I turned 31 a few weeks ago. Look at that. I think I feel it, too. 31. It's definitely not like transitioning from 25 to 26. This new age brought with it some tell-tale signs. I'm living with them, but I dare not enumerate them for fear of giving them validation. They're there, but I'm trying to keep my attitude on a "kiss my ass!" level.

One sign I have to acknowledge, though, is this hankering to do something meaningful with my life. (That's a good "you're DEFINITELY older" sign, right?) I want to help. Someone. Or other. I don't know how exactly I want to help, I don't know that I would be much help to anyone, but I want to do something that makes someone's life easier, if not better. I'm getting tired of my airconditioned cube and shiny marble floors. Buying shiny, new stuff for myself and family and friends, while still fun, is starting to have an increasingly shorter shelf life -- it perks me up for an hour or two and then, soon enough, turns stale and tired.

If anybody out there has any idea that could help me out here, I'd like to hear it. I'm not ready to start a family, so that's off the list. And besides, who would I be helping in that scenario? Certainly not the rest of mankind, as there are already too many of us to begin with. (If I could give birth to pandas, though, that would be a different matter altogether.)

I need to do something that makes someone else happy. What would make you happy?

Occasionally, there will be a development at work that, although is technically meant to be understood only by the practice staff, gets passed on to our tiny group as well because it might affect the way we market the firm. One such development involves an update in the Code of Ethics that was laid down by the International Federation of Accountants. The IFAC.

Now, I don't know about you, but I would've gone with i-ef-ey-see in pronouncing that acronym. It doesn't take much effort and it's not like I'm in a hurry to get the whole acronym out the door. But yesterday, I had the mild discomfort of sitting through a meeting with a Partner who, without malice or giggle, kept saying I-FAK.

You see how this is not merely a case of po-tay-to/po-tah-to.

Date:	2008-07-17 22:12
Subject:	YEY!!! And HELLO Angelito!
Security:	Public
Mood:	ecstatic
Music:	drizzle

My World Vision kid wrote to me! My World Vision kid wrote to me! YEY!!!! =D

Snail-mail letter. One more thing that's better than sliced bread!

...but I'm afraid we must take issue with some of your parting words:

“I do feel that when you’re born into the world, you’re given a ticket to the freak show, and when you’re born in the United States, you’re given a front-row seat.”

“…at some point, I drifted away from feeling any allegiance…I don’t identify with city, state, government, religion, association, country, organization or species, even.”


Oh but George, you are so painfully American still.

It was a nice try, bub, and certainly you have good cause to want to disengage from this cruel, crumbling world (“Human beings were given a lot of great gifts…but we squandered it on goods and superstition. We gave ourselves over to the high priests and traders, and they are the ones we allow to control us.”). But you gotta know from a third-world native: You were born a white boy from the US of A and you died a white boy from the US of A. It never fails to amaze me, this American conceit.

Maybe you can finally isolate yourself, wherever you are. Maybe you’re not so white over there anymore.

My friend got married today. (Pictures later. Our dresses were perfect.) Here’s the thing: I can commit to a wedding. I can. More often than not, I lurve weddings: the sentimentality, the aesthetics, the effort, the quietly crying parents, what the whole ceremony stands for. And I have a very partial idea of what mine would be like. (There will be a lot of Indigo Girls and Van Halen playing in the background, for one.) But I cannot, for the life of me, wrap my brain around marriage. I don’t understand how people can do marriage. Makes me think of this psycho I read about in crimelibrary.com who kidnapped a hitchhiker once and kept her in a box that was so small, the only thing she could do was lie down. Even smaller than a coffin, I tell ‘ya. That’s what marriage looks like to me – this tiny box. That you have to share with someone.

I’m hopeless, aren’t I?

More learnings from this highly caustic life:

When someone tells you he is in pain, that someone isn't always looking for counsel. Or a pep talk. There are instances when all that someone needs you to do is to agree with him about how horrible, tragic, or utterly lonely that thing that just happened to him is. Humans need other humans to validate their pain. Not so the pain becomes twice as real, but so that their humanity becomes more pronounced, more palpable. In that moment, the person in pain isn't looking for comfort (yet) so much as for someone who will sit with him as he studies his pain and masters its contours and colors and flavors.

It's not an easy thing to do, sit quietly beside someone who is hurting. But at this point, all that is being asked of you is to be patient. Eventually, your wounded pal will have had enough of his pain, whose entirety he has stared at and pondered for a considerable time. Eventually, he will remember chocolate, or sex, or a warm bath and fresh towels after a long day, and realize that the pain he has been focusing all his energy on is really quite a drag. When he does, he's going to need someone to hold hands and skip down the road with while whistling a happy tune. That's your reward for sitting quietly and not marking time. You get to share in that feeling of renewal.

Date:	2008-01-08 13:24
Subject:	audacity of hope indeed
Security:	Public
Mood:	hopeful
Music:	Richard Darbyshire - Love will provide

"In "Areopagitica," John Milton wrote, 'Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks.' In Iowa, we witnessed the shaking of those locks. Like one of those miraculous reversals in one of Shakespeare's late plays, when a statue suddenly comes to life after standing motionless for years, Obama's victory seemed almost otherworldly -- as if the laws of space and time had been suspended, and a quality as evanescent and fragile as hope had suddenly become real. I am not a religious person, but it was hard not to feel that his triumph vindicated the essence of what I think of as the secular essence of religion, something even nonbelievers can believe in: the possibility of inner transformation. A transformation at once personal, and national."

- Gary Kamiya, Obama's double magic

I can't vote for him and whatever shiny new health plan he has won't affect me one bit, but I am very much excited to see what this man will do if he is elected into office. The idealist in me is rallying for him. It's like believing in Santa all over again.

Dear God,

I'm still waiting for the work pace to slow down and the work load to lighten up. And you know I'm not the most patient kid in the block. Let's just keep the prayers moving up there, OK?

Sincerely yours,
rossetti

Some smart-ass who had taken one too many happy pills (and wouldn't share, the bitch!) once said that happiness is a choice.

Oh my goodness. Eric Mabius must've broken out the bubbly when he found out that he scored this title. Who wouldn't count that as a huge ass accomplishment?

What would you like to be known for any given week of the year? I think I'd go for ears. Because I'm pretty sure the people who bestow these honors would give/lend me a funky pair of earrings for that pictorial. But if we're going for something deeper, I'd nominate my kidneys. I'd like to think my kidneys are doing a pretty good job and that they're prettier than usual. I just know it.

I’m not sure if it was because of “rank” or the fact that I can string a sentence together, but some time last year, my workplace gave me the opportunity to attend a workshop that was, I firmly believe, foolishly called “The Joy of Writing.”

It was an interesting, albeit nerve-racking, class: Anything that involves me reading in front of other people a piece I put together entirely from my imagination is always nerve-racking. But that’s beside the point.

My point is: There is no joy in writing. There is The Joy of Having Written Something, but there is no joy in the act of writing.

I have never encountered a blank page that made me smile. Have you? If you know that that page is there for you to fill with words that make sense, phrases that fit, sentences that tell a story or support a central theme, it will never ever make you smile the smile of one who knows happiness.

It is solitary work, writing. And I think that is part of what makes it such an unhappy, even lonely, endeavor. There is the challenge of making sense, and there is the burden of going at it alone. You can never truly share the frustration of not finding that perfect word that describes exactly what you want to say, or the mad anticipation of being so close to the end but not quite finding that just-right sentence that will justify your final punctuation mark.

But once you pull away from the no-longer blank page, ah, there is your joy. There is your smile. And if, after re-reading what you just wrote, you find yourself marveling at your hitherto undiscovered ability to make perfect sense, then you not only know joy. You also know accomplishment.

Interesting as “The Joy of Writing” workshop was, I think it labors under such a glaring misnomer. Let us not delude those who haven’t seriously tried writing but would like to give it a go. And let’s not patronize those who know the real score when it comes to this business, or, if you prefer, “art,” of writing. But then again, who would want to attend a class called “The Agony of Writing”?

Here's how I see it: We all have a bit of the crazy lurking in our minds. It's up there, loitering, maybe looking for a soft spot to claim as its own. Or maybe it's already set up a makeshift tent somewhere and it's getting all cozy with a hot mug of cocoa and its batshit crazy jammies. Whatever. It's upstairs, for sure. (Lord help you if you do not have even a smidgen of the crazy in you because I suspect it would be zero fun to go through this life stone cold sober.)

Having said that, it behooves you to keep the crazy in check. Because even if it is a commonality among human beings, much like opposable thumbs, it was never meant to be put out for display, unlike opposable thumbs. The crazy is supposed to stay locked up in the basement, people. And we didn't need a memo for this. You're supposed to keep it on a leash, discretely feed it every now and then just to keep it quiet, and then go about your business as if the crazy doesn't have it's own La-Z-Boy and toothbrush in some dry, warm nook in your brain. You only ever let it out when you're around people who are familiar with your crazy and have come to accept it - maybe even embrace it - because of years of sharing a lot of alcohol, secrets and sins with you. OK?

If somebody slips and lets the crazy out in the sun for too long or in front of the wrong group of people, you make that somebody stand in the corner for a good while and ponder his relationship with his crazy: Are you really the master of your crazy? Or have you let your crazy take on a long-term lease so that it has now redecorated your entire limbic system to resemble Baz Luhrmann's movie set?

What ever happens, you do not go easy on this person. NO. Because once the crazy breaks rank, and isn't appropriately punished, there is no telling how much crazier it's going to get and when it will decide to run amok again. But it's already there, building up mass, crazily chipping away at the basement door.

Date:	2007-06-07 00:46
Subject:	Anobash?
Security:	Public
Mood:	sleepy

I want to watch this movie, but first, I have one question for the angels:

Date:	2007-05-22 13:17
Subject:	I have good will. I do.
Security:	Public
Mood:	full

Over the weekend, I went to the grocery carrying my still unofficial grocery bag. At the check-out counter, it felt SO.COOL to tell Mr. Bagger, "No plastic, please. Everything goes in the 100% cotton bag, thank you." And just like that, rossetti reduced her carbon footprint and, once again, improved the lives of millions of people who are lucky enough to be alive the same time she is. De nada, my little ones. De nada.

Speaking of de nada, I spent a week++ in Spain. My first time. Pictures later, but may I just say: Barcelona is so very, very purty. And Madrid is so very, very I-will-close-for-siesta-and-won't-be-back-till-the-earth-has-damn-near-completed-one-solid-rotation-bitch! ¿Que pasa, people?

I have a 14-year-old sister who devours books the way Garfield works on lasagna. And the adults in the family can't keep up with her. The ideal is to screen all books before letting the baby sister read 'em, and by screen, I mean read from cover to cover in case there are non-kid friendly bits in there.

So I need your help: Give me suggestions. Point me to books/authors you've already read that/who don't work in some amount of gratuitous sex/violence/cattiness/anything else that eats away at innocence (hee) just to sell. I will take your word for it. (And I will get back at your favorite shirt, food or person if your suggestion turns out to be Nora Roberts for tweens. Mark my words.)

Right now, the baby sister is reading a Terry Pratchett novel that, coincidentally, features a troll named Mica. Har! I think it's a hoot. She thinks it's insulting because her namesake is, well, a troll.

The well that the Pilot from “The Little Prince” was looking for somewhere in the desert? I suspect that’s a metaphor for Book Sale. Or similar no-fuss sellers of the printed word. Goldmines, I tell ‘ya.

Over the weekend, I browsed the shelves of the book sale in front of Music 1 at Town Center. Folks, if you ever wander down south, check out this little “well” that’s literally in the middle of the mall (activity center, I think, is what the area’s called). There is some weird-ass shit going on on those shelves – some of ‘em funny, some just plain ridiculous reading material – and only my poor, poor memory is preventing me from talking about ‘em.

Anyway, for P380, I found me this hardbound gem: The Moments, the Minutes, the Hours – The Poetry of Jill Scott.

Is it me or is poetry always more expensive than prose? ( I digress more here )

Jill Scott’s poetry is as unvarnished and as lovesick as her music. And I think it is testament to her innate rhythm that, reading her poetry quietly, I can still hear her funky beat in every line. She starts off with this:

Some say that life is a gift
A time to learn and rethink what was a thought in our before minds
Some say that life is a simple series of minutes moments hours days
weeks
years seconds
time
A space to live and then to die
I say Yes
Yes Lord
Yes to all the heady stuff in between


I might take that up as my daily prayer. Here’s another piece that is unmistakably Scott (if you’ve heard her music, you’ve read her poetry):

The Downfall of a North Philly Freak

As he walked into the room
I felt her stiffen
I knew this was just the type she liked
Handsome brotha
Brown, tall, regal
Sexy brotha
Smelling good like hot sex on Sunday after church
Soooo wrong but soooo right
I knew she would weaken
I knew she would fall short of the promise she made
After that
Other brotha “loved”
split her apart
And left her drowning in her own self
I knew she didn’t mean what she said
I tried to hold her but she slid from the
satin lining

It has been 6 whole days
and
she hasn’t checked in
once


It’s certainly telling that she describes poetry as “this blessed, raunchy, wild ride of a craft.” I hope to come across more of you the next time I go to visit the well, Jill. (And Cookie Tuazon, you seriously need a lesson, or ten, in rhythm. Stop faking it and start learning from Jill.)

Last night on the radio, the deejays got to talking about what they consider a unique Filipino trait: false humility. They whined about the Pinoy’s seeming inability to accept a sincere, simple compliment.

I have that quirk. (See, even now, having written that admission, my first thought is, “Which isn’t to say I receive a lot of compliments, please don’t think that’s what I was getting at.”) I know where mine stems from. I can’t speak for the rest of my countryfolks.

Thing is, Pinoys also have a weird way of dishing out compliments, so that you’re not really sure if gratitude is in order. I’ve gotten the occasional, “Ang payat payat mo!, which is almost always accompanied by a stern look and maybe a yank on the arm, or two, just so they can check you out from all sides. How do you say thank you to that?

I’ve also gotten the, “Ang sexy mo, nakakainis ka!” comment, which is another stumper. I’ve responded to that in the past by dropping my gaze to the floor and getting out of the room. Fast. You never know if they’re really irritated or not.

But thankfully, there are those few clear-as-a-sunny-day Pinoys who practically sentence-diagram their meaning for you. I work with one such lady. She’s one of those married women who tell it as it is -- for some reason, I know more married women who are like that than unmarried ones.

I was having lunch in the office pantry one afternoon, shoveling down warm sinigang like there’s no tomorrow. In comes blunt lady. She takes one look at me and my sinigang and, with the candor of a four-year-old, said, “Kaya pala ang taba taba mo na eh! Tignan mo yung mukha mo, ang laki na!” I was saved from reacting by the fact that I was mid-chew. But man, I almost laughed my sinigang all over her face. God bless those folks who haven’t trained a portion of their brain to edit, edit, edit, because sometimes, you just hafta say what you have to say. And the person you’re saying it to just has to know.

Maybe if Pinoys were that unequivocal with their compliments, more of us could learn to reply with a simple thank you.

Date:	2007-03-28 17:31
Subject:	comfort for those who need it
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused