never get to wear it. Walking in heels in Singapore is akin to suicide.

I should go back to working on my presentation for Monday, but the topic is depressing—about people who pretend to peacefully co-exist but, behind that facade, there is potent rage brimming, the kind of sheer anger that would destroy their society.

Emo. That’s what my brother calls this. I can’t believe I’m doing and feeling it now.

PMS, that's how my girlfriends would label it. Hormones.

That’s it. I’m going to buy a pair of shoes from Charles and Keith. Saturday. I promise.

Money, Money, Money!

I was doing a couple of mean crunches at the gym this morning (oh yes, I'm on track with my goals this year) when it suddenly hit me: I'm 28 years old without a single property to my name.

I have countless books, clothes, and diplomas, but I haven't made any investments in my entire life. I have slaved for 6 years, been studying for the past 6 months, and all I've got to show for are my tiangge clothes. Oh, no.

I've been putting off taking care of my finances for the longest time. You see, I've always been obsessed about studying abroad, and now that I've reached that goal (which turned out to be no big deal, although I'm really thankful for the mostly wonderful people I've met) it's time to move on to something more important, something that would really have a huge impact on my future. I ought to stop worrying about grades and start worrying about my savings.

I don't want to die penniless and educated. I want to have a posh condo, and the peace of mind so that I can write. I know too many smart yet poor people. This may seem materialistic, but that's not the kind of life I want. And I don't want to snag a rich husband just to live a comfortable life. Many who do end up being really unhappy, or worse, beaten to a pulp.

When I left the gym, I vowed to myself: I will invest on a business (anything!) in the next two years. My brothers--average students-- are now building their investment portfolios. I'm sorry, but I am not going to be the poor spinster sister with the multiple diplomas to her name.

Yesterday, I learned a lesson

That I should be more careful about the things I blog about, and to whom I should show it.

I live for the day—if there is something I learned in the past 28 years, it’s that worrying about the future is pointless, and that sometimes, worrying about the consequences about what I say and what I write, is an exercise in futility.

But boy, am I really, terribly, wrong.

A couple of months back, I wrote something, about Someone, that was slightly critical. I forgot about it. I moved on to better and happier topics: Christmas, friends, Manila. Lo and behold, I got an e-mail from Someone, telling me he read my “slightly critical” blog entry. When I asked him how he found out about it, he said a classmate “ratted” on me.

Wow. That was juvenile. That was so high school. That was, as my friend W said, low. I’m amazed that some people actually have the time and inclination to read and discover something that I posted months ago.

My closest friends don’t read my blog. They’re too busy, too caught up in their lives to bother reading it that often. Heck, my skirt-chasing, iron-pumping  younger brothers don’t even know I have a blog. T o know that somebody actually read back to my previous posts and bother to “rat” on me, leaves me in stitches. And yes, I’m being sarcastic.

From now on, all the “safe” posts are here. The questionable, negative, and more interesting ones go to my anonymous blog.  This would be the last nega post.

I apologized to that Someone. I hope I didn’t piss him off. But I think I’m the one who’s more pissed.

Postscript

I finally heard from Someone, who was so cool about the whole thing. He said he wasn't pissed. The dude was more surprised somebody would bother to rat on me.

So, sorry, people. Like what I used to tell Someone... EPIC FAIL! [insert evil laugh here]

The Thing About Us Pinoys

Today I had lunch with the only Pinoy student I’ve met here in NTU. D was introduced to me by his classmate and my neighbour M. It was really nice and refreshing to talk to a fellow student in Tagalog, somebody whom I can freely express my hang ups about school and about life without losing some of my ideas in translation, and without worrying whether he will be offended by anything I would have to say.  

We Pinoys have a lot of idiosyncrasies, from pointing to something with our pouted lips, to taking a bath twice to thrice a day. And the only people who can understand us, from our best to our worst, is our fellow Flips. That’s why when Pinoys migrate, they settle in areas where there’s already a large Filiipino community, to make the transition to the new country a little easier.

Which isn’t to say we get along all the time. One nurse I’ve met here in SG told me that in the hospital where she works in, she has a problem managing her Filipino staff. A former colleague left her job here after a mere three months—she couldn’t stand working for her Filipino boss, who was unreasonably competitive and insecure of her.

But for my part, I would like to hang out more with other Pinoys. Nothing beats having to speak to somebody in your native language, and to joke with them without explaining the context. I’m sure there will be people out there I won’t get along with, but I’m going to be a Polyanna—I will believe a person is good, until I’m proven otherwise.   

Men, Flirting, and Me

One of the most memorable moments from last sem was when my classmate, HK princess W, asked me, “How many boyfriends have you had?”

This happened during a rare lull in our new media class, when Dr. D was busy tinkering with the PC, trying to restart one of those Youtube videos that have become staples of his lecture. For a moment there, I didn’t know how to answer W. I was looking at her, face-to-face, trapped in rows of seats and tables, with nowhere to go. I wanted to talk to one of my classmates, but the evasion would be too obvious. I wanted to go to the loo, but that was more obvious. I wanted to scream at Dr. D, “Dammit, D, get this started!” But he was no help at all.  

And then, I finally told W the Truth. “None.”

“What?” she asked, sceptical. “I would have thought you have tons of exes!” She looked at me for a few more seconds, thinking I must be joking.

The reason W was so surprised was that she knows I’m a big flirt. Aggressive, as some friends half-jestingly describe me. This came to full force last December, when I flirted with all the cute boys (friends I miss) of the old company I used to work for.

The reactions were varied. There was N, one of my all time biggest crushes, who remained rooted to the spot, mumbling, “Of course, of course!” as I told him how hot he’s becoming as he grows older.

There was the totally committed Y, who merely pleaded, “Rachel no, Rachel don’t!” as I kept hugging his comfortably soft body.

But my favourite though was T’s reaction, who gamely withstood my and A’s attempts at winning his heart when we clumsily and drunkenly gyrated next to him. He was so game, but all A and I ended up with were out tarnished prides and some embarrassing photos.

Filipino girls who flirt outrageously are rare. I’m more of the exception than the rule. As a Filipino girl, you’re expected to wait for the guy to make the first move. You’re supposed to play the role of the sweet damsel, poised, not a hair out of place, and never.

But I’ve never been that kind of girl. I grew up with three younger brothers, who were so open and vocal about the girls they liked and lusted over. Subtlety was never one of their assets. Their hunting instincts rubbed off on me.

But I think I really have to tone down the act. My guy friends know that I don’t really mean the whole flirting thing (okay, I half mean it), and they will never take advantage of me because, heck, I’m not their type! But there are people who will, and they might not understand that the whole act is all that... an act. And I know this sounds a little racist, but I now live in a city where there’s a substantial expat (read: white) population. I don’t want to give old white dirty men who look like Santa Claus the idea that I’m easy, when I really am not.

But of course, it’s just so hard for an aging dog like me to learn new tricks. My friend C recently met a guy here who looks like Diego Luna. I just can’t wait to meet him and bat my oh-so-long-and-curly lashes at him. Rar!

                      

I'm Going Back, Singapore

And I have a bunch of things I’m taking with me. My small, cheap luggage is now bursting with cheap clothes, canned goods, magazines, makeup, shoes that hurt, and more makeup. And I won’t be leaving you for quite some time, dear. This time, I’m staying longer.

I'll see you again, Sir Stamford.

I like you. I like how everything you have works like clockwork. I like how nice your people are, the ease I can go from one of your estates to another, and the fact that I don’t have to jostle and wrestle with other people just to get inside one of your buses. I like that most of your people don’t look at my scarred legs, that I can wear whatever I want, without anybody ogling me.

I’m also staying with you because I need a fresh start. I need to reinvent myself. 

I love my Flip friends. I will be back to missing them terribly. They’re still the best buddies anybody can ever have. They’re talented, fun, and irreverent. I’m glad to have them. But I had a good, long talk with one of them who made me realize that what would make my life fulfilling is when I open myself to struggles. Struggle you will give me.

As much as I am proud of being who I am, leaving my country (for the time being) is one of the best the decisions I will ever make. It’s a big world out there. I don’t want to spend my life vegetating in a little corner of the earth, waiting for the day to get a big break, something I can only get when I kiss ass. Because that’s the problem with my country: you’ll never get anywhere if you’re not a lapdog of the powers-that-be. It’s one big old boys’ (or girls’) club. It’s not going to change anytime soon.

That’s why I’m staying with you for a little while longer, Singapore, dear. I have high hopes for you. I know you will judge me for what I can do, and for what I’ll become, not for what you perceive my personality to be. I will not fail you. I’m prepared to work as hard as you want me to. But please, please, don’t fail me.