"Happiness is the journey."
By no stretch of the imagination can I be considered a journeyman. I've been a few places, but I've yet to know the experience of living out of a suitcase. The 'single serving' lifestyle is still foreign to me. No matter where I've gone, I've always come home.
And for the longest time, I felt cursed. I felt as if I had never lived. "There's so much I have yet to do! I've wasted my life!" I look back in my naivety and see nearly 18 years in institutionalized education, only to fall in line with the rest of the populous throwing their wages at FICA. And in this ignorance, I mistakenly look back on my 23 years here and scoff: "Life? What life have you lived? What adventures have you had? What journeys have you taken?"
This, of course, leads to the inevitably unique brand of self-loathing I can only administer on myself when the wind is just right. That, in turn, is followed by some good old-fashioned drowning of my sorrows in whichever inebriation is closest to my face. Can you blame me?
Every single one of my closest friends has moved to the other side of the country, or in one case, the other side of the world. And though I admire and am truly, deeply proud for them, I can't help but feel envious that I didn't afford myself the same opportunities. Self-doubt is a dangerous weapon. But in looking at where their individual paths have taken them, I have found that the journey of a few inches can have more breadth and depth than the trek of a hundred miles.
At this, the twilight of my youth (I'm allowed to be melodramatic. Shut up.), I can't help but take stock of the hundreds of inches I've traveled en route to now. We've all braved these inches. And although these minuscule ticks on the ruler seemed inconsequential, insignificant at the time, they are each as important a journey in your life as your own birth.
Consider the infant who learns to crawl, plodding along the carpet, inch by inch. A baby crawled an inch. So what? Now consider the paraplegic giving every ounce of his being, every fiber of his humanity if only it meant his big toe would twitch. Not merely curl, not wiggle. Just twitch. Who can doubt that either act took some herculean effort on both parts to achieve that one inch.
I see the same with life. I haven't traveled to many exotic destinations. But I've gone to Vegas on a whim and gotten drunk in San Francisco with my best friends. I haven't had any heart-pounding adventures. But I've encountered velociraptors on a hiking trail in Austin (true story.). Besides Brockton, MA, I haven't lived anywhere outside of Austin or Houston. But I can safely say I've journeyed further in 23 years than most people do in their entire lives.
As I look ahead to the journey to come, I glance back over the millions of journeys--inches--I've traversed with a great sigh of relief. A sigh, that even though I don't have any badges of courage or merits of valor, I do have the calloused feet and hands of a friend who showed courage when he was called upon to be the shoulder to cry on. I have the wrinkles at the corners of my eyes that merit a good sense of humor--even at my own expense. (And there is that embossed piece of cardstock with my name on it I have filed under a pile of year-old mail)
And as I look ahead of me: It's just one inch; one step; one foot; and I've got millions of miles left to go.
i got bored. here's some crap i wrote last year.
Lupe Fiasco’s Liner Notes: Just a Position
Across all cultures, across all generations, across all beliefs, music is a compelling force that has the ability to communicate emotions, ideas, political standings, and nearly every other notion possible. What is special about music is that often, it is not confined by language barriers like so many other ideas are. And even if language differences come into play, musicianship still speaks strongly enough to convey the desired emotion. In Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” for example, not a word is spoken, but the composition is such that the listener can “feel” the various sensations associated with each season in each movement.
Another medium as powerful as music is photography. And just as music crosses all sorts of barriers to convey meaning, photography does so too, but with virtually no boundaries. From the disheartening images we see from the Middle East on the evening news to the majestic landscapes of Ansel Adams, a single photograph can convey a myriad of emotions.
What is most stirring to the senses, however, is when the two forms of art come together symbiotically, provoking genuine thought from the viewer/listener. One such arena where this marriage takes place is the booklet that comes packaged in the music CDs people buy every day. These liner notes first started as the dust jackets of vinyl records. Originally a place utilized only to credit people that made the record, liner notes have evolved into a forum where artists can share their lyrics, thoughts on a particular musical selection, and post photographs of themselves.
The liner note has become somewhat of an afterthought, however, as the vast majority of liner notes bundled with CDs offer nothing that might further invigorate interest in the music. It was this monotony that caused me to become greatly interested when I picked up a copy of Lupe Fiasco’s Lupe Fiasco’s Food and Liquor. A brilliant menagerie of vivid lyrics, clever hooks, and creative instrumentals, Food and Liquor is well-deserving of the critical acclaim it has received thus far. But I believe that if the listener simply glosses over the liner notes without giving much thought to the message they (combined with the music) convey, then a great deal of meaning is lost. A collection of poignant images, rich with visual juxtaposition, the liner notes in Lupe Fiasco’s Food and Liquor reach beyond mere promotion of the music and delve into an America that many of us still are not ready to face.
To understand the deeper message of the photos in the liner notes, however, a firm understanding for the music that inspired them is paramount. Raised in the south side of Chicago, Wasalu Muhammad Jaco took on the stage name Lupe Fiasco and has since become a powerful voice in the hip-hop community. Staving off the worn-out institutions (drugs, sex, and crime, namely) most other rap artists used as crutches, Fiasco instead focuses his music on enlightening his audience. Lauded for their maturity, Fiasco’s lyrics touch on a number of important issues affecting the American inner-city. But what makes Lupe Fiasco stand out from the rest of the pack is his unique approach and perspective on each topic. On the song “He Say She Say,” Fiasco wrote one verse, repeating it twice with minor changes to word tense. The result bears two distinct points of view to the same dilemma: “the dead-beat dad” phenomenon. Where the first verse is told from the mother’s perspective, the second verse is the same, save a few minor changes, presenting the son’s point of view. The literary gimmick arouses the listener, bringing up the sobering image of the nuclear family torn apart in the setting of the inner-city. The whole of “Food and Liquor” offers just as much profundity in each track with variations of parody to political satire. And understandably so, the photographs packaged with this CD extend the same idea through the same method: bringing a controversial issue to light through the use of brevity, humor, and realism.
Shot by Chicago photographer Mireya Acierto, the photographs in the liner notes take the cliché “a picture is worth a thousand words” to a completely new level. In this collection, the primary subject is the inner-city: Black and white photographs of urban youth standing on street corners, “stoop hounds” getting their daily fix, and gangsters draped in “ghetto garb” giving their toughest look to the camera. At first glance, the average observer will see these images as the standard fare in any rap album—a further testament by the rap artist that they come from a rough neighborhood and these pictures are validation of that fact.
But upon closer look, these photos are not what they seem to be. Rather than dealing drugs, guns, and other related paraphernalia the gangsters in the photos are trading books and other learning material. The “tough” look where they would typically be pointing guns at the camera is turned on its ear when the guns are replaced with more books. The population that would normally be seen getting high and drunk is now viewed holding cookies to their mouths like joints and sipping milk—not malt liquor—out of plastic cups. One of the more startling images is of what would supposedly be victims of a drive-by shooting, their bodies sprawled out on the sidewalk, while a girl desperately screams for help. But rather than being riddled with bullet holes, their bodies are covered in literature. The images offer a sort of dark humor to the stereotype of inner-city life. By juxtaposing two starkly different worlds, Acierto makes the joke that, to the stereotypical rapper, it is these things—health and knowledge—that are most dangerous. And in that joke, the true sadness of the situation is realized: A bullet in your head will give you the “street cred” you desire, but a page of knowledge will only kill you.
The most startling of these images, however, are the photographs taken inside the school setting. If the gangsters replaced their drugs and guns with books, then what will the grade-schoolers be learning from in lieu of literature? A small child walking down a hallway, his book bag overflowing with automatic weapons of all sorts is jarring enough. But a truly chilling sight is that of a small girl sitting in class smiling back at the camera while nuzzled against a pistol pointed in the same direction as if it were a doll or stuffed animal. There is a great deal else in the picture to gawk at (the teacher is pointing with her rifle, to a piece of target paper found at shooting ranges), but the eye is always drawn to the small girl with a large grin and gun. And in another image shot in the principal’s office, a disappointed parent covers the shame in his face as he holds up the contraband his child was found with: a book. These situations further promote the backwards notion that knowledge
is powerless against the bullet.
Lupe Fiasco and Mireya Acierto achieved a small feat with a great impact by synergizing their talents. They raised the bar for social awareness for other artists in their arena and gave the music liner note meaning again.
In the same fashion of Lupe Fiasco’s music, Mireya Acierto’s images seek the same goal: effecting change by arousing thought. Both Fiasco and Acierto saw problems in their environment that needed to be addressed. But rather than present their message in the typical nature and risk being lost in the sameness of their genre, each artist summoned their creativity and brought something fresh to the table: poignant imagery (visual and literal) that facilitates awareness and discussion, and brings about a meaningful change.
I have a problem with hospitals. It's the same problem I have with the terminally-ill. It's the same problem I have with funerals. And it's the same problem I have with death. I can visit sick friends in the hospital. I can bring flowers. I can sign cards. I can pat foreheads. I can attend funerals. I can view bodies. I can offer condolences. I can offer tissues or a shoulder to cry on.
But I can't just 'be' in the moment there. Suffice to say, if I become too emotionally invested in visiting a sick or dying friend at the hospital, or in paying my respects, I have trouble processing the information.
I think it's because there's a part of me that fully understands my mortality. There's a part of me that comprehends what I am looking at; what I am admitting to when I show ovations of emotion at these events. I'm seeing myself. I'm the one with cancer. I'm the one with a tumor. I'm the one that's laying in that casket. And when I cry, I think it's because that human part of me that understands what I'm really looking at--what lies in wait for me--just hasn't reconciled with my logic. My mind just can't yet accept that I will get sick and die some day.
It's quite the paradox, I guess. I'm not an imbecile. I know I'm going to die. I know that a day is going to come very soon where the light switch will just *click* and that's that. And even though I know this is the one inevitable truth in life, there is a part of me that will bite, claw, and scratch to prevent it from happening.
"He wants to be immortal? What a fuckin' idiot."
I'm not a moron. I know that immortality is impossible. Well, that is until stem-cell research allows me to replace all my organs and tissue every 50 years, thus allowing me eternal life. But in all seriousness, I know I'm not the only person that feels this way. We all fight death for the exact same reason: It's not that we want to live forever. We're just not ready to die, yet.
I'm terrified of dying. Not because I don't know what lies beyond the veil of life. But because I've yet to finish what I've started in this life. When I'm seconds from that threshold, I don't want my last gasp to be a shock. I don't want to struggle to hold on to that last moment of livingness (yes, it's a word). I want that final squeeze from my lungs to be a sigh of satisfaction. A sigh like the one you make after you've accomplished some magnificent task. Finishing a 64 oz. steak. Re-reading your favorite book. Letting out a satisfying fart/burp. Completing a difficult assignment. Finally getting your kid to sleep or finally getting your dog to shut up (I imagine the two are basically interchangeable).
Whatever the task, you know the feeling. That's what I want my last gasp of breath to encompass. Not a perfect life. Just a complete one.
I've never been one to quote the bible, but I first saw this passage on my aunt's gravestone (oddly enough, the very first funeral I'd ever been to) and it has stuck with me ever since:
"I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept my faith." -2 Timothy 4:7
To you, dear reader, I wish you a good fight. I hope that you do reach the finish line. I hope that you keep faith in whatever you cherish most--yourself, God, Allah, your friends, your family. I hope your last breath is a sigh of relief. I don't dare wish you a perfect life. But I sincerely hope you have a complete one.
And in case any of you were wondering, here are just some of the things I want to do before I die (it's a work-in-progress):
-Run around doing nothing but awesome-looking air kicks, with pictures to prove it.
-Learn an instrument besides the drums.
-Sing someone a song (karaoke doesn't count).
-Watch the sun rise and set all in the same day.
-Climb something other than furniture.
-Impart wisdom on someone.
-Learn to do a back flip.
-Jump off of something (bridge, plane, etc.), thus curing my fear of heights.
-Purposely crash a car.
-Write something truly meaningful.
-Rob a bank (ok, not really, but something that provides a similar rush).
For some people, the first time they fell in love was the very first moment they locked lips with their significant other at some random kegger. For others, love kicked them in the balls when they saw the object of their affection bend down to pick up a purposely-dropped pencil, thus unveiling the most sincere glimpse of her thong. And from there, those two things are indelibly connected: love and a drunken smooch, or love and a thong. For me, however, the first time I fell in love, I smelled spam and corned beef hash.
Growing up, the fact that I was (and still am) Filipino and not at all well-off meant that bacon was a breakfast luxury to whose echelon, my family was not privy. Luncheon meat was the smell I grew accustomed to: The smell of not-quite-bacon or not-quite-beef frying in its own preservatives is deeply sinful in its own right. And it was this smell that would lead me to a 20-year long love affair with music.
Rather than bang on our bedroom door and flick the lights on and off, my parents used loud music to bring my sisters and me out of our slumber. And in our house, the only music that was worthy of accompanying spam was Simon and Garfunkel. Sure, my parents loved The Beatles. Who didn't? They were the fucking Beatles. But for some reason, my parents' Simon and Garfunkel compilation always found its way into the player whenever breakfast was on the stove. Mrs. Robinson was getting 'coo coo ca-chooed' while the scrambled eggs were sizzling. The boxer was running scared through the railway station as the slices of spam were flipped. And by the time the rice cooker had finished a fresh batch of long, white jasmine, you knew whether or not you were going to Scarborough Fair.
On those rare occasions when I managed to wake up on my own accord, I saw my parents in a completely different light than the rest of the week. There were no annoying kids, or bills, or job stresses. It was just a simple meal, prepared by a simple couple, singing along to simple songs about not-so-simple topics, in an anything-but-simple key. It was textbook marriage. It was textbook joy. It was textbook love. I remember silently slinking back to my room, not wanting to intrude. I think it was those quietly loud moments where they weren't really saying anything except the lyrics that kept them close to one another. Anyone who's ever sang in public knows what an excruciatingly soul-baring ordeal it can be. And for two people in love to share that moment is nothing short of amazing.
Maybe that's why people like myself have such an insane love for music. Maybe music is so closely tied to our most intimate memories, that we listen to music, we write music, we create music in hopes that the notes, the lyrics, the poetry will lead us back to that most private time where we were invisible while our parents cooked spam and eggs while singing "Feelin' Groovy" at the top of their lungs and swaying to the beat.
I miss Love. I capitalize Love because that's how it should be. I miss Love. I miss what it used to mean. I miss how it used to feel. I miss what it used to be.
It's sort of like the reverse effect of what a sculptor does. The sculptor is presented with a mountain and is charged to take away the dull, meaninglessness of its exterior until what's left is pure and concise. An ordinary man sees a mountain and admires the peak, and the elegant slope. A sculptor sees the mountain--sees the world--and sees potential. He sees everything that is wrong with the mountain and strives to chip away the unnecessary until all that is left is his idea of perfection.
That's what Love used to be. Love used to be simple. Used to be perfect. Void of all difficulty and uselessness.
You Loved your security blanket. You Loved your ninja turtles. And there's a very good chance you truly did Love these inanimate objects. Because for these things you would brave any danger: static cling, muddy waters, dirt and stains of all kind. And to have given anything for these things was your kind of Love.
She dabbed some alcohol on the scrape on your knee then gently blew on the cut til the pain subsided, only to kiss the band-aid on. Your father would sling you over his shoulder and spin you til either his back or your stomach gave out. Maybe you didn't know it then, but you realize now, that this was Love. You might have heard them whisper as you dreamt of clouds and pizza that they Loved you. That was your first glimpse of real Love.
She was perfect in every single way. There wasn't a single fault you could find about her. The way her hair was done up in pig tails. Her Strawberry Shortcake backpack stuffed to the brim with Lisa Frank folders adorned with pink and purple dolphins. She was the only one that would play four square with you while everyone else was crowding the jungle gym. She might have even traded you her crunchy Cheetos for your Capri Sun. Sure, you were too young to know it, but even if you did, you wouldn't admit it. You didn't fully comprehend what it meant then. But it was still Love. You would have done anything to play some more four square with her. Damn the cooties, you wanted to hold her hand! Throwing caution to the wind. That's what Love is.
She might have been your first kiss. She probably was the first girl whose hand you weren't afraid to hold in public. You wondered what made her hair smell like that. Why did dresses make her look less ugly? Where did all her cooties go? Why couldn't you stop thinking about her? Why were you so compelled to just pinch her for no reason? A confused, passionate attraction. An inexplicable magnetism to this person. This... girl. Feeling simply complex on the inside, and not having any rhyme or reason. Feeling sick and nauseous whether or not she was around. Losing an appetite for your favorite pizza. That's what Love is.
She was probably what you call your first true Love. The 8 months you were together seemed so long, you might actually get married. You talked to her on the phone all the time. You wrote her letters in class. You were completely smitten with her. But you were too smart. You knew what "real Love" was. So when you first told her you Loved her, it was different and special from any other instance that phrase had been uttered in any recorded history. Your Love was the definition of Love. You were foolish, blindly wandering, but running full speed in any direction that seemed to feel right. That's what Love is.
They were your brothers. Whether you already had kin, or were an orphan, they were family. You found this out when they purposely picked you first to play basketball even though you couldn't dribble the ball for shit. Maybe they picked up the bar tab without making a big fuss over it. Perhaps they disregarded the machismo image and actually talked to you when you just needed someone to listen. Or maybe they were just the one person that would stumble drunkenly alongside you at 3 in the morning looking for a car that you didn't even drive to the bar. But it was in that instance that you realized you would go to the ends of the earth for these guys. You would literally take a bullet for them. You would give of yourself until there was nothing left, if that meant their happiness. That's what Love is.
She was flawed. My God, she was a living textbook on imperfection. She look as normal and unassuming as anyone else. She seemed to blend in with the crowd naturally. But you saw different. You saw how awkwardly she fit in with them, and how much of a fit she was with you. Her imperfections, the dents and dings of her persona only endeared her to you more. The moment your skin touched hers, there was only a heightened sense of things. An electricity in the air. She snorted when she laughed really hard. She had terrible taste in music. She was fantastically clumsy. For all intents and purposes she most likely had cooties, but it didn't matter. Of all the quirks about her, the one thing that made the most sense was the sense that she made when she was with you. All you could see, taste, hear, smell, touch was how much you cared for one another. That's what Love is.
Love wasn't in a $3.95 card from CVS. It wasn't in a dozen of her favorite roses. Love wasn't in a box of chocolates and it didn't line a brand new coat. It wasn't in a sappy acoustic song and Love sure as hell wasn't crammed between the opening and closing credits. Love is right in front of you. Love is around you. Instead of spending so much time focusing on the distractions, the useless, the unnecessary, see that Love is plain, pure, and simply where you stand. It's simple. It's pure. It's what's left after the mountain. That's what Love is.
Why is the truth so hard to swallow? When, in the history of human-kind did we become so afraid, so ashamed of what or who we are? Did it stem from that pivotal moment in the Garden of Eden when Adam realized what a cold breeze can do to you? In that sense, is ignorance really more blissful than the pain of reality?
It seems that as humans, we are bred to do everything within our power to shroud our own personal doubts and fears in a veil of everything else. We harvest a myriad of distractions and an exponentially greater amount of excuses just so that we don't have to face the one person we can universally hate: ourselves.
No shocker there. Anyone who says they don't hate some part of them self is a lying bastard. There are bits and pieces of us that we cannot stand. Be they physical, mental, or even contained in the environment we trap ourselves in, these dents and dings on our persona are the bane of our existence. What's most amusing, however, is that these imperfections and flaws are what make us who we are. It's these awkward bends in our psyches that ultimately define us as people.
The Mirror Theory.
In its most base self, the mirror is a tool we utilize to achieve a goal: hide what we see. Hygenic and health concerns aside, we use the mirror to become better people. We use the mirror to straighten the tussel of hair on our heads because we know that a man with a disheveled do is either a stalker or a general ne'er-do-well. Even worse, a girl whose part is slightly askew either doesn't own a decent brush, or just rolled out of a stranger's bed.
We use the mirror to cover the wrinkles and crow's feet that laughter, pain, joy, happiness, sorrow, and life have worked so diligently to create. We clutter our faces with excess amounts of pig sperm and whale fat so that everyone will see us how we think they want to see us (confusing, no?).
That's all cosmetic though (pun not intended). If we accept our flaws, our lives become more manageable.
The real tragedy in this, however, is while we use these mirrors every morning to conceal yesterday's pains, none of us ever really look into the mirror. Stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. Stare into your eyes. Really look at yourself for more than a few seconds. What do you see?
Maybe that's why we toil so much just to look 'decent' for a few hours. We're not just covering our imperfections. We're covering up that part of us we have taught ourselves to hate. When we look through that glass and into the stranger on the other side, we're not looking at ourselves. We are coming face-to-face with our own mortality. We are realizing our own short-comings as human-beings. We even begin to degrade ourselves further, dissecting our very being into something all-together insignificant.
Perhaps then, all the preening we do in front of the mirror isn't to shield ourselves from the ghastly gawks of passers-by. Perhaps we cosmeticize so that we never run the risk of revealing our greatest weaknesses to our greatest enemies: ourselves.
read this in a book:
"i mean, i'm just tired of being wrong all the time just because i'm a guy.
i mean, how many times can everybody tell you that you're the oppressive, prejudiced enemy before you give up and become the enemy. i mean, a male chauvinist pig isn't born, he's made, and more and more of them are being made by women.
after long enough, you just roll over and accept the fact that you're a sexist, bigoted, insensitive, crude, cretinist cretin. women are right. you're wrong. you get used to the idea. you live down to expectations.
even if the shoe doesn't fit, you'll shrink into it."
now, i could expound more on this, and go on at length at how many volumes of truth this speaks. but then that would just take away from it. it is what it is. my name is rufus, and that's the troofus.
pardon my crass language, but i couldn't really find another way to express my feelings on the subject any better. "regrets suck." nah, doesn't have enough 'umph' to it. something that 'sucks' tends to just be a situation where you kick an empty tin can in the dust as you walk away with your hands in your pockets. think "aww shucks." but when you use the term motherfucker as a noun, well then that just opens up a whole new world of possibilities. a motherfucker is something that isn't a worst-case scenario, but it is certainly flabbergasting. is that a word? think "aww fuck." in any instance, i'm not here to speak about the semantics of my favorite vulgarity. i'd like to wax philosophical about regrets.
after speaking with a few reliable, trusted sources, and after comparing those with my own experiences, it is painfully obvious that regret is one of many things to many different people. as cliche as it may be, webster says that regret is "sorrow aroused by circumstances beyond one's control". but i think to accept this ideal is to adopt a sort of pre-determinationist way of life where you never had control of your life, thus making regret an inevitable part of life. i don't know about you, but as a living, barely-breathing human being, i'd like to think that i have SOME control over the decisions in my life. so then, what is regret?
to one person, regret is a learning device. in its most elementary extent of understanding, regret is the mistake that you make, and the lesson you learn as a result of it. but going further with this idea, if you eventually learn from this past erred step, does it still remain a regret? does it become recategorized into one of the proverbial 'life lessons' we keep hearing so much about? (this is the part where my skewed logic takes over) i think not. to follow that line of reasoning would mean that the entire idea of regret is pointless. regrets are more than just a lesson to be learned. a lesson is not taking a deep breath after you've just farted under the covers. a regret is not taking the road less traveled. a lesson is not sticking your hand in boiling wax. a regret is not taking her hand and asking her to dance. a lesson tends to be a one-time thing you learn from and never really reference again cause it becomes ingrained in your subconscious. a regret is a moment in your life that shapes your behavior from that point on. a regret becomes a sort of ghost that haunts you, urging you to make better decisions. and whether or not you make those decisions gauges your maturity as a human being. not learning from lessons is stupidity. not learning from regrets is devolution.
to another person, regret is a barometer of where you presently are in your life. in a much grander sense of viewing life, regrets help you realize what it is you do have, rather than what it is you missed out on. this idea is much simpler, but elegant none the less. regrets are essentially the past. to pontificate endlessly on these regrets--to dwell on the past is to lead a stagnant, pessimistic life. if you're so worried about the past, then what's to keep you from peeing your panties about the future? so if you're able to free yourself from the constraints of your own past expectations, you can glean some sense of what many scholars refer to as happiness. you won't pigeonhole yourself into dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. you'll only be left with the present. live in the moment. if you can learn to view regrets as a stepping stone to enlightenment, then one by one, you can put those regrets aside and--ultimately--out of your life.
to me, regret is defined somewhere in the mix of these two definitions. it isn't a concrete idea. but the gist of it is that regrets--for all the grief they bring you--are still very powerful and very important to your growth as a human being. whether you choose to accept them in your life or to fight their existence, regrets (as undefined as ever) define who and what you are as a person.
-------
in processing these thoughts on regrets, i've come to find that though i do have regrets in my life, if i step back and view them in the bigger picture, there are barely a handful of regrets that carry any significant weight. living in the here and now is really the only thing that will dictate what happens to me... here and now. but as it stands, those few regrets that i do choose to acknowledge (and am still trying to learn from) are those very 'ghosts' that follow me in my day-to-day. they don't hamper my life, but i keep them on my mind and in my heart so that when i finally do learn from them, i'll know that i'm the person i've wanted to become.
so it is to you, i leave this final booger of advice. don't hold on to your regrets. embrace them. own up to your regrets and mistakes. they will teach you more about yourself than you can ever learn from some two-bit therapist. now you know. and knowing is half the battle... g.i. joe!
i've been taking stock of my life as of late. no, not in an emo-i-hate-my-life sort of fashion. but in the sense that through all the muck, i have had a good life thus far. it's bad to count your eggs before they hatch, yes, but is it really a crime to check up on them, just to make sure they're still there? i don't think so. in particular (and in light of this weekend), i've taken a look at my friends and the people i associate with.
i don't have the same friends that i had in high school. this isn't to their detriment, no. more likely, it speaks to the fact that college changes people. people grow together, they lose touch, they miss phone calls, they miscommunicate, and they grow apart. it's a cold hard fact of nature. now, some of the people in my current circle of friends were acquaintances in high school, but i wasn't nearly as close to them then as i am now.
so where am i going with this? i believe that the people you associate with, and the manner in which you build your social network goes a long way into explaining your current view of the world. if you still have the same friends you've had your entire life, you're not necessarily close-minded, but i think you're definitely a candidate for trust issues. you've found something... someone that works and win, lose, or draw, you'll hold on to it out of fear of the unknown. risks don't really suit you. and to save some e-breath, i'll say the opposite is true as well. people that aren't afraid to attain new friends have a completely different disposition. now, this is just in my experience, but it still speaks truthfully.
the lesson? don't be so afraid. sure, meeting new people is one thing. but actually opening yourself up to befriend them is a completely other state of being. make new friends. you can't be afraid of getting burned by these friends. if you are, you'll live your life entirely in fear. and you'll be boring. and no one likes boring people. except other boring people. but then those boring people will never meet because they're too afraid of meeting new people, no matter how similar in boringness they are. see? it's a vicious cycle. so... lesson? break the cycle.
exactly a week ago (monday), my grandmother departed from this world. she was the brightest light that ever shone and my life is now dimmer for having lost her. but having been able to see her and tell her i loved her before she left was a blessing in itself. Helen Abulencia Ulanday was truly blessed in that she was surrounded by people who loved her as much--if not more so--as she loved them. even further, she had the rare opportunity to meet her great-grandchildren, no small feat. after she passed, i was crushed, needless to say, and i still am to some extent. but the light of this world is undeniable and i've found my way back to myself with the help of others.
i kept myself in the house, not really wanting to do much until saturday. i went to cvs pharmacy to get some pictures of my grandma copied and printed to send back home to relatives in the philippines. as i was waiting for the scans to go through, one of the employees--a large gentleman, who under normal circumstances would be quite intimidating--happened by and looked at the picture of my grandma and simply stated, "grandmas are the best, ain't they?" it caught me off guard and i could only chuckle out a "yeah, they are" in response. i doubt he'll know how profound his simple statement was. a few minutes later, i asked a lab tech to assist me with printing the photos out. she was an older woman, probably well into her 40s, maybe early 50s. as we were waiting for the photos to print, she inquired, "so are these for your grandma's birthday or something?" i kindly explained that my grandmother had just passed on monday and a strong look of concern swept over her. without saying a word, she gave me a gentle, yet comforting hug. these two folks completely changed my week. totally made my day. moral of the story? be nice.
they say the greatest tragedy is when a parent has to bury their child. as hard as her passing is/was to deal with, it makes the universe make sense. rest in peace mamang. i love you and i'll miss you always.
i just got added to michelle's neighborhood. she equates that to eating lunch with the cool kids. psh, talk about conceited. sike! yuss keeding. i think that technology uses the exclamation point (!) too much. i can understand when you fuck up something with a program or whatnot. but that's never the case. when you encounter a fatal error in windows, the error window simply states, "windows has encountered an error." that's it. period. nothing else. this "fatal" error obviously isn't fatal enough to bring it to your attention more immediately. i'm guessing that poor bastard of a printer from "office space" was shitting exclamation points when it was getting man-handled by michael bolton. on the other side of the exclamatory coin, whenever you post on someone's wall in facebook, you get the message "post successful!" is posting some arbitrary message on someone's wall really an achievement? everyone needs to get on the same page, so we can get this crazy exclamation business taken care of. i would consider a "fatal error" slightly greater in magnitude than "omgzzz, i just saw you outside teh bskool! ttyl gurl!" it's false-excitement is what it is. that's enough for tonight.
