thisistheplan

THIS POST ALWAYS STAYS ON TOP
To succumb to the denial of the absolute truth is to destroy the concept of it altogether: There may not be absolutes; there may not be truths. Whether anything I will be writing here is true or not is out of the question.

I know I will lie. Yes, even to myself. I may do it purposely or accidentally. I will not be sorry about it. I am one of those who write because I want something to read, true or not. I will lie to amuse myself. I will lie because you do not know the truth and you wouldn't be able to tell otherwise. I will lie because it is easier to be responsible with the lies. I will lie because I am too much of a coward to admit truths. Most of all, I will lie to try to hide everything that I am so afraid to be discovered about me.

Disclaimer: No, this does not mean that all--everything-- that I am going to write here are lies. I will tell you versions of truths, too. Or blunt truths. But they wouldn't be that much fun.

FRIENDS ONLY You don't want to part of the lies, do you? Some entries are set to private/friends-only because I am indeed secretive like that.

If you DO want to be part of my lies, add me. I'll most likely add you back. I'm friendly like that.

Diana Alexandra moved to a different domain: http://letterstation.net/

One of the things that I dislike most about being a teacher is the notion that teachers are unintelligent.

Perhaps it is in the culture of this country and perhaps many other countries that teachers are uncelebrated, underappreciated, unrewarded, etc. It is this public mindset that I would like to abolish. However, I understand that this task is a mammoth that I cannot take on by myself and it will never be something that I can "cure."

Today, I was faced by a parent who assumes that I am a teacher who does not understand her material, a parent who went on to use words that she assumed I would not understand. This insults me so much because this profession has always been something of a pride for me. I chose this profession because I believe that there is something I can do. Perhaps it is part of a megalomania or a Messianic complex I have yet to be cured of. Or perhaps I am one of the few who still holds on to the idea that there is something I can do in this world and this is it.

My intelligence has always been a good crutch for me when it comes to this business but there will always be a person who will underestimate that intelligence. I try to tell myself that i cannot please everyone or even try to explain myself to everyone but I do not want to seem like I have given up on this; thus I keep having these thoughts to reflect upon, "What must I do? How can I tell her that I am not stupid?"

I have installed a small desk lamp beside my computer monitor. I have learned enough from my photographer friends the importance of the quality of light. Distance allowed me to think of these things: how I should look good in front of a video camera, how to put on a nice dress when I have no intention of going out, how important it is to understand different time zones. Distance forced me to learn these things, things I had no prior intention of learning.

It has been eight months. Perhaps it would be eight or eighteen months more. The uncertainty leaves me feeling placeless.

(See, I have lost the important words to describe these things.)

I don't know how to write here anymore. Not like this when I am certain that people will take note of my loneliness. Let me not be defined by it.

Aptly

The other day I was reading Nick Hornby's "Polysyllabic Spree" and in the first chapter, Nick Hornby defends the fact that maybe he buys too many books that he understands that he really does not have enough time to read all of them.  That's what I feel like right now. I buy so many books. Or, the right statement for it is: I Hoard Too Many Books.

If I pile the uncovered ones, I can build a small tent for a child. If it rains, can she use the words to protect her?


Exhaustively

Of all the books I buy, I probably only finish three of five.

Some are left with earmarks reminding me that I have yet to finish the pages. Some are exhaustively complained about, "What the fuck are you talking about?" i ask my books.  Some, I have not even opened, save for the name I write on my books when I get them. I have only liked a few books and I have always had this feeling that I read too little or that I do not read enough.


Incredibly

I identify myself as a reader more than as a "writer." I shudder at those people who have such courage to claim themselves such. 


P.S. I am writing this excitedly because tomorrow I am going to host a one-woman party of me covering some of my books. 

As for resolutions, I do not have them.
I have bite-sized ideas what I want to accomplish for this year. Most of it are “private” or happy visualizations I do not want to share to the world yet. It is not that I do not believe in resolutions or that because the word “resolution” in itself sounds final and encompassing.

However, for the past two years I have been making a list of people-I-want-to-meet. If I don’t get to meet them for the year, I can just move their names to the next year. Before January ends, let me just post this here so that I have a concrete reminder of things I want to do this year.




Hello Livejournal, I am still here. :) I have a loyalty to you.

In my daily correspondence with Buccino, I currently dubbed myself as "Boring Girl" because of my typical i-do-nothing-important daily routine. As much as I would like to delude myself into thinking that my life is incredibly interesting, I know better to think so. Most of the time, my typical day would be so uninteresting that I surprise myself that I am able to write something to him every night.

In order for me to write something, I sometimes laboriously relay to him the flavors/concoctions in a restaurant, like a menu or a recipe that he can only read but never consume. I don't know if he finds pleasure in reading these trivial things. It surprises me even more that aside my from emails and snail mails, I have something to tell him through text at least once in every hour or so.

A friend once said that boredom is for the unimaginative and as boring as my day goes, I know very well that I do not want to resign to the lack of imagination.

ON THE OTHER HAND: I know for a fact that some people consider me boring because I hardly open my mouth when I am with them. But it's much more fun hearing other people talk about themselves and their grand ideas of themselves and their lives.

I have written a letter a day for phaserpacer since he left on 27 September. If you ask me, this has been the most significant event of my daily life.

Reading back through my letters for him, I am now convinced that my life is made up of mundane narratives of observations from my truly boring day. Like today I told him that i ate in cocina juan--i swear if not for the cheesy corn soup, I would not go back to the place as often as I do-- and then Sancho churreria manila--a small café that offers blah desserts-- and then finally to bookay-ukay to buy two books.

See, my life is incredibly dull that i am surprised that i have something to say to him at the end of the day. Though i understand that the stories i tell him are considerably exotic because he does not experience it with me.

To top all this, we send letters and postcards to each other--as if we don't actually talk all day. Sometimes I wonder if I deluded myself into thinking that I am an interesting person but in fact I am actually as dull as brick and clichéd too.

At first, it started off as an imperative force to deal with the sadness of a dear one moving to another country: Write a letter once a day.

This is then the promise that I am determined to keep for as long as We (phaserpacer) are apart.

We have 21 days and so many letters between us that we can publish an anthology of us if we so desire. We can print them and sew them as blankets to warm us. OR!!! By next year, we can print all the letters and stitch in the snail mails and postcards and build a paper bridge from Manila all the way to Auckland.

I wish I can write my way to Auckland. Or fly by paper plane.

I honestly don't know what to do with all the WORDS I wrote and though I write everyday, I still don't see myself improving in the creativity department. It frustrates me so much. (But then, that's another story)


BTW, this livejournal would serve more like as a journal/diary than an advertising/funny blog/whatever blog. I have a well-maintained wordpress for that now. Please unfollow this one because FROM NOW ON, it's going to be personal. :)</b.

1) JP, my new student, is the new heartthrob in the office. He is the guy from 7-Eleven that everyone is ogling at. I won't notice him most days because I won't need to. But these days of loneliness, I welcome the new faces.

Though this guy merits a story from me because he is interesting. He's 35 years old. Born and bred in the US most his life but studied in De La Salle for college. The office assistant likes him very much. When he walks to the door, I swear I can hear people swoon over him. I hunch my back and continue fantasizing about New Zealand.

2) I welcome the extra hours of work on weekends because it then means that I can take my mind off things. I don't feel too lonely when I talk to students about their lives and school-related problems. Nevermind that I do not really want to relate to so many people just yet.

3) What is distance? Kilometer-measured, 5 hour differences, long distance rates. Distance is just an entity I can deal with. I did not prepare myself for the grief.

4) It's the mornings that are difficult. When all the sadness, anger, denial, confusion rush through me. I cry in the bathroom because I can't form all the words yet.

5) I want to be a wild bird photographer. I want to be able to capture flight.