1st-Day Syndrome

Aren't first days murderously nerve-wracking? Whether this day be the start of a long-standing relationship with a prospective boss, a romantic interest, or a probable soul mate, it all boils down to one thing--- first days are the only days I know to cause adrenaline-release due to the fight or flight syndrome.

I get that it is human nature to fear the new and unfamiliar. What I don't get about first days is the occurrences of mid-something-pseudo-first-days like Mondays after weekends, etc. It's like getting a taste of vacation, only to wake up to the ugly reality that it's only until you get settled enough that it is already 11 pm and that tomorrow is the start of another work week. The painful bottom-line to weekends or mid-term breaks is that there isn't enough time in them to actually get totally settled in and be 100% complacent that the heaps of paperwork you left didn't double in number. 

It's like faking an orgasm. The pictures we get of ourselves lying down on hammocks on some uncharted island surrounded by the pristine waters of the ocean is contrived. Yes, they look like photo-finish versions of magazine clippings, but truly they are as good as they get. Again, fake orgasm. Behind every picture taken are reality bite marks of unpaid credit cards (for the plane ticket and accommodation), of nagging thoughts of unfinished paperwork waiting to get accomplished once and for all, of the tedious act of packing and unpacking, of the long lines at the airport (which, by the way, aren't as modern and posh as how the silver screen had painted them). It's like getting on the plane without actually looking forward to the trip but to the tons of work left at home. Who's going to feed the dog? Had I unplugged all the sockets? Did I shut tight the dripping faucets? How many call slips will I get when I return from the trip? Did my secretary report for work?  Are the kids alright? These and a chug of flaming blowjob are enough to send a busybody to kingdom come.

Another crappy truth about first days is the feeling it draws out from you especially during cold mornings. What could be more perfect a day than to find yourself waking up to your first Monday morning, knowing that it would be that first of many other Mondays to follow? While your mind tells you to get your butt in the shower, the lower half of your body says, "Stay under the covers. It's warmer in here." While you know it's sane to get going so you won't report in late, the coffee machine will never cooperate at this time of the day. You get in the car, you drive down the bleak path towards a long week of noise, of paperwork, of insurgent subordinates, etc. The list never ends.

Just last week I was switching channels, there came on a commercial ad of a man doing what seemed to me was a tai-chi maneuver. Underwater, he looked perfectly serene and calm. That state of calmness was the type that would enable one to sleep through armageddon. And then I knew: that was peace. The TV annotator was saying something about "internal peace" but what caught my fancy was the phrase "unclog the mind."  It was only then that I realized, in all the vacations I took, none one of them did feel restful to me; and all because my mind was not getting the rest my body was getting at the time. 


So the next time I get the chance to "vacay," I'll take it to heart to just forget about everything I left behind and move on forward. Walk towards the beach with no care for the world and take a dip in the warm waters of the Pacific.

 

Aaahhh. Finally.

Lost in Anonymity

My personal testimony to life is that man exists for the world. We seek approval from others, let's face it. Whether "others" pertain to our bosses at work, or spouses, kids, parents, friends, colleagues, even strangers, there is no denying that our very identity is spelled by the public ID these "others" have typecast us into. We are stereotypes of the mold which "the world" has created for us to fit into. My mold is a little less complicated than the others'. It is very easy to read and duplicate.

I am a teacher. My life is limited inside the confines of the classroom. The air I breathe is the stinging cold of the air-conditioning and chalk powder, which at the latter part of my life, will eventually clog my pulmonary arteries.

The beauty to anonymity is that the pressure of living-up to the standards is lessened. One could easily deviate from all known forms of conformity and no one would take notice because his actions, like him, are just going to become part of the blurry backdrop. Nobody will squirm at the lousy pair of jeans he'll decide to wear on wash days. Nobody would take notice of the choices of food he'll be forcing down his throat. Nobody, not even those pesky mall credit card marketers, will pay him attention. Nobody.

Anonymity is God's gift to the mediocre. We don't get blamed for saying something blasphemous just because we own a TV network. Our words and actions, or any compromising or embarrassing predicament we find ourselves in, no matter how offensive, won't be blown out of proportions. Our twitter accounts won't be followed. Nobody would read our blogs.


So why then am I writing in the second-person point-of-view as if I am certain than someone is actually reading? I don't know. Maybe I'm hoping against hope that at any given rate, somebody would mistakenly come across this and find himself/herself seeing the world in my perspective. Who knows?

Under Heaps of Yellowed Paper

Part of my routine every time I get the chance to take time off from work is to do installment versions of the Chinese tradition of spring-cleaning. By unclogging my house of clutters --- test papers, research work that did not see the light of a decent revalida, instructional plans, sketches, doodles, etc. --- I am, in effect, unclogging my mind of mental splinters or nagging thoughts of unfinished business. By doing the act of spring-cleaning, I am consoled with the thought that at least this part of my life is a little less disorganized.


I chose to write down my thoughts because I find remembering very difficult these past few months. I'm not sure if I'm down with something, but one thing's for certain: I had to do something about it before it's too late. So here it is. 

Surviving in the City is Pretty Much Like Surviving in the Wild

Be careful. Every step you make could mean your end. Somehow, somewhere in the deep, dark corner of the world, lies your potential predator on a prowl. Mind. You are not in the jungle. THIS IS THE CITY I'M TALKING ABOUT. 

Ride with me, as I give you a tour of this place I call MY OPEN CONFINED RESERVE SAFARI. 

LET'S GO!