I'm looking for a holy grail, a light bulb, a philosopher's stone or some other sort of trite metaphor for inspiration. Maybe I need to retreat to the mountains. Stand under a heavy waterfall and promise - to no one in particular - that I'll find the inspiration to be inspired...someday. Would it take an extended train ride along the English countryside? (Hey it worked for Rowling) Or maybe I should throw a tea party for myself and my closest writer friends (if I had any) and we could transition naturally from gossiping over finger sandwiches to writing the greatest thriller novels of all time.
Should I beat the morning rush at the closest cafe and plop myself on the seat closest to an outlet? Maybe I could plug in my laptop and just...let the magic happen. Coffee combined with dim lighting, slow jazz, and a humming orchestra of latte machines and idle chatter make up a mecca of productivity. Right?
Or maybe what I really need is a pep talk. Some rah-rah-sis-boom-bah to hype myself up. But for what? For a tortuous commute? Endless spreadsheets reconciling payroll ledger after payroll ledger? This must be my passion, because why else would I be doing it? Not for the money. Please. Not for the pats in the back I get for a job well done (never happens). And especially not for the backhanded compliments from someone who looks like a perpetually angry, chewy piece of rotten mochi. (Fuck you very. Fuck you so much.)
Like I said, I'm looking for the holy grail. Or like the golden fleece or something. But at my current state I likely won't find shit because I don't know what I'm looking for and I keep making shitty excuses (by way of poorly inserted parentheticals) in my prose. Also non-sequiturs. Might as well call it a night.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
3.11
"Japan memorialized the more than 190,000 people who were killed one year ago when a magnitude-9.0 earthquake struck the northeastern coast and triggered a devastating tsunami that crippled the Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear plant. Emperor Akihito led millions of citizens in a minute's silence at a ceremony in Tokyo's National Theatre...
According to official data, more than 340,000 people are still living in temporary homes. The quake struck at 2:46 pm on March 11 last year and triggered a tsunami that was 128 feet tall at its highest point, laying waste to entire towns as it came ashore." (Bloomberg News)
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Inconsolable
I dropped you off to work about ten minutes ago, and for two whole minutes now I have been inconsolable. I blink repeatedly, forcing the reds, yellows, and greens back into focus.
Twenty-two years. All of them you spent in one company. Your connections across Luzon were unquestionable. Ask the folks at the Head Office and however many regional branches - it didn't matter; they all knew your name.
Prestige and competence is one thing, but the friendships you made were more precious. The antics you and your co-workers would pull in the office: staring down little children when their parents weren't looking, sending the messengers to the market nearby to buy fresh seafood to fry for lunchtime, cracking jokes here and there, and counting down the days until Irma's retirement because damnit, she doesn't have to be so cranky all the time.
I love your stories. Your eyes light up, and your voice gets louder. It's like you're transplanting me and you back to that space and time.
But I hate your stories, too. As much as I love seeing your face become animated in a story-telling frenzy, I stop halfway because I know you always tell your stories in the past tense.
Now when you talk about work, you revisit the long, long year when you were unemployed. You talk about the many, many companies you walked in and out of. The Pilipina women who mistreated you, were insecure of you, and spoke ill of you to your superiors. The age difference between you and your co-workers. The frustration you build up in your chest when you see young people without college degrees talking over your head, disregarding your Accounting degree and years of experience. The loneliness. The lunches you took by yourself facing the blank wall. The embarrassing moment when your co-worker handed you his iPhone to take a picture, but you didn't know how. The constant defending and proving yourself, just because English isn't your first language.
When you tell your stories, you always tell them in two separate batches. The happy ones, and the ones that you can only complain about. They're always separate, but I see the thread that ties them together. It's an unspoken despair that you'll never speak about because you want me to think you're okay.
Once again, I am inconsolable. I feel a heaviness that I know will pass but will never really go away. Not unless we leave.
Mom, I love you. I promise to bring you back home.
Twenty-two years. All of them you spent in one company. Your connections across Luzon were unquestionable. Ask the folks at the Head Office and however many regional branches - it didn't matter; they all knew your name.
Prestige and competence is one thing, but the friendships you made were more precious. The antics you and your co-workers would pull in the office: staring down little children when their parents weren't looking, sending the messengers to the market nearby to buy fresh seafood to fry for lunchtime, cracking jokes here and there, and counting down the days until Irma's retirement because damnit, she doesn't have to be so cranky all the time.
I love your stories. Your eyes light up, and your voice gets louder. It's like you're transplanting me and you back to that space and time.
But I hate your stories, too. As much as I love seeing your face become animated in a story-telling frenzy, I stop halfway because I know you always tell your stories in the past tense.
Now when you talk about work, you revisit the long, long year when you were unemployed. You talk about the many, many companies you walked in and out of. The Pilipina women who mistreated you, were insecure of you, and spoke ill of you to your superiors. The age difference between you and your co-workers. The frustration you build up in your chest when you see young people without college degrees talking over your head, disregarding your Accounting degree and years of experience. The loneliness. The lunches you took by yourself facing the blank wall. The embarrassing moment when your co-worker handed you his iPhone to take a picture, but you didn't know how. The constant defending and proving yourself, just because English isn't your first language.
When you tell your stories, you always tell them in two separate batches. The happy ones, and the ones that you can only complain about. They're always separate, but I see the thread that ties them together. It's an unspoken despair that you'll never speak about because you want me to think you're okay.
Once again, I am inconsolable. I feel a heaviness that I know will pass but will never really go away. Not unless we leave.
Mom, I love you. I promise to bring you back home.
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