Arctic Beetle

I cannot say I entirely like the style I write with now. But if I have to tell something about it sans the hesitation and reluctance, it is the most satisfactory among the several ones I tried to put on.

My deal with writing began on my second to last year in grade school, all due to the dire need to fill up our school’s roster of participants to the division journalism competition. Primitive (but non-vague) classifications dictated that only two expressive styles exist then: the grammatically-correct and the isn’t. The former is necessarily the best and the same pedestal could be reached by anyone if and only if the latter is to be remedied. Via the essay my mother wrote at home and asked me to transcribe exactly at the tryouts, I got my way through the roster as the contestant to the category Editorial Writing. For about two years, I made my journalism adviser think it was me who penned all those training exercises. Though the actual competition is spontaneous, I always came out unharmed because I knew the content of the sample articles believed to be mine word per word and down right to the comma placement. Shame and quite a luck too that I was awarded as one of the 2005 Outstanding Campus Journalists of the country. Personally, I wouldn’t call that writing but if contemporary times would permit, then that would be the closest feel I had with producing literary works back then.

Superficially, because Sarah — not my mother — is supposedly good at writing, I still trailed after it with hopes that I could live up to the accolades behind me without anyone masking as my face. The attempts were atrocious, almost desperate. From being a criterion, grammar turned to be a given order in any literary product. There emerged the simplistic style found on my old Blogger, the a modicum of depth style found on Arctic Beetle numero uno, the subtle and colloquially-speaking, emo style found on my Livejournal and lastly Arctic Beetle numero dos, which is an assortment of all mentioned plus the weak humour. Each was based on the different blogs I follow and I appropriately call myself as a writer lacking individuality. The current Arctic Beetle is suspended between the impression of she-writes-okay-but-is-forgettable and she-writes-well-and-remarkably-too. It leans on the first, I think.

So.. it goes without saying that improvement should have tagged along all this time. It did and on the contrary, I received it warmly. Although it is gratifying, the thought of dismissing my previous works, which at the beginning I thought were all brilliant, from among my cremes is depressing to take in. In hindsight, I may have overrated them or maybe not. My compositions from before offered more content and substance, while the current rivets more on the aesthetic presentation of the same meaty thoughts. I believe mine must fall in the equilibrium between the two but for the lack of practice, I never seem to get the exact mixture right.

I took Creative Writing 10 last semester thinking it would help me in deciding on which style to write with. It was boring, really. The writing exercises weren’t the type that would get your train of thought to travel aimlessly. Well, of course, except for the last which was freestyle. By the time the last requirement was revealed, ironically, it was then that I lost all my big ideas and enthusiasm. During the day of its submission, as a final act of desperation, my final manuscript document suddenly had words from a composition I wrote a year ago. I could have done better — no something, I told myself before submitting the recycled work. However, apparently, as remarked by my professor, it is the best among what I could have submitted. No, she didn’t say it directly but that’s the best my mind could reconcile when she asked me whether she could publish my work on a compilation. I don’t believe it either but she did. Totally against what I expected, the experience actually muddled my mind further.  It was my fault but the manga I was reading that night was just too nice to be put away for a school requirement. It’s probably the greatest accomplishment so far of the writer in me from a year ago.

In the end, though I was told several times by my English teachers to end everything with a bang, I’m not gonna close this post with a decisive conclusion. The best I can do for now, I guess, is to write with few grammatical errors.

2010 started out as a simple numerical increment to 2009– an awfully stale, continuous and differentiable point on my graph of exponential procrastination and attention-veering. I was well aware I needed to modify some of my habits (if not all), but procrastination kidnapped my mindset and took over my body, thus the postponement of this to now. As an addition to your book of knowledge, the blaring wake up call was my Biology laboratory exam paper which boasts of a 26.5/50 on its upper right hand corner. At the end of the semester is a pot of final exam eager to strangle me.

1. Cue sleep properly. No more dozing in the middle of studying Experiment 1 and waking up the next morning studying Experiment 1 still. Compromising for the sleep lost for some successful study sessions in the middle of all my classes will be tolerated no more.

2. Avoid being late for my first class. Flunking my PE class is highly likely with this habit present.

3. A large X mark for unhealthy munchies. Tough, tough one. This is relatively manageable except when we’re talking about that Cornetto cone.

4. Study like I used to… 3 years ago. Those were the good ol’ days.

5. Smile under low volume and high pressure. (After reading this anew, I am now considering adding “Stop the lame jokes” to this list.)

Thereafter this post becomes visible to the interwebs, the shooting of Beetle: Revenge of the Fallen Yet Again officially begins.

Right after being notified by my fellow monitor in that immensely grueling laboratory day that her limbs cannot handle ten burette clamps in just one go, I hurriedly followed her to the room which reeks of the smell of a mash of leftover rice and fish bones. Greeting us immediately was a Chinky geezer in his 70s or 80s. Of all those times that I see him wear a decent polo and pants, it just happened to be today that he decided to abandon the thought and don a sando that highly accentuates his saggy chest which one could mistake for as real pair of breasts.

After commanding his assistant to gather what we need, the old man turned his head to my co-monitor and suavely said, “Chinese ka ba? Nang makita kita, lalo ko tuloy gustong maniwala na ang mga pinakamagagandang babae ay may lahing Chinese.”

Nice pick-up line for an old man whose social skills, I thought, were paralyzed for a long time as he is usually seen either sleeping or being unresponsive to students. Go on, I am liking this sexual harrassment case in the making.

“Yep, 75% Chinese po ako,” my companion replied.

I didn’t know that the mechanisms of genetics could easily be taken as a problem involving averages, wherein if your father is a Chinese and your mother is supposedly half, then 75% of you roots back to China. I hope no one begs to disagree when I declare that I am 1% Caucasian, 5% Asian, 5% Dalmatian, and 90% astig Pinoy.

“Mabuti naman,” he said pausing for a while to look at my direction, “hindi katulad ng mga Pilipino. Ayan katulad niyan, puro ngiti lang ang alam.”

Getting your point across doesn’t have to involve me, does it? And when all the requested burette clamps were positioned in the basket, oddly, his attention was on me again.

“Ayan, ikaw ang magbuhat. ‘Wag mong pinagbubuhat ang mga Chinese.”

Monsieur, I was summoned there to help her and not to bear the job of a personal assistant. If only you knew that you were expressing your contempt at someone who also has that Chinese blood you so uphold… I wasn’t upset at the racist undertones; instead, I was upset at your lapse in judgment since from whatever view you would look at the two of us from, I am way prett– I dare not state the obvious.

Everything in the lagoon seems to have shed off the summer skin it had for the longest time. The smell of being recently graced with a drizzle or morning dew is prominent. Each ray of light that illuminates the place is carefully screened by the layers of tree limbs piled up high.

No sound could made out except for the shrill voices echoed by a talking tableau from a distance and the feeble rustle of the leaves as a meek swift of wind moved past them. An incessant and pesky monologue by a classmate in the background could also be heard. To tell you the truth (for truth’s sake), my eardrums prefer that choir’s piece delivered with poor diction than my classmate’s occasional absence of tactfulness. In fact, they don’t even deserve comparison, but that’s beside the point.

As far as my observations are concerned, the lagoon is probably named such because of the water that used to stream beneath the quasi-bridge along the walkway. Now, it looks like a mere canal meant to be a sewer’s component. The lagoon, minus the periodic fumes from the vehicles in the parking lot beside it, would have been the most solacing place in UP if it really lived up to its name or the water part of it, at least.

As I sat on a rock overgrown with moss underneath of what appeared like a tree that was there for quite some time in-situ, at least fifteen leaves have descended in a manner you could attribute to a pinwheel that has been stirred not by a mortal-induced breeze. The fallen ones had the finesse and delicacy of Maria Clara as they made their way through the grass and the cemented walkways, stumbling and faltering as though being in water for the first time. What a both unbefitting and befitting place this is for Maria Clara –- tranquil but rumored to be an affiliate or God knows, maybe a branch of Sogo Hotel.

The wind leads everthing it can sway to the direction of what I consider to be the center of the lagoon on account of the round cement tables and chairs it boasts. This centerpiece specializes in being the freedom wall of the place’s seemingly frequent and angsty visitors. For one, they all prove to be a very good source of autograph book-worthy mottos written in pentel pen like “Patayin ang karibal para walang sagabal.” or “Pinanganak akong walang kakambal kaya wala dapat akong karibal.” I was also very fortunate to have come across a letter within the five-meter radius of the table basically stating that “Tita, pasensya na po kung malandi ako.” Engravings such as “Angelica love John” on the stump of a nearby tree shouldn’t also be missed. I guess this is what they call the Filipino teenage crisis.

Because I am not aspiring to get an uno in Biology 11 nor to be a taxonomist (the thought never crossed my mind until this moment), the most distinction I can give between the trees found past the striking stage not far from the tables is their appearance. The only one I can identify is the coconut tree with its desiccated yields. The rest are just tree with a lot of branches, tree with a large trunk or simply a tall tree to my eyes. In the thick of these along with the bushes, a woman in her thirties is idly waiting for something – or someone, as it later turned out. Uncanny, they could have just met in the waiting shed of Palma Hall or a more salient landmark.

Now I kind of comprehend why this place is the usual target of lovers eager for some sexual impropriety. The lagoon sure invokes that feeling of secrecy, despite it being a known hallmark for random peep shows. I would have enjoyed my one-hour visit more if I was able to catch one and thus, had something more exciting to write about, but I am also grateful that I wasn’t because curiosity can definitely kill the cat.

Dear Christmas,

You just passed but it did not feel like you did. Or maybe I just didn’t pay enough attention because I practically spent half of you just dashing in Dragonica’s virtual world without any guildmate to talk to and the rest without anything to occupy my time due to Sabbath. Yes, that’s right, I have never even thought about you once in those blank moments. I have never even thought about you that I hardly know why ended up doing a monologue of how pathetic I feel turning off the lights to evade the carollers and not replying to that mundane greeting when everyone’s feeling festive. This is me asking you why I always get involved in your rush involuntarily and me being entirely far from being complaintive. Maybe I should be asking my parents instead because it is a complete mystery to me why I get to join kris kringles and parties when we don’t even celebrate you.

If you will take regard of how we prepare food for the expected visitors who, for sure, would rather eat than listen to why we don’t take you to be true, our family is very cooperative. It is very hard to break the yearly process so I guess we have to maintain this state of commensalism for sometime.

Lastly, allow me to thank you for that exp buff and Christmas sales over at Dragonica!

Respectfully yours,

Sarah

—

Dear New Year,

It just came to my knowledge that I shouldn’t be celebrating you either. This matter is highly deserving of an elegy considering the thought that it used to be the only event I can celebrate along with the rest of the human race. No worries on your part though since no wide-eyed beliefs were shattered in the making of this letter nor in the process of digesting my father’s quick remark. As a matter of fact, I was expecting that to bulge somewhere in the middle of the conversation because, if you haven’t been listening to my chatters while I take a bath, it seems to me that my parents are establishing a deviation from our current faith that it almost comes along like a completely new and different religion. Apparently, celebrating for events not worthy of feasts is among its doctrines.

So, you see, your first day didn’t particularly foreshadow a bright, clean slate ahead of me. Not that it’s supposed to make me feel new and squeaky clean because after all, the Earth just completed a revolution around the sun– but if I woke up cracking a crispy local curse (which I might also add that I don’t usually or rather, rarely do), I can’t help thinking that it hints at something bad. But then, it might just be the superstitiousness allele I got from my mother’s chromosomes which she, in turn, inherited from her Chinese descent.

If ever you have the time to drop by our house, please do so since we still have a lot of leftovers from yesterday. I’m sure you’re pretty speculative on the sentence preceding this and my opening statement but I don’t have a lot of time to shell out in explaining such trivial matters so just read my letter to Christmas. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you reading that paragraph alone or me referring to her as a she when both of you are androgynous. You are not collectively referred to as holidays in Happy Holidays! for nothing but maintaining an amiable relationship, right? If she doesn’t want you to, you can always scroll up.

Sincerely yours,

Sarah

—

Banzai, happy holidays!

The past fourteen days ended quite too rapidly and I don’t know if I’m accounting them in such manner because I have mostly caught my Zs way ahead of my usual 1-2 am sleeping time or it’s just that when faced with an ill situation that leaves me agape and surprised as Dora and Boots when Swiper is, for crying out loud, finally in the range of their sight, everything seems to have been hit by VLC’s speed up option. To say that those two weeks was a roller coaster ride is yards away from the appropriate description I want achieve and not to mention, being inept in using metaphors and unfair to roller coasters that fancy me. Had I written a version of this post on every day of last week, this would have several variation in its concluding paragraph and the primary emotion it would want to suffuse. My fingers are crossed that what happened today is a definite ending to my potential Maalaala Mo Kaya entry.  What took place will be condensed as much as possible and narrated hereinafter.

So it is no longer a hypothesis and is a proven theorem that my sisters are luckless in the love department. Maybe not entirely but if they happen to be lucky, there is something in that luck that is also being unlucky. If you cannot pin the idea down, then how is “a guy whom you love so much, complete with the falling royal red hearts, revealing to you that he’s been divorced twice and has four spawns” to explain that? Guess what, I’m revealing you’s antecedent in the wrong sequence: my sister who’s desperate to get married. Flame me not ’cause how else would you describe someone who officially affirms that she and her suitor are together after two weeks of chasing and who forcefully wants the wedding on May, even getting to the point that she had us believe that it was the guy’s idea originally?

To sum up the incident from two weeks ago, with her narrow mindset that’s good enough to be considered close working at its best, she eloped.. not with Dagoberto but with her notion that until the time he steps on the Philippine shore, he would support her with his 150 dollars whose frequency at which they would come God knows what. Either she is too fed up with her self-deprecating thoughts or too brilliant to tell her friends that we beat her just to sway their sympathy and win the comfort of their homes. As narrated by my mother herself, she went forth with a smile and a hint of scorn on her face.

She wasn’t home for quite some time and so was my mother’s usual self after being upbraided by my sister for not gifting her a laptop, for entering her room when she doesn’t want her to, for scolding her back when she was still tameable and simply for being her mother — okay, I just made the last one up but all of them allude to that, don’t they? No wonder her eyes were turgid from all the crying. And to be honest, as much as I wanted to show my sister that my life does not overlap with hers, I did shed some tears too after witnessing our mother’s self-worth decrease like the coordinates of a half-life graph.

Last week, for the most part it, was persuading her to come back home, to my displeasure. Hours ago, she finally went back with traces of hunger on her shrinking belly and her bullheadedness still present. But that’s okay because there is nothing more comforting than seeing my mother’s relief upon getting the household semi-tidy before my father’s arrival on the 28th and heart-warming than the thought of gathering everyone’s physical presence (except my eldest sister’s) on the first day of 2010. Also, I am happy that I no longer have to pat my stomach and have it suffer small servings of food intended to be my breakfast, lunch and dinner because apparently, there is no more reason for my mother to trim down the production of quality food in quality amount.