Trying this again

Woke up at nearly noon time. Too much wine.

Been in a funk lately--in part brought on by being unstaffed for just over a week now. I keep telling myself to just report to work even if I have nothing to do to save me from the perils of isolation, idle time and my imagination. Easier said than done, though. Especially with eztv and a 42-inch TV.

I dreamed about him the other night and woke up with the insatiable urge to call him. It's been over 2 months since I swore him off Whatsapp and every other virtual connection, and I just ended up missing him all the more. Although I would pat myself on the back for maintaining the discipline to not peek at his Instagram or check whether he still follows me on Twitter. And I do know that this I-only-miss-him-more narrative is a necessary phase. But it doesn't help that I'm home all day with nothing to do.

I had just realised yesterday that I had not cried a good cry for this messy break-up. This same person who bawls his eyes out on Oscar acceptance speeches and at the first notes of a Broadway musical's overture has not had a moment--a purging, so to speak. Perhaps that's why I couldn't move forward emotionally. And though I have been open to dating, I still whisper his name when ghosts stir me from sleep at an unearthly hour.

And between thoughts of him and bouts of ennui, I also consider my job. It's pretty much everything I had expected, so sure, no surprises there. And it's only been 7 months, so a fair assessment still couldn't be made. But maybe because of attribution errors and residual emotions, I end up feeling listless to the point of wanting a major shake-up. Then I resort to my go-to: musical theatre videos on YouTube.

And there I stumble on a good cry: the kids in Matilda singing "When I Grow Up."



Flying through the air in swings, these kids mirror--in actions, voice and words--the very thoughts I had: "And when I grow up/ I will be smart enough to answer all/ The questions that you need to know the answers to/ before you're grown up."

And with my 29th birthday inching closer, I realise that I'm not.

And now it's half past six. I need to be preparing dinner soon if I want to be on time for my late night TV habits.

Of dreams, choices and compromise

Anxiety has been my mode of living for the past few weeks. The word future has shed its mystique; now it seems so immediate, even urgent. While before I could romanticize the future with when-I-grow-up-I-want-to-be-X musings, now comes the time for me to commit, as if the last 27 years of my life have been building towards this climax. And in movies, the climax is the turning point, right? It's the moment that decides whether I will be happy or miserable for the rest of my life. Rest of my life--ugh, the anguish.

Recruitment season is in full swing, and I am once again reducing my identity to résumés and cover letters. The anxiety comes from choosing between job offers that haven't even been offered. And while I'd like to convince myself that I should focus more on getting a haircut and preparing for interviews, I won't be the Type-A failurephobe my school admissions committee thought I am if my mind is not already inundated with 10-tiered decision trees and 5-year forward scenarios.

What exacerbates the problem is the fundamental conflict between what I want to be and what I am trained to do. I want to be a musical theater director. No, I want to be a Broadway musical theater director. I want to win a Tony Award and have my name in theater reviews on the New York Times. Alas, an MBA hardly sets me on the road toward that dream. In fact, an MBA sets me on the opposite road, one could argue. And don't tell me that those paths could somehow converge. I've heard too many times that the creative and the managerial are two distinct and separate tracks. And while it's not uncommon for creatives to shift to management roles, the shift in the other direction is nearly impossible.

I keep coming back to this expression of regret: I should have just gone to drama school. The list of recent Tony winners suggest that to be a director one needs to have worked in the industry--as an actor or singer or dancer or writer, and after that, an apprentice to luminaries, or alternatively as a director in smaller theater companies. And what do I have going for me? A degree in economics, 4 years of sales experience in a petroleum company, and a $160,000 MBA. Great.

Last summer I tested a hypothesis: working in arts management is a synthesis of my management training and passion for the arts. The idea was that working in close proximity to the arts, albeit in an uncreative function, could be a satisfying compromise. And indeed it was. After all I worked in the largest arts organization in the world--in New York City, no less. Attached to every project I was involved with was a show, performance series, performing venue, arts organization, or audience member. And when I felt so removed from the art, I just needed to cross the street or take the subway for the chance at sitting in a darkened theater and becoming the avid theatergoer that I am. For what my summer is worth, working in the arts industry with art-loving people in the musical theater capital of the world was an experience of a lifetime.

Now that I am considering pursuing my summer job full time, the constraints of reality begin to emerge. For one, my partner is in Manila, and moving him to New York for us to be together necessitates his sacrificing a promising career. Since he's not a US citizen, he cannot easily apply for a job in this country. He can apply for an MBA in New York for easier placement, but that sets us back with more debt. Also, being admitted to business school is no certainty for him, and neither is the prospect of getting a permanent work authorization for me. At this point the decision tree and its branching options become more and more vague, which makes it even harder for the failurephobe to make a decision. Do I uproot my partner from his career just so I could live out a compromised dream for an indefinite amount of time?

Which brings me to my next question: is this dream of becoming a director worth it? Or rather, is this compromised dream--arts management--worth it? Given the exorbitant costs of the compromise, it seems like the costs are only worth it if I go for the dream--be an active participant in the creation of art--which might see me take a huge pay cut, start from scratch, throw away the very reason why I came to this country, and at the extreme become a struggling artist. For if not, all the costs would be paying merely for access to watching the Broadway shows I love--which a good friend told me will never love me back.  So in that light, I now ask: is the dream--compromised or whole--worth it? Or is it just a childish folly--an aspirations narrative that kids make while growing up which in turn disillusion them when they finally do grow up?

What gives me solace, though, is learning about the careers of several successful people in the entertainment industry. The man who greenlit the most successful movie franchise of all time came from P&G. MTV's ex-CEO started in publishing. And Will Smith's creative affairs VP started in consulting. Successful careers, I gather, can also be less deliberate. When asked how they ended up where they are, most of them credit serendipity--meeting a friend of a friend who happened to have a friend who worked for so-and-so--and consequently suggest that we be on the lookout for those chance encounters, too. How can I have a chance encounter with a Broadway producer or director if I'm not in New York, I still ask myself. And at that point the decision tree calculus falls apart. We are talking, after all, of chance and serendipity.

In one of her talks here in school, Facebook COO Cheryl Sandberg suggested we subscribe to an 18-month plan; no further than that. You never know, she says, what will happen, whom you will meet, and who you will be beyond that. I've always been one to subscribe to medium-term, even long-term, career visioning. But this 18-month plan is not only alleviating my anxiety; it is also liberating. If that serendipitous encounter doesn't befall me, I can always apprentice locally, go back to school, or move to NYC. Or maybe by then my dreams will have changed.

So now I will cast as wide a net as possible, send out as many applications as I can, and book as many interviews as my schedule will permit. And when an offer comes--or doesn't--I will reevaluate my priorities and decide what to do at least as far as the next 18 months go. This rest-of-my-life angst is getting old.

Leaving home

On my first day of nursery school I clung to mama and wouldn't let go. What if she doesn't fetch me, I thought. I didn't want to be left in my new school all alone! When dismissal time finally came and my mom wouldn't be in my first line of sight at the gate, I would collapse and cry myself to relief, as if wailing would magically summon her. Of course I was five years old at the time.

This afternoon I clung to mama again and wouldn't let go. And before that to my papa. And before that to my nephew. And before that, my sisters. And before that, my boyfriend. I clung to them tightly, as if doing so would make leaving easier. Of course it only made leaving all the more painful.

Today was different. Now a man of 26, I was not afraid for myself: I was afraid for them. Who's going to stop papa from eating that last morsel of chicharon? Who's going to listen to my mama when she needs to de-stress? I feel like my sisters would be losing their older brother, their protection and anytime go-to guy. Javi would be losing his doting uncle. As for Karlo, as I've said one time too many, who's going to take care of the little things when I'll be halfway across the world?

Throughout my final weeks at home, I avoided administering any final instructions (huling habilin). Doing so would only heighten the farewell-ness of the occasion. And ever the post-modern stoic, I had programmed myself to remain sober during the airport send-off. Crying was for the OFW movie, I convinced myself. Yet in the throes of several last embraces, my defenses fell: I was sobbing outside the airport like a girl. On impulse I whispered my final requests: to my eldest sister, take care of Javi; to my middle sister, take care of Karlo; to my mom, take care of Papa and Karlo; and to Karlo, take care of my family. I think I was confusing my leaving with death!

I was lucky the ground crew didn't charge fees for my excess baggage: responsibility. I felt that I had to take care of these people, and that if anything were to happen while I was away, I'd be the one to blame. To stave off my guilt, I wanted to make sure--ever the obsessive-compulsive anal queen--that I'd be leaving each of them in capable hands.

But now, as I muffle sobs 30,000 feet in the air, I realize: maybe I was confusing responsibility with conceit. Like the world couldn't turn without me. Like I was the glue keeping my family together. Like Karlo couldn't manage without my domestic services. Perhaps I also have to accept that they could all manage without me.

Perhaps I should also leave my conceit at home, that I could fill out the void it leaves with more faith in the people I love. More trust. And in the wellspring of faith and trust that my letting go would open, maybe I could also fetch a bucket for myself.

Not quite Superman

He called to tell me that he has an office function--that he'll be off work past 9pm and not at 7pm as agreed.  At first I wanted to grumble and whine. "Had I known earlier, then I wouldn't have parked my ass in Starbucks and sat through 3 kill-time hours!" But I bit my tongue, even though he trailed off into boisterous laughter on the other end of the phone.

"It's ok," I mumbled, dreading the thought of having dinner alone and spending a few more hours with only my online tutorials to keep me company, trying to forget that I could have curled up with my nephew at home rather than loiter in a coffee shop with strangers.

And that's when it hit me: what right have I to complain when what he did to me tonight was what I'll be doing to him for two years? Cue the tears.

Finding my as-yet response-less tweet an inadequate catharsis, I sent an SMS message to two very close friends. They both reassured me that my boyfriend would eventually get used to the distance, cope, and grow in ways he wouldn't have had I not left. That he is, in fact, proud of what I'll be doing, and perfectly understands that our sacrifice is not for naught.

I suppose he will, and I suppose he does. But I asserted that for as long as we reside in the transition, I can feel only guilt: I still can't bear the thought of him eating canned food for dinner and waking up in the morning with no one to hug except his fat sexless roommate. If a single ditched night took this much understanding on my part, how deep a well of understanding does he need to start digging?

Cue more tears. And not just for those canned meals and sexless hugs. I think I was also crying about myself.

Perhaps, I told my friend, I'm having trouble admitting to myself that I'm still that sentimentality junkie from 70 more lbs ago. Maybe I feel pressured to sustain this "I'm post-modern about relationships" narrative because I could not concede to the prevailing discourse of romance and dependency that so-called lesser mortals are wont. Maybe, I thought, I'm too caught up in a highly calculated self-portrayal that realizing I have this kind of feelings for a person expresses itself like an allergy.

I suppose that much to my dismay, I was reduced to being vulnerable. And with less than 2 weeks from my plane ride to Boston, I could afford none of it.

Please no despedidas.

A week prior my last day at work, one of my officemates asked if I was having a despedida (going-away) party. Asked if I should, she explained that it was a good way of celebrating a successful transitioning. I just shrugged and said that if I would be having one, I certainly did not want to organize it for myself.

In a month I'll be making the big move: a 19-hour flight to Boston where I will school in the so-called hallowed halls of Harvard Business School.  It's the first time anyone from my family is moving away from home.  I'll be leaving behind a three-year-old nephew who is only beginning to form complete sentences and a relationship 8 months his senior.  By leave I mean physically; no more.

In a poignant scene from last night's Toy Story 3, Andy's mother breaks into tears as she lays sight on Andy's room being empty for the first time. Andy, now 17 and going to college, has wiped his room clean of any memory of his living there--clothes, toys, photos, and all.  I couldn't help but ruminate on my own departure, and on the tears I'm likely to encounter.

I'm not so sure if my mom would have enough emotional space to cry, what with all her last-minute reminders and "did you remember to bring your so-and-so"s. My eldest sister, whose autism bestowed on her psychic sensitivity, will surely shed a tear or two. My middle sister will probably remain composed, too busy restraining her toddler who, in an uncanny manner, manages to comprehend the gravitas of a departure when he sees one. But among my family, it's my father, the closet emotional, whom I expect to be a wreck. Not only am I fulfilling my dreams; I am fulfilling his. Of course, he may merely be lamenting the loss of his everyday computer technician.

What I am not ready for is my boyfriend's weeping. He who expresses his love with gentle kisses and loving caresses, and who expects love to be reciprocated likewise. Oh, will he weep. I am confident that he could already look past the geographical distance and focus on the prize; he understands that being apart now is a small sacrifice in relation to whatever gains await us. What he cannot get over--and only recently even I cannot, for the love of God--is the everyday: the morning rides, the home-cooked dinners, the goodnight hugs, the weekend sleep-ins and the anytime embraces. I suppose it's hard for any couple to stay apart for this long. But considering he's lived in 7 houses for the past 28 years, it's a newfound stability that my leaving will deny him. And for which I bear the utmost guilt.

Which is why I am opposed to the idea of a despedida. All a despedida does is draw attention to my leaving--place three exclamation points where I deem a humble semi-colon is more appropriate. And though I speak of this "big move" with such enthusiasm, I've always regarded it as an inevitable.  Hence,  nothing is to be celebrated; let's save the time and effort for my homecoming when we could toast to an accomplished accomplishment.

Without being too presumptive, I ask for no going away parties where my boyfriend, among all, will only start feeling lonely when he shouldn't yet feel so.  I ask for for no reminders that my life with my family--the way we've known it--is about to end.

I only ask that we share a meal and act as if nothing will ever change between us.

The day our Lord died

Good Friday, among the days of Holy Week, was my favorite. Palm Sunday's palaspas-waving mass was always fun, but I was always dissatisfied with the crowd's uninspired "Free Barabbas!" in the gospel-turned-dialogue. Holy Wednesday's penitensya/senakulo was amusing, but the (literally) pedestrian quality of the production always failed to impress me. Maundy Thursday and Black Saturday just plain sucked because nothing played on our then-non-cable TV. And Easter Sunday always disappointed because I never found the golden Easter Egg in our village's Easter Egg hunting.

Good Friday was my favorite because at dusk, my family would troop over to my dad's hometown of Marikina to witness the yearly spectacle that is prusisyon (procession). And last Friday, after a hiatus due in part to "religious differences," I lassoed my family into renewing the tradition.

Some things never change.  San Pedro and his cock still headed the pack and woebegone Maria Soledad, with the face of a babydoll, was still the dramatic finale.  Between them, there was still the crocodile under Santa Marta's feet, the artificial tulips in Maria Salome's plexiglass podium, and the elephantine features of the holy corpse of Christ.  But this year I counted a whopping 57 floats--a goliath leap from the 38 I diligently catalogued when I was nine. Along with the usual suspects now marched oddly-selected fillers like San Nicodemo and San Longines. (Why a Pharisee and a Roman Centurion would share equal billing with the Virgin and the Apostles is beyond me.)

I always wondered what was so bewitching about Good Friday procession. Perhaps it was the carroza itself: each float's life-sized tableau breathed life into my religion teacher's every Gospel story. Perhaps also it was the theatricality: I found it ingenious that Maria Magdalena's tears were sculpted on to her flawless cheeks, and that smoke effects and thunderclap booming on megaphones accompanied the Pagkamatay ni Kristo sa Krus float. Maybe it was also the spectacle itself--of having scores of debotos lighting a candle and walking miles in the name of their favorite padrino.

Now, a quarter of a century into this lifetime, I think I have reduced the procession's charm to one thing: pageantry. I loved the pageantry of it all--costumes embroidered with gold thread and intricate patterns, oversized copper halos, impeccably scultpted nose bridges, bright orbs of light and enough flowers to rival Baguio's Panagbenga. Having lost my religion was no impediment to enjoying the procession like I did when I was a devout student of our so-called story of salvation.  Perhaps because at the heart of it all, prusisyon--fueling a microeconomy of artisans, candle vendors and flower producers--is as much a secular event as it was a religious commemoration.  As much profane as it is sacred.

But while standing in the mist of candlelight waiting for the perfect picture to grace my viewfinder, I thought to myself, What if it were all true? Wouldn't it be so much more picture perfect?

Alas, this year was for the mere spectator with his amateur photography.

        

a promise un-kept

dear buddha jones,

march has arrived. february passed without a single entry!

where are those spits of creativity i was expecting from you? is this project a fulfillment of its title?

you better shape up, lest i terminate your lease on life.


mike