Medley of Reflections

You never know how important something is unless it is taken away from you. This statement holds true to what had occured to me a week ago. I had mustered up enough patience and courage to add another entry in my blog, having written more than eight paragraphsful, I felt it to suit my satisfaction. I clicked on the "Publish Post" icon and ta-da! "Server couldn't be found.." Bull! Whats my initial reaction? Click on back.. and yes I came back to an empty text box waiting mockingly to be filled up.. again. It was such a disheartening feeling when you feel that you have accoplished another masterpiece only for it to disappear into (cyber) oblivion, never to be retrieved again. Acknowledging that all efforts in completing it had been futile not to mention put to waste. In addition, the acceptance that the second attempt at the same issue would reflect a semi-radical change in the whole outline, not to mention perspective of the whole event. Ever had that feeling that the first attempt always seems a lot better than the second, third, etc. attempts at the exact same issue? I understand that partially the fault is mine since I had not taken the initiative to copy it before publishing it, and yet to lose what one has written, what one has taken time and effort and thought to complete is undeniably extremely tiring and stress adding, completely contrast to the supposed stress reducing effects that could be gained from writing down your thoughts. And so here I am once again, a bit wiser now, attempting to wrestle with the bothersome ideas that have been flooding my mind for the past two weeks.

It seems that I have become obsessed with the blog that almost every single occurence in my life is worthy to be included in such a publication. In truth, perhaps it is worthy, since it is of my own life, the blog is of my own doing and thus is susceptible to whatever content I deem it worthy to contain. To those who may read my blog, though I doubt there be plenty, I write not for your pleasure but for my own and thus forgive me should you find some of the text offensive, mundane, boring, violent, radical (and all sorts of criticisms you could formulate) although I doubt it to be so. Returning to what I was saying, the blog has possessed me into wanting to contain virtually every aspect of my daily existence, not to mention the golden thoughts that toy with the nerves running in my limited head. I list down memories one by one in the computer of my mind and decide "this is what I am going to write today." And yet when faced with this empty white box, in a beckoning anticipation to show off my bothersome ideas, my brain would realize that the power plug was just pulled out and that all data would be lost in an automatic shutdown. I would lose enthusiasm and wit and thus fail to even begin writing craps like this.

There are times though when I am very much driven to write an entry, but my mind begins to experience a shutdown of ideas wherein I find a loss of what I am to write down despite the millions of listed memories I may have come up with a moment or two ago. It is like, as one is faced with the blank text box, the mind mimics it and allows all ideas to smoke out of the chimney of the head, and embracing the limbo of the outside world. In order to solve this dilemma, I wrote down the memories on a piece of yellow pad, thinking that perhaps by doing such I would be spare from the worry of forgetfulness, and thankfully, this entry is a product of such doing. I have listed over ten paragraphs of topics which I am very willing to discuss, unfortunately I feel the time would not permit me to divulge all this shit in one sitting. I have class in an hour and I would also meet my groupmate for the preproduction paperworks, done postproduction, of our last project before our final project which is due next week.

Our final project would revolve around the self, more specifically events that has occured within the span from our birth to our current exitence. Sitting down, I have thought of some interesting occurences to propose as my autobiography, but none as "blast"ful and also simple enough to fit the requirements I have set.
(1) It must be short
(2) It would require minimal actors
(3) It would not exceed my maximum of 3 location changes
(4) It could be shot in daytime
(5) The story must not be dull, boring and "cliche"ic (eq. love love and more love story bull)
(6) The story must be exciting and show forth a deeper side of me
(7) The production should be feasible
and blah blah and more blah..

Thinking, I've realized what a boring life I lead despite the many fun events that have occured, it feels like I have never really lived at all, although I may have though that I have, I am missing out on life, and time is not a friend at all.

* ---Time, I've been passing time watching trains go by...---*

My watch stopped ticking yesterday, after 5 long years, perhaps more, it has stopped performing its functions for me. It no longer provides me with the 20 minutes advance time which has often time saved me from the tardiness report. And when the digital numbers of my watch faded, it felt like my acknowledgement of time has faded as well. I could no longer tell others that it is "3 minutes to Angelus" or that in the next minute there would be the loud melodious Lasallian bell. I no longer take note of the strain or stress that time imposes upon me, and for once I feel alone and free. Its weird to experience such with the loss of a working watch. There is no longer the awareness that in an hour or two, my mom will pick me up from school, or that I have thirty minutes left to spare in completing this blog entry. The watch is my keeper, my organizer is my life.

The first time I used an organizer for its real purpose of organizing, I was already in second year college, a bit too late to make up for all the late assignments and deadlines and programs that I have been committing since late elementary, high school and early college. I used to think that organizers are a waste of good paper; that it is effective only during the initial period of its usage and in the end would lose its purpose as man begins to lose interest in its seemingly monotonous pages. I am not sure why I decided to give it a try during my second year, but it has helped me alot, which is a rather ironic thing to say since I failed my accounting class during my second year here in the university. It has kept me posted as well as "O.C." to the point that my clothes have all been pre-programed in order for me not to worry as to what I am to wear for a particular day. Thus, if the clothing doesn't fit the mood I had for the day, I cannot change it for fear of disrupting the daily pre-prepared clothing schedule. Its a rigid and closed practice and yet with it did I learn not only discipline but also that I have more clothes than I thought I had, only most of what I have are not particularly of my personal taste and therefore was not given enough attention to be actually worn in public.

---* ---* ---* ---* ---* ---*Expression of the Self---* ---* ---* ---* ---* ---*

There are times though that I don't believe my current wardrobe suits me. Most of which are handed to me as personal choices of my mother, with my best interests in mind. Me, being Asian and having a bra size of 38D (all natural mind you) is not that common, or so they say. With religion being one of the primary reasons of my mother's vocation as a parent, she completely discards all sorts of trendy, fitted or "revealing" clothings from my reach. In certain occasions when I take liberty in choosing my own style, I am already assured that there is a strong premise for her dislike in it. Not to mention an inevitable litany of the danger it imposes on my well being due to my body's "asset". It is not that I love to wear fitted, trendy or "revealing" clothes, but rather, I do intend to experiment with the possibilities of how my body snuggles up with all sorts of shirts and skirts and pants. I don't deny that sometimes media subjects me to consider trends as a unanimous accepted concept, but I also don't deny that I have often sat down and negated all "happy feelings" of being popular and accepted, that is not the way I want to live, but how perhaps I want to be remembered.

There are times when I want to walk around wearing just a sports bra on and a good pair of jeans. I find it unrestricted and movement friendly, but on the other hand, my mother would complain how I corrupt my siblings' innocence with my vulgar display of body. I question then, how come I have seen her naked, my brothers have seen her walk around in her undergarments and yet find no disgust in the event, while I, still young and firm and "compact" have been regarded as a form of nudity. Why are we so ashamed of the bodies which we have, when all we have are closely similar to the next person and the next and the next and the next. Why do we have to see so much lewdness in our display of confidence with our bodies? Could it be blamed entirely upon the media where pornography and sexual inuendos are plentifully scattered and available to vulnerable audiences? Or could it be blamed more so in our own personal mindframe that we find our bodies dirty and holy both at the same time. At the same time, I question, what is it with breasts and bums that appeal to men so much? When did butts become so alluring unless you're thinking of a humping dog. And when did breasts become such an icon, why bigger is better, when there is more in less? Why do women have to be boxed into becoming beautiful in such standards which are not often given in their hands to have control over?

?!?Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who's the Fairest of them All!?!

When I was in high school, the boys were always making fun of me. And I know why. In contrast to my other female classmates, my front is more pronounced, even during my first year of high school. Also to emphasize that fact, I unwittily wore colored bras under my translucent white uniform, which would really call forth more attention than I ever thought of. Why am I saying this? Perhaps this torment has led me to become the way I am, no longer afraid to speak candidly about sex and sexuality, to be malicious and vulgar and frank with issues most people consider as taboos. One prominent conversation that I remember was from a good guy friend of mine when I was in third year high school, he mentioned, "Kat, are they still teasing you?" and I replied, "ya they still do, but hey I am used to it by now, so it doesn't bother me as much as it did before, in fact I'm kind of proud of it." and he answered, "well that's bad, because you're compromising yourself and your ideals."

I believe in what he told me, I was giving myself up for the pleasure of other people and in the process begin to enjoy myself as being seen in that light. But, if I play my cards right, I am sure that I can toy with boys. I can get what I want, on second thought, I don't get what I want because I get what I want in the way that I don't want it to be gotten. It is like being a pornography artist, when one can savor the limelight and attention by means of exposing one's many blessings, others in fact, one's not so many blessings. It is the process of conformity effected by callousness and desensitization to what we, or our "pure reason" (Immanuel Kant's theory) had initally ordained to be ill. And thus perhaps did I also harvest my dislike and fear of boy-girl love based relationships. Since love is abstract and cannot be fully determined, one cannot fully grasp the intentions of the other party. Mistaking love with lust, love with infatuation, love with need for company, love with friendship, love with responsibility, love with selfishness, equating love with all such concepts that does not really equate to love, what then is love?

I fear love to be a lie, a fallacy. Since it can exist for a moment and then exits for eternity. In fact, why am I so negatively inclined when it comes to love? Perhaps I don't comprehend its entirety, or perhaps I do. When I was in high school, I was keen and alert. With every boy that kneels with sweet jibberish flowing from his mouth, my mind tickles my tongue to blurt out, " Do you really love me? or are you up for something else?" A guy could be after a girl because of his low self confidence, with a girlfriend, he compensates his lack of love for himself by achieving the love of another. A guy could be after a girl because of her beauty and thus would this dastard parade behind his catch like an old dog finding a chewbone. What I am driving at is that the purpose doesn't always equate to selflessness but to selfishness. Do you want me or my boobs?

(.)(.) My thoughts are deeper than my cleavage (.)(.)

I have always been thinking how to say to people that I am much more a person than what my body is. Being called beautiful may be seem so great a compliment, but I find more meaning perhaps in being respected not due to my physical attribute but to the personhood and the ideals that I uphold. My body is not of my choosing. My race, my nationality are not part of the multiple choice test I received when I took on the assignment of being born into this mortal realm. The contours of my nose, the shape of my eyes, the lines on my hands are not of my own choice or decision, and therefore not worthy to be taken as basis of my compatibility with others. The length of my legs, the curves of my waist, the size of my butt may perhaps be enhanced especially with current modern technological findings, and yet majority of my physical body remains nothing more than just a representation, an instrument of a higher, much more complex being, the being of myself. And so to be considered by others due to physical arousment or attraction are what I call, "stupid love". It is not love at all, but an admiration or envy.

"Love me for what I am for simply being me, don't love me for what you intend or hope that I would be. And if you're only using me to feed your fantasy, you're really not inlove so let me go, I must be free." - Carpenters

If someone could delve into my mind, and appreciate me for my radicalism and thought, who could parallel my intellect as well as passion, then that perhaps is of a higher form of association than physical intimacy. I always think of going out late at night, walking in a deserted park or street or cementary, and perhaps talking to someone, if not myself. Spending a night with someone who could relate, debate and rebate all the invested feelings and thoughts you have given him, that perhaps would be the most ideal. To know a person is to deny oneself from his/her physical limitations, see past all the blemishes and pimples and cracks that line their faces, but instead see them as a person. Another individual with their own unique storyline, their own personalized character, their own identity. To see the person as he/she sees himself, to accept him/her wholly and not conditionally, to come to understand that what is he is, is so, because he is given the right to choose the way he wants to be. To be really serious with a person, one perhaps should see beyond the limitations of the eyes, but instead to meet each other and see each other within one's minds.

I am who I am therefore I am because I choose to be, and if you can't take that then be off with you, small fry.